nough to be born into a noble family, were just as narrow as the wheelchair that trapped her.
But at this moment, for the first time in her life, Edith felt that Charlene stood at a much higher position than she did - the soul of this person in front of her, like a mother''s bosom, like a boundless champaign, embraced her with almost infinite breadth.
The wheelchair finally turned, and as Charlene''s face came into view, Edith saw a smile slowly lifting the corners of her friend''s lips.
"So I never blame anyone, nor do I have the right to blame, because..." Charlene''s voice trailed off as her head suddenly tilted, her body slowly falling over to the side.
She had fainted without a sound.
Raphael hurried over and cradled his sister''s upper body, supporting her head with his arm.
Edith had no idea how long he had been standing at the door. He crouched there, motionless, with his head hanging down and a blank expression on his face. She couldn''t read his emotions.
"It''s alright," he whispered. "She''s just too tired."
He finally lifted Charlene from the wheelchair and carried her into the adjacent bedroom. After laying his sister on the bed, he knelt by her, holding her hanging hand.
Edith followed him in and stood quietly at the foot of the bed. After a moment, she saw Raphael''s lips moving, but at that moment, the tumbrel bound for the Place of the Revolution happened to pass by under the window of Charlene''s bedroom. The deafening sound of the wheels rolling over the cobblestone streets drowned out his words.
Perhaps accustomed to the noise, there was no sign of awakening from Charlene. The hint of smile still lingered on her lips, as if she had simply fallen into a peaceful slumber.
"How did he put it?" After the tumbrel had rolled out of earshot, Edith heard Raphael ask.
She hesitated before answering in a low voice, "He said he wouldn''t commiserate a Saint-Clemont."
"Yeah," Edith couldn''t tell if he had let out a soft laugh or a sigh, "a Saint-Clemont."
------------------------
As the chilling rumble of the death cart passed by the window of the Saint-Clemonts, the melodious songs of the orioles were floating into Fiona''s boudoir