ontrollably.
When his friend lying beneath him struggled to open one swollen and bruised eye, and lifted a hand to reach for his, he finally let out a sigh:
"This is the people we fought for!"
His lips curled into a few forced smirks, attempting to display an indifferent sneer, but his voice wavered, then he bit down hard on his lips, desperately suppressing the sobbing that threatened to escape.
It wasn''t until the tumbrels arrived at the Place of the Revolution that Andre seemed to return to reality. Before descending from the tumbrel, the few who were still able to move exchanged brief farewells.
No one came to embrace or kiss Andre. He got off alone, facing away from the guillotine, standing in front of the tumbrel with a religious martyr''s expression upon his face.
Edith tried to take a few steps closer to her beloved, but the vast sea of people prevented her from getting near.
Andre was the second to last on this tumbrel. He was uninjured, not in need of support, yet the two gendarmes roughly forced him up the steps, almost lifting him. Until the very last moment, he never turned his head to look at her.
Every time the guillotine blade fell, the dense crowd below erupted into thunderous cheers. Just last year, they had celebrated the king''s death in the same place with the same jubilation. For most people, there was no distinction between the two events.
When it was Quenet''s turn, the executioner also lifted his head out of the basket by a strand of his golden hair, as he did with some big shots, and held it aloft as he paraded it along the edge of the platform, displaying it to the ecstatic audience.
Edith stood amidst the crowded masses below the platform, wailing, yet unable to hear her own voice at all. Was her throat hoarse, or was it drowned out by the deafening cheers of the crowd? Why were they constantly jostling her, tossing cheerful children high in the air, and show