Nightmare of Ediths

red mark left on his fair neck by her arm. Imagining the scene he described, she laughed.

"Then didn''t you dream of an intimate contact with the guillotine?" she wickedly teased, the shadow of her previous nightmare now gone without a trace.

"No, it''s really unbelievable," Andre replied, playing along. "Seems I was indeed too tired."

Edith sat up and kissed his reddened Adam''s apple. Andre couldn''t help but let out a low moan.

"But how do you also speak of me in such a way, like those journalists?" he complained, holding her close in his arms.

"That''s inevitable," she smirked, poking his chest with her finger. "Rumours, when spread too far, become the truth. Who knows, behind closed doors, you might really be a disciple of the Marquis de Sade, a bloodthirsty devil?"

"You do have the heart to tease me like this. Those rumours are already weighing heavily enough on me." he looked at her with a touch of bitterness in his eyes, his tone both hurt and playful.

"Then let me make it up to you, poor little thing," Edith rolled her eyes mischievously. "Bring me pen and paper, up to the bed."

"What are you planning?" Andre couldn''t fathom.

"You''ll see soon enough," she winked at him.

Andre shrugged and left the bedroom. Soon, he returned and handed the requested items to Edith.

Edith lay prone on the bed, scribbling away on the paper. Her two shins playfully kicked up high, her restless feet swinging to and fro.

Andre curiously peered over her shoulder and read, "…those who accuse others of being dictators, tyrants, and executioners, are they really driven by compassion for the bloodshed? They confuse the public with their words, portraying the retribution for criminals as if they were martyrs. It''s hard not to recall the Brissotins'' hard work in their attempt to evoke sympathy for the king. If these ones turn a blind eye to the people''s suffering, yet are so quick to em