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🥇2023 Rose Gold Awards
🥇Literary Book Awards
Story of Edith&Andre:
"O'Lady Liberty divine!
For thee alone, my life I'd resign:
I beseech all to carve thy name so fair,
On my tombstone, for all to stare...
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On the tenth day of Thermidor Year II of the Republic, at noon, the road leading from the prison to the execution grounds was tightly packed with an impassable crowd.
The people hurled fruits and filth at those inside each passing tumbrel, unleashing drastic shouts and reproaches upon them.
Most of the crowd congregated around the tumbrel carrying prominent figures, incessantly demanding to be shown the individuals corresponding to those infamous names. The gendarmes, with great amusement, pointed at the people in the tumbrels with the tips of their blades, explaining to the commoners the identities of the condemned.
These prisoners, for the most part, were already gravely injured during the struggles of their arrest, rendering them unable to stand. Some were barely clinging to life, sprawling on the ground in the middle of the tumbrel, devoid of any semblance of consciousness.
The procession of tumbrels was blocked on the Street of Notre-Dame-de-l'Assomption, as adults and children held hands, circling around the vehicles, singing and dancing. The executioner, old Sanson, implored the crowd to show a last bit of respect and reverence for the dying. His voice was drowned amidst a deluge of cheers and curses, rising wave after wave.
Any righteous heart witnessing such a spectacle would tremble with indignation.
On the trailing tumbrel, Edith caught sight of her lover. He was so far away from her that she could not even discern his visage.
Andre was one of the few condemned among them who remained unscathed, standing tall and proud in the midst of the tumbrel. He did not flinch in the face of the terrifying curses hurled by the crowd, appearing detached from the storm raging around him.
His thick, blonde curls had been shorn before leaving the prison, now hanging loosely on either side of his pale cheeks, obscuring his face. The youth's countenance displayed neither resentment nor despair, as if he remained lost in his own contemplation, unaffected by the crowd, and did not search for her figure among them.
"Bloodsuckers! Go straight to hell!" Several voices from the crowd bellowed at the tumbrel carrying Quenet and the others.
Suddenly, a woman dressed as a bourgeoisie emerged from the crowd, disregarding anyone hindering her, and tightly grabbed onto the edge of the tumbrel, spitting towards Andre.
Her spittle landed on the torn edge of his collar as he peered down at the assailant, his face displaying a compassionate expression.
The woman, still seething with anger, continued to point at Quenet's nose and curse, "Pah! Terrorist! Give my son back to me!"
The carts came to a halt for several minutes before slowly resuming their journey towards the place of execution.
As they passed through the next street, a bucket of foul blood was emptied from a third-floor window, drenching those below, accompanied by laughter and mocking shouts, "Here's the blood you want, scoundrels! You must be thirsty!"
