Sequel of Love at Dawn
Edith survived the tempest of the Revolution. Just when she believed she would spend her remaining days amidst the mist-shrouded Irish mountains, an unexpected person reappeared, once again stirring ripples in her life. As pas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
On the 10th of October, 1800, Napoleon Bonaparte descended the steps of the Paris Opera, treading cautiously into the abyss of a dark, rainy night. His secretary held an umbrella aloft, trailing behind the footsteps of the Republic's First Consul.
As the entourage prepared to board the carriage, two men abruptly leapt forth from the shadows of a nearby corner. With relentless determination, their gleaming daggers lunged toward the central figure.
"Guard the First Consul!" His attendants immediately assumed defensive positions.
The assailant in the front was swiftly disarmed and held firmly on the ground. Two guards unsheathed their swords, attempting to apprehend the other. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating a pallid countenance seething with fury, before swiftly fading away like a spectre.
The guards pursued the fugitive to the corner, only to find no trace of the elusive escapee. Sounds of chaotic footsteps and clashing bayonets reverberated from behind as several other lurking assassins, successfully lured into the trap, were brought forth into the hall.
Preparations had been meticulously made for this operation, with even the distribution of the assassins' daggers orchestrated by spies sent by Fouché's police agency. Consequently, those present quickly regained composure amidst the pandemonium, while the First Consul, who had narrowly escaped the assault, exhibited an especially calm demeanor.①
Only one man stared with hollow eyes, gazing towards the direction from which the failed assailant had fled. In a trembling voice, he muttered, "It's the ghost of Andre Quenet! He has returned to seek revenge upon us!"
The one uttering these words was a man named Vardon, a nobody in the Thermidor. His character, much like his name and appearance, was unremarkable, devoid of any attractive qualities.
This man, throughout his childhood and youth, consistently ranked in the middle of his class. He possessed an average height and build, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. His speech lacked wit, yet not considered too dull as well, thereby neither attracting the affections of young ladies nor repelling them. In short, he belonged to that class of characters easily forgotten when discussed years later.
If Vardon had any exceptional talent, it was his remarkable skill at playing hide-and-seek. At the age of five, while playing the game with his pals, he concealed himself so perfectly that he remained undiscovered even as night fell. His family grew too anxious and nearly alerted the police.
This talent of his was also carried over into adulthood. Initially, within the National Convention, he cautiously positioned himself among the lowest row of seats, always a discreet member of the Plain. When it came to voting on the fate of the king, through careful observation and calculation, he successfully hid within the majority's ranks. By the end of ninety-three, he went into hiding in the camp of the Montagnards, authoring dozens of flawlessly worded letters of flattery to figures like Andre Quenet.
