He sits, watching the rain patter onto the cobblestone streets, and feeling his throat choke up. His face is soon damp with salty tears and muddy water, and he reaches up to pull his long hair out of his face. A lone cabriolet passes, its occupants as throughly soaked as he is. He begins to shiver, and clutches at his tailcoat for the small warmth it gives him. Before, he would never have gone out in this rain, but that was before. A soggy newspaper tumbles by, bearing its date of June 10th, 1832.
Images haunt his dreams, even while he sits. Images of carnage, destruction, death. Then, his vision clouds, and he sees his companion, his friend, his lover, face painted with red tears, and he can't comprehend, can't understand what those tears signify, until he hears a gunshot, and those tears stream from his chest, too, and Bossuet falls limply to the ground.
He cannot remember anything after that, only darkness, and quiet. At the time, it seemed like the silence of death, and only now, looking back, does he laugh at this foolish assumption. No, death would be sweet, to follow Bossuet into hell, for that was where they would all surely go, for inciting revolution.
However bad hell might be, this existence was much worse. Perhaps that was why he sat alone in the rain. Perhaps he hoped he might catch a fever and die. And yet, truly, he knew that he would not, and Monsieur Joly would have to wait for the next revolution to meet his beloved.
Images haunt his dreams, even while he sits. Images of carnage, destruction, death. Then, his vision clouds, and he sees his companion, his friend, his lover, face painted with red tears, and he can't comprehend, can't understand what those tears signify, until he hears a gunshot, and those tears stream from his chest, too, and Bossuet falls limply to the ground.
He cannot remember anything after that, only darkness, and quiet. At the time, it seemed like the silence of death, and only now, looking back, does he laugh at this foolish assumption. No, death would be sweet, to follow Bossuet into hell, for that was where they would all surely go, for inciting revolution.
However bad hell might be, this existence was much worse. Perhaps that was why he sat alone in the rain. Perhaps he hoped he might catch a fever and die. And yet, truly, he knew that he would not, and Monsieur Joly would have to wait for the next revolution to meet his beloved.