pating into a veil of mist.
When I awoke, it was already midnight on the twelfth of Thermidor. I struggled to rise, stumbling outside the small cabin, seeking to inquire about the state of the world beyond.
They were gone on the tenth day of the Thermidor, at noon. Raphael, taking my place, ascended the guillotine as Andre Quenet.
I was severely ill, lying on that hard wooden bed for over half a month, barely conscious. The peasant woman who cared for me was reticent, merely gruffly cautioning me against venturing out without purpose, as it would bring trouble upon her.
It wasn''t until September that I finally managed to return to Paris under the cover of darkness. My first instinct was to go to the Percys'' house to seek you, but I found a seal affixed to the front gate, its edges already worn. I tried to inquire through contacts about which prison you were held in, only to learn that you were no longer there.
My heart grew cold, as I watched the gradual destruction of our beloved motherland at the hands of villains, the liberty we once passionately sang about trampled underfoot.
I witnessed Marat''s statue shattered, the revolutionary red cap stomped upon, and the Tree of Liberty chopped down amidst an ugly revelry, the Marseillaise drowned out by vulgar ballads.
And here I stood, a man already dead, a powerless spectre, condemned to be a helpless bystander, tormented and consumed by my own indignation.
One evening, I saw a group of Muscadins assaulting an elderly Jacobin, pinning him down at the side of the street. They laughed in their cruelty, but their blows were so heavy that the old man could have died at any moment.
He seemed to catch a glimpse of my distant figure and, in his woeful plea for help, called out in my direction.
I did not intervene. On one hand, I was most likely to be recognised; but more importantly, I realised that even if I were to save him today, I would neve