e day of their rupture, Edith had never seen him again. On the second day of Charlene''s execution, Andre had volunteered to join the frontline at Fleurus. Over the past three months, she had read several descriptions of him in the newspapers of Paris.
Some commented that Quenet fought on the battlefield with a totally self-destructive demeanor. That state almost made it amazing that he had not yet been pierced by a bullet. People speculated that a certain despair had gradually taken root in his soul - he no longer harboured hope for the ultimate success of the revolution.
Upon reading these words, Edith didn''t know how to feel. Was his despair somehow connected to her accusations at that time?
She sat up suddenly: What if he had already died in battle at this very moment? What if those most hurtful words were their last adieu?
The girl imagined Andre, covered in blood, falling on the bleak battlefield, gasping for breath amidst the swirling dust. His once upright body, which had held her in arms, now curled in agony within the pool of blood. His blonde hair, which she had rubbed and mussed countless times, was trampled with dust by the hard iron of the horseshoes. And the heart in his broad chest, which she had so often sweetly pillowed, no longer beat!
In that final moment when he closed his eyes, would he think of her? With wistfulness and love, or with regret and resentment? As she pondered this, she trembled all over, her fingers clung desperately to the edge of the table.