At noon on Germinal 24 of Year II of the Republic, a peculiar yet ordinary tumbrel made its way along the streets of Paris.
In the tumbrel, Lucile Desmoulins and Charlene Saint-Clemont sat side by side, while the widow of Hébert stood at the rear. They wore tattered, oversized gray-white prison garbs, their hands bound behind them with hemp ropes, their bodies swaying with each jolt of the tumbrel.
Charlene had grown even thinner, yet her exceptionally gentle and wise eyes shone brighter than ever. Her pale, heart-shaped face, never deemed good-looking, could now almost be called beautiful.
As the tumbrel passed by the old building where the Saint-Clemonts resided, Charlene barely reacted. It wasn''t until they reached the gate of the Percys that she let out a sentimental sigh, "May our friends not be overwhelmed by sorrow!"
Lucile nodded and placed her hand on Charlene''s.
"I have nothing to fear. In just a few more minutes, I will be reunited with my Camille!" She smiled tenderly, revealing genuine joy.
Charlene returned the same smile. "And so do I, dear Citizeness Desmoulins! We shall not be like Ophelia; nothing can defeat us. We, like all the virtuous people, march proudly to our deaths!"
However, when the tumbrel passed beneath the tightly closed blinds of the Desmoulins'' house, the beautiful Lucile all at once flushed with tears.
"Alas, my poor mama! And my little Horace!" she sighed sorrowfully.
This time, it was Charlene who placed her hand on Lucile''s knees. "Horace will grow up to be a man. He will remember that his mother and father embraced a death filled with dawn, as they stood for truth and liberty!"
"Thank you, Citizeness Saint-Clemont!" Lucile gratefully gazed at her young friend, with whom she had shared so little. "May our son always remember how dearly we loved him!"
The tumbrel drew closer and closer to the Place of the Revolution. Charlene and Lucile exchanged a knowing smile and clasped each other''s hands.
Charlene noticed the elderly man sitting across from them, consumed by despondency as the execution site loomed ahead. His hair was grizzled, his body stooped, appearing like a refractory priest, his entire being trembling ever so slightly.
"If you are afraid, you may hold my hand as well, citizen," Charlene softly spoke, extending her other gentle hand to the old man.
He raised his clouded, reddened eyes, surpri