his visage.
Andre was one of the few condemned among them who remained unscathed, standing tall and proud in the midst of the tumbrel. He did not flinch in the face of the terrifying curses hurled by the crowd, appearing detached from the storm raging around him.
His thick, blonde curls had been shorn before leaving the prison, now hanging loosely on either side of his pale cheeks, obscuring his face. The youth''s countenance displayed neither resentment nor despair, as if he remained lost in his own contemplation, unaffected by the crowd, and did not search for her figure among them.
"Bloodsuckers! Go straight to hell!" Several voices from the crowd bellowed at the tumbrel carrying Quenet and the others.
Suddenly, a woman dressed as a bourgeoisie emerged from the crowd, disregarding anyone hindering her, and tightly grabbed onto the edge of the tumbrel, spitting towards Andre.
Her spittle landed on the torn edge of his collar as he peered down at the assailant, his face displaying a compassionate expression.
The woman, still seething with anger, continued to point at Quenet''s nose and curse, "Pah! Terrorist! Give my son back to me!"
The carts came to a halt for several minutes before slowly resuming their journey towards the the place of execution.
As they passed through the next street, a bucket of foul blood was emptied from a third-floor window, drenching those below, accompanied by laughter and mocking sho