The spirits of Paris

tically spirited number! The symbolism is fantastic!" exclaimed the tall boy in an exaggerated voice, mimicking a mummer.

"A shame that it''s still a bit lacking. But they''re trying the kind-hearted Hébert and his band of godly Sans-Culottes today. Madame Guillotine is soon having another grand banquet," added another pockmarked waif.③

"I believe in equality again. Whether it''s the fat-bellied Monsieur the Comte or the hobo showing ribs, they look equally ugly after getting off Mademoiselle Louisette''s bed." The young guttersnipe who spoke these words was not very big, yet his hair had already thinned out, perhaps due to his habit of philosophical contemplation.

"But we all are still equally hungry," the smallest one muttered with a dirty finger in his mouth, his words indistinct.

"What''s the big deal, folks? Worst comes to worst, we can collect the blood from the guillotine in bottles like the citizens in the Committee of General Security and bring them back to savor leisurely. "

"You make sense, Jeanne. They have no blood in their own veins, only what they''ve sucked from the poor wretches on the guillotine."

"We drove away the old bloodsuckers, only to invite the real ones in," the philosopher among them licked his lips.

Edith didn''t listen any further, but she didn''t join in the conversation either. She fled the square like escaping.

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She pushed open the door of the Saint-Clemonts, but only saw Raphael inside.

The former nobleman sat some distance away from the table, legs apart, leaning back on the chair, the collar of his white shirt gaping open. His hollow blue eyes were fixed on some distant point. His hair was tied back with a ribbon, yet unable to make that pinched face look any more spirited.

"Raphael? Where''s Charlene?" she asked.

He pointed expressionlessly to the room behind him. "Charlene is inside, tinkering with her chemical ex