Paris, July 1789. Nobody could recognize Paris anymore. Dark smoky clouds passed through the nightly city. Here and there were little fire flared.
In many lanes ruled the chaos. Human bodies lay around in there own blood. The cold silvery moon appeared everything in an obscure way. It seemed to be a bad dream. But it was the bad truth, which the moon shined on. Gentle mourning songs about the dead were perceived. Everywhere were laying dead friends and family members. Nobody would return anymore. Most of them would wait fore a pure anonymity in one oft the many big common graves. Everyone was equal here. Whether you belonged to the nobility or the third status, everyone in there were the same in front of god.
In a small side street, didn't perceived by the itinerant crowd, a cuddled shape leaned against a house wall. His long hair was stuck together with his own blood. His once bright uniform was smearing with dust and blood. His look was dim and introversived. His combat was disappeared. The breath was heavy. From several wounds retired blood. The life seemed to have the body henceforth. The coldness of the wall carried over to his body. No piece of the warm July evening was in him. It was the harbinger of his approaching death. Long ago he accepted it. He had no motive to live. He didn't feel the pain anymore. So he waited for his redemption. His body wished straightly on it. Only his soul was arrested with the bad world, with the things he had seen and experienced.
Together with his group he had to march out, as they got the information about the attack of the Bastille. More and more troops from all parts of the country were concentrated, but it seemed that they didn't arrive something against the rebels.
The pictures of the combats had annealed into his brain. They had been a part of him now. How many people had left their life? He didn't know it. More and more questions get into his mind, ever the morning approached.
How could all that happen? Why got his world out of control? Why didn't he adverted it? Hadn't he seen the signs? Or didn't he want to see them? But now, it was too late. This could he clearly feel.
Slowly the golden sun arose above the horizon and replaced the traces of the cold night. The first warming light beams touched him, which allowed him to lift his head once again. For the last time, he wanted to see it. His look blurred slowly, however the luminary entered his throne back from the moon.
His last mind applied to the one person, which belonged his heart. And from which he knew that she wouldn't every feel something for him. He would never take her into his arms. This thought pained his heard deeply.
Shortly the sun flashed and he had the impression for a moment that he could see her lovely, shiny and smiling countenance.
"Oscar…", he spoke beneath without a sound.
Besides it a tear run above his cheek. When it felt on the dusty earth, his body sucked together.
Forever his dark green eyes would be closed. He wouldn't see Oscar never again.
With the wish deep inside that she will be lucky, his soul vanished the earth. On golden wings Count Victor Clemont de Girodel was kept to a better place. One without any pain and return. An asylum of redemption.
The sun gleamed in complete glory on the dead body. But it couldn't heat it up. With every new day, which began, Paris get more and more a city oft death.