《Love at Dawn》克拉克拉

36、The philosophy of two fathers 两个父亲的

　　The tumultuous waves of revolution in Paris did not in the slightest disturb the tranquility of the Saint-Matilda Convent.

　　On the Feast of Pentecost, Fiona was unquestionably chosen to be the central flower girl in the chapel parades. Like the other pretty girls, she wore a seven-coloured floral wreath upon her head and held fiery red flowers in her hands. With proud steps, she followed behind the leading big girls representing the "virgins" in all her innocence.

　　The girl's lush red hair was gathered into a small white cap at the back of her head, revealing a full and gleaming forehead. Only the strands of hair left on the top shimmered in the radiant summer sun, evoking irresistible thoughts of the miraculous fiery tongues that accompanied the descent of the Holy Spirit.

　　Being selected for the procession was considered the highest honour and supreme happiness for the chosen girls. Each of their uplifted faces reflected an enraptured expression.

　　After this grand festival, Fiona became an even greater focus of envy for the children. It was not only due to the exclusive glory bestowed upon her in the ceremony by her blessed beauty, but also because she possessed the privilege of frequenting that small visiting room.

　　The Marquis de Sèvremont came to visit his adopted daughter once again.

　　As the Marquis approached the fence, Fiona gracefully turned around. Her fiery red curls, resembling flames, cascaded like a waterfall around her entire upper body. Today, the Mother had made an exception and allowed this charming little girl to put on a soft satin bonnet adorned with a perfectly placed dew-kissed lily of the valley, which accentuated her attire with a blend of simplicity and grandeur.

　　Employing the etiquette she had learned during her months at the school, Fiona gave an elegant yet playful curtsy before the Marquis.

　　"Now you truly look like a young lady, Fiona," the Marquis exclaimed, a genuine stunned look gleaming in his eyes. "I can hardly wait to witness the day when you fully blossom into adulthood."

　　To Fiona's delight, her father had sought permission from the abbess, granting her the privilege of strolling arm in arm with him through the blossoming courtyard.

　　With her apple-like radiant face turned upwards, the girl eagerly chirped to the Marquis about her various fresh experiences during the Feast of Pentecost. Her guardian listened attentively, occasionally casting immensely affectionate glances at the sprite by his side.

　　After the initial excitement had subsided, a shadow suddenly clouded Fiona's round face.

　　"Monsieur the Marquis, where has Mother Agatha gone? Did she truly... die?" she hesitantly inquired.

　　"You need not concern yourself with her whereabouts, Fiona. It is enough for you to understand that the nun has paid the price for her doings," the Marquis replied in a composed tone.

　　An inexplicable wave of fear coursed through the little girl's spine, causing her to instinctively grip the Marquis's arm. "So, those big sisters were not lying, she truly..."

　　"But why should you care about that nun, my child?" the Marquis interjected. "Where she is, whether she lives or dies, what does it matter to you?"

　　Summoning courage, Fiona spoke up, "She was someone I lived with after all, Father. I admit that I disliked Agatha, even hated her, but her sins were not so grave. She, like me, could feel afraid, couldn't she?"

　　"You're mistaken, dear Fiona," the Marquis responded, his voice sounding both gentle and indifferent. "That nun is different from us. You see, she carries different blood in her veins. Never concern yourself with the thoughts and emotions of the inferior, my daughter. Sometimes, you may treat them quite nicely, but if you foolishly consider them as friends, as equals to us, you will only invite trouble upon yourself."

　　"But what about me, dear Father?" Fiona timidly questioned. "Didn't your noble friend say that I also possess lowly blood?"

　　"You are my daughter now, Fiona. So you belong to us," the Marquis firmly gazed into her eyes.

　　The girl shook her head, puzzled. "I don't understand. Then am I still the same Fiona? If every laundress' daughter can suddenly become a lady, then where does the line between nobility and lowliness lie?"

　　"Your beauty bestows upon you the qualification, cherie. It is an innate gift within you. You are merely a princess born into the wrong family, and now I have brought you back to your rightful place," he assured, his soft, powerful hand caressing her head.

　　"And the others, they are different. You must learn to perceive people differently. That is the order of the world, my little Fiona - or what you may call the arrangement of destiny."

　　Fiona fell into silence. The Marquis's words reminded her of her real father, who had also spoken of order. But all that remained in her mind were vague fragments of his words - old order, new order, revenge, death, and rebirth.

　　She didn't mention these thoughts to the Marquis, for her mother had told her they were nothing more than drunken ramblings. Besides, that man had become a villain by now.

　　"Must it be this way, Monsieur the Marquis?" she simply asked.

　　"Yes, it must be," the Marquis replied, narrowing his dark eyes to conceal a glimmer of sharpness. "Times have changed, and the natural, ancient privileges are being eroded. The inferior have replaced their ugly envy with new terms like liberty and equality. And some foolish aristocrats have also fallen for these fabricated so-called virtues, allowing their minds to be numbed by self-proclaimed noble illusions."

　　"Yet these people will soon find their ridiculous imaginations shattered. Society is akin to an orchestra. If every instrument plays with equal volume, the performance would descend into chaos, a laughable and pitiful farce," the man pointed to his heart with his pale, slender fingers. "There must always be a theme, a dominant note that rises above all others. That is us."

　　Fiona dejectedly lowered her head. "But I have never attended a concert, Father."

　　The Marquis smiled and crouched down, planting a kiss on her cheek. "You don't need to understand all of this, my angel. You are still too young. And truth be told, you never really have to comprehend it. Your beautiful little head is not meant for philosophical contemplations; it should only be adorned with all kinds of roses and lilies. Just remember my love for you, Miss Fiona. That will never ever change."

　　Fiona extended her tiny finger, gently tracing along his dark beard that she had grown so fond of. She indeed couldn't grasp that enigmatic philosophy of the Marquis's.

　　Yet Monsieur the Marquis possessed such a grand and imposing stature! He was like a benevolent deity, lifting her out of the mire of poverty and shame, ushering her into a warm heaven full of dignity and glory. She resolved to wholeheartedly follow this noble man, erasing any trace of her own short and frail father from her soul.

　　---------------------

　　When young Madame Louise Danton finally knocked on the door of the Percys, she could hardly recognise the once lively and cheerful Edith.

　　Days of tears bathing the cheeks had changed the girl's appearance, with pale and gaunt face framing a pair of eyes swollen like two peach pits. Edith was no longer dressed in her beloved red, but instead donned a black mourning garment. Even under the radiant sun of early summer, a white shawl loosely draped over her shoulders.

　　The torch-like brightness in her gaze had faded, replaced by an unprecedented melancholy, bestowing upon her a newfound serene beauty.

　　Witnessing Edith's nun-like attire and pathetic countenance, the deep longing for departed loved ones all at once surged within Louise's heart. Tears welled up in her childlike large eyes as she embraced her friend, who shared the burden of their misfortune. "Oh, dearest, poor Edith!"

　　Inside Edith's boudoir, darkness prevailed. Heavy curtains had remained drawn ever since the twenty-fourth of Germinal. In this stifling, sombre space, the two young women finally sat by the edge of the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

　　"What kind of time is this? Shedding tears openly for one's parents, children, siblings has become a crime!" Louise choked with sorrow, lamenting, "It is actually the love for truth and the compassion for human that have led my Georges, his upright friend Desmoulins, our poor Lucile and Citizeness Saint-Clemont to the guillotine! To possess conscience and mercy has become a sin today! But let those executioners be ashamed of themselves; we shall weep for them, we shall remember them forever! The epitaph of our friends shall be nobler than Brutus!"

　　Edith attempted to console her with a hoarse voice but could only emit a feeble sigh.

　　The anguish unleashed torrents of tears. Tears, while alleviating their anguish, stirred the proudest of strengths within their hearts. Weakness, in turn, nurtured adamancy; it is exactly from this wellspring that a woman's soul derives its unique fortitude.

　　After seeing Citizeness Danton off, Edith returned to the couch, alone once again. Louise's words couldn't help but evoke memories of her former lover.

　　She held no real hatred towards him. At least she was aware that Andre's signature was not on the arrest warrant for Charlene. Whether he had played a dishonorable role in contributing to the demise of the Dantonists, she couldn't know, nor did she have any intention to delve into it further.

　　Her understanding of the various events that unfolded was blurred. It was ironic and lamentable that despite her wholehearted love and extol on liberty, ready to shed blood for it at any moment, her own liberty remained deprived. It is plain to see, with the simplest of reason, that if a person is excluded from the podium, the parliament, and the army, and yet condemned as shallow, ignorant, and overly fickle when her intellect is needed, it can hardly be called fair. This may often be forgotten, just like how Edith couldn't see the spacious birdcage that imprisoned her. Occasionally, when she flew higher and bumped against the cage's ceiling, she would feel indignant; but most of the time, she forgot about this injustice due to her relative freedom.

　　Overnight, Edith lost all the power she once thought she had in the face of revolution. She felt like a little girl sitting on a rock in the middle of mountain torrents, huddling with her knees tightly drawn to her chest, despairing and helpless as she watched her refuge being gradually submerged by the rising waters from all sides, waiting to be swept away by the final, inevitable angry billow, crashing into the abyss below, shattering like countless splashes against the precipice.

　　As the perfect halo in her eyes shattered completely around Andre, true love emerged to the surface instead. The blind faith she had placed in him had collapsed, replaced by a sense of compassion, a sympathy for those who shared a similar fate: she saw him equally powerless against the raging flood, and at least in the final moments, she longed to hold his hand.

　　However, they no longer had the opportunity to discuss these.

　　Since the day of their rupture, Edith had never seen him again. On the second day of Charlene's execution, Andre had volunteered to join the frontline at Fleurus. Over the past three months, she had read several descriptions of him in the newspapers of Paris.

　　Some commented that Quenet fought on the battlefield with a totally self-destructive demeanor. That state almost made it amazing that he had not yet been pierced by a bullet. People speculated that a certain despair had gradually taken root in his soul - he no longer harboured hope for the ultimate success of the revolution.

　　Upon reading these words, Edith didn't know how to feel. Was his despair somehow connected to her accusations at that time?

　　She sat up suddenly: What if he had already died in battle at this very moment? What if those most hurtful words were their last adieu?

　　The girl imagined Andre, covered in blood, falling on the bleak battlefield, gasping for breath amidst the swirling dust. His once upright body, which had held her in arms, now curled in agony within the pool of blood. His blonde hair, which she had rubbed and mussed countless times, was trampled with dust by the hard iron of the horseshoes. And the heart in his broad chest, which she had so often sweetly pillowed, no longer beat!

　　In that final moment when he closed his eyes, would he think of her? With wistfulness and love, or with regret and resentment? As she pondered this, she trembled all over, her fingers clung desperately to the edge of the table.