(Background: During the Thermidorian Reaction, the pro-Robespierre masses of the Paris Commune successfully launched a second prison raid. Andre Quenet and his friends were released. He fled with Edith in a carriage arranged by Raphael.)
After the carriage hastily set off, Andre''s breath had yet to steady. His always meticulously buttoned red jerkin now hung open, and his thin clothes were nearly torn into several tattered pieces during the struggle of his capture and the prison raid.
Merely baring his chest, perhaps, wouldn''t have been too embarrassing for a man. But somehow, his trousers had also split open at the crotch, tearing further as he took strides onto the carriage. As he sat down, not only did his fair and sturdy thighs come into view, but one could also vaguely glimpse a small tuft of black hair.
Upon noticing this, he did his best to pull the two fabric pieces together with his hands. However, the trousers were also marked with a large, weird water stain, obscenely transparent, almost allowing the shape of his member to be discerned.
"You are practically undressed, Citizen Quenet," Raphael commented with a pretense of seriousness and a malicious delight.
"No need for your meddling, Saint-Clemont!" the mocked person retorted with shame and anger. He still attempted to project his usual cold air, but his disheveled appearance at the moment had little convincing power.
Andre''s watery blue eyes scanned the interior of the carriage, seemingly desperate to find something as a fig leaf. However, in the scorching heat of Thermidor, who would have an extra coat to spare?
The interior of the carriage was already cramped and stifling, and the meaningful glances from his love rival, occasionally scrutinizing certain parts of his body, made Andre feel as though he sat on pins and needles. He squirmed in his seat, at times tugging at his gaping collar, and at other times forcefully pulling at his torn trousers, yet unable to attend to one without neglecting the other. The poor youth, with a face already somewhat boyish, now appeared on the verge of tears.
Edith could no longer bear watching and stood up, walking over to his side, saying, "Let me shield you, Andre."
Andre gazed at her, perplexed and aggrieved. She lifted her skirt and straddled on his lap, her back blocking the gaze of Raphael. Though he no longer needed to endure the mocking glances of his rival, the posture of