Love at Dawn

17.Angel of Fiona's

Winter came to Vendée this year with a vengeance, an icy grip that held the land in its thrall. For days, snow fell relentlessly, whipped by a bitter chilly bise that howled and mourned across the countryside, draping the world in a blanket of white.

"I ache for them, Andre. For Sacha, for every patriot who suffers, and for every soldier who falls!" Edith spoke to her beloved, riding on horseback through the snow-covered forest on their way back to camp after a patrol.

"There are, of course, the shameful speculators like that official, but most patriots stand with the people, don't they? Why do these peasants willingly let themselves be used by nobles and priests, and turn against us, who need their strength so desperately?"

"Perhaps the peasants just want to be left alone to live their peaceful lives," Andre sighed.

"Peaceful lives? Peace under oppression and injustice, in the false tranquility of self-deception? Is that worth more than liberty?" Philippe exclaimed.

"People aren't just black or white, Philippe. Vendée is different from Paris and the cities. There are many nobles here who are almost seen as part of the people, and the church isn't as corrupt as well. Mild oppression can numb the people, making it harder to awaken them." Andre seemed lost in thought, as if remembering something.

"You seem to know a lot about Vendée," Edith looked at him curiously.

"I've only read a lot about this region in my colleagues' reports," Andre replied, his eyes downcast.

"Ha, the false peace of slavery! Fools and cowards content with the status quo!" Philippe continued to rail against the revolt peasants, not really listening to his friend's words.

"The greatness of revolution lies exactly in its service to those who deny it," Andre calmly refuted, without turning around.

"Don't worry too much, Edith," seeing her troubled expression, he reassured her. "We've pretty much wiped out the rebel army, and the Republic is advancing from victory to victory. She'll be saved soon."

"Let's hope so!" the girl sighed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Edith saw Andre's face suddenly change. He swiftly reached out and pushed her down, and then crouched low himself, calling out urgently, "Get down!"

Before Edith could react, two bullets whizzed past her ear, barely missing her. Her chest pounded as she huddled on horseback, her whole body tense.

Gunshots echoed three times before coming to a halt. From behind a tree trunk emerged a short figure, holding a small pistol in both hands, once again shooting resolutely at the approaching ones. But the gun was already empty.

It was a boy, no more than eleven or twelve, dressed in a dirty rebel guerrilla jacket, his oversized uniform hanging off his small frame. He was obviously malnourished, with a gaunt face smeared with mud, his eyes wide and alert.

Seeing that his mission had failed, he leapt out from his hiding spot onto the road, throwing his gun to the ground. With arms outstretched at his sides, he faced the oncoming group with an air of suicidal bravado, shouting:

"Long live the King! Long live Louis XVII!"

Philippe immediately aimed at the boy, ready to pull the trigger. But Andre stopped him, saying:

"Don't shoot!"

"He's an armed rebel caught in the act! By the law, we should execute him on the spot!" Philippe retorted angrily, his finger still on the trigger.

But Andre calmly ordered, "Bind him. Bring him back to the camp."

"Andre! Think of our hero young Bara! Age cannot be a reason to pardon him!" Philippe protested loudly.①