seen from Italy
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Frevtober prompts list
No clue if anyone else made this already but here’s mine. Feel free to participate, take inspo from it or just share it around ^^ if any prompt doesn’t seem to make sense lmk - and ofc feel free to swap out any prompt you don’t feel comfortable with hehe
Remember to use #Frevtober under your posts so I can rb !!!!
aaaand shoutout to @robespapier for suggesting some prompts! (pssst go checkout the Frev Halloween event on their blog ;3)
I just can't stop drawing saintjust! (On another prompt I'll do more than maxime and saintjuste I proomise
It's Just Different
Saint-Just holds the cold, trembling hand tight as he wends through every dark alley and side street he can find. The route is twice as long as it would be if they went along main streets, but it’ll be far less alarming for a man who’s just stepped out of the Place de la Révolution 1794 — as Saint-Just well knows from experience.
He punches in the code — nothing to be done about that; twentieth and twenty-first century living has made him soft, but not decadent enough to have a doorman. The old building had a physical key for a long time, but Saint-Just upgraded the security a couple decades ago. Not for himself as much as for the hundreds of tenants whose standards are a bit more recent than the Enlightenment. Besides, this is more—
The trembling hand clenches in his as the automatic door slides open.
—accessible.
Saint-Just tries to be a responsible landlord.
But he smiles reassuringly back at Maxime, for he doesn’t have to imagine how alarming it is to be suddenly thrust into the gargantuan, grinding machine of the modern world. And the modern world he’d been thrust into didn’t even have nuclear weapons or self driving cars or social media.
He pauses in the lobby.
There’s not much to be done about the elevator. He can’t make Maxime walk up 98 flights of stairs.
“It’s alright,” he says, gently tugging the deposed deputy of the National Convention into the tiny, mirrored cell. “You must be tired.”
Maxime makes a small wounded sound that is the very sound of exhaustion too oppressive to allow words to form.
“Though, you should probably eat something,” Saint-Just keeps chatting, trying to provide a distraction as the elevator zooms upward (but seeing Maxim’s free hand clutching his stomach, he’s not sure it’s effective.) “I’ve got oranges. And some chamomile. I don’t think I could properly sleep for at least a week after I came through, but that should help.”
When they arrive on the top floor, Maxime seems to be frozen. Saint-Just steps out, keeping one hand on the doors so they don’t try to clamp down on the eighteenth century man and give him a heart attack. Saint-Just doesn’t know if they can get heart attacks, but he wouldn’t like to find out.
“I have a bath.” He tugs ever so slightly. “And a nice view.”
Maxime surrenders and follows him down the carpeted hallway; his free hand — no longer clutching his stomach — pushes up his spectacles and rubs at his eyes, and when Saint-Just opens his own door and flips on the light, Maxime flinches, his eyes twitching shut.
“Oh, sorry, let me…” He turns off the overhead light; then, after tugging Maxime along with him to the living room, he clicks on a little amber book lamp. “That should be better.”
Maxime slowly opens one eye, then the other. But he keeps his gaze on the floor. His hair, slightly disarrayed and in its natural, chestnut waves, has fallen into his face and hides his full expression. Saint-Just wants to reach out and brush the strands back.
“So, bath, sleep, or food?” he asks instead, mostly talking to himself, which is just as well because Maxime offers no opinion. “How about food and bath, then sleep? I’ll need my hands; my knife skills aren’t—”
Maxime had flinched at the word knife.
“I mean, it’s easier to cut oranges with two hands. Ok—Ah, alright?”
He loosens his own grip, and his hand is allowed to slip free. The loss of contact along with Maxime’s silence is beginning to rend his heart. The Incorruptible was already fairly traumatized before 10 Thermidor. This may be difficult. And Saint-Just wonders anxiously if he’s the right person to be shepherding Maxime safely into the twenty-first century.
For fuck’s sake! He saved the Republic at Fleurus! He captured Charleroi with little more than a few intimidating words!
But he’s not sure he’s up to this task.
“Let me get the water running, and then I’ll get a snack together.”
In the bathroom, he leaves the bright light off and turns on another night light, soft and amber and just enough to see by.
Hmmm...
He considers a shelf of oils and bubbles and quickly decides against any of them. He combs through a cabinet of samples, stolen hotel soaps, and other underutilized products; he knows he has—
Ah, yes!
He pulls out a set of unscented shampoo, conditioner, and bubble bath. It’s not his favorite — hence its banishment to the back of a cabinet — but Maxime has never been one for perfumes.
He turns on the water, pours in a healthy dose of bubble bath, then returns to where his guest waits, exactly where he was left. Saint-Just is relieved when Maxime follows him to the kitchen. So, he’s not entirely paralyzed, then.
“We should probably save most of the updates for after you’ve rested. Well, I’ll show you how the toilet and sinks and lights work — fairly self explanatory,” Saint-Just chatters as he puts on the water for tea, quickly slices a couple oranges, then takes some blueberries and raspberries from the refrigerator, grabs the chamomile and a mug. “The toothbrush can probably wait until tomorrow — I’ve got extras — and you’ll not get cavities overnight, I don’t think. There are some good videos onlin— Ah, well, I’ll tell you later.”
He smiles awkwardly at his own babbling.
It is a little exciting to introduce someone to a new world!
Taking a tray with the tea and fruit, he returns to the bath.
“Florelle?”
He almost drops the tray at the sound of Maxime’s voice, which he hasn’t heard in over two hundred years. He sets the tray safely on the cabinet between the sink and the tub, then looks around. Maxime is hanging back in the nearly pitch-black hallway.
“Yes?”
“Is this Hell?”
Saint-Just’s heart clenches.
His throat is so tight that for a long moment he cannot speak. He knows it’s not personal — certainly not a commentary on his gleaming penthouse (a modest penthouse — it had originally taken up the entire top floor, but he’d had it remodeled down to a quarter of that size in order to free up space for more apartments; cities, it seems, are always in great need of homes, no matter the century.) But he’s not sure that even all the luxury in the world could heal the wounds of Thermidor. A wave of despair rises; there’s no decree he can sign, no orders he can issue to make this right.
“It’s not.” He returns to Maxime and takes both his hands. “I promise it’s not. It’s just different. That’s all.”
Maxime’s throat works, but further words seem to be too difficult; his voice has not been the same since that fateful morning. His jaw is, of course, in tact, and his eyes blink with fully functional lids. They are each in the same pristine condition that the artist — David, perhaps, though the provenance has been obscured by time — had captured on the canvas. This, at least, is a blessed grace. Millennia may pass, but Saint-Just will never forget the sight of his friend’s tortured face in the hours before they arrived at the merciful guillotine.
“It will make so much more sense after you’ve rested. I’ll explain everything, I promise. Do you trust me?”
Maxime meets his eyes fully for the first time. He nods and manages a rough whisper, “Always.”
“And Couthon will write at least once a week, though he’s babysitting a new grand niece these days. He still finds time to nag me to return his texts— Ah, his messages.”
“Couthon?”
“Yes! He’s got a whole family tree now. A forest, really! I think he shows up every generation or so, pretending to be a third cousin-in-law or something so he can keep an eye on everyone. Christmas is lovely. You’ll be invited, of course.”
He wonders, belatedly, if Maxime will want to celebrate Christmas. He doesn’t have the heart to mention that no one celebrates the Supreme Being anymore.
The tiniest shadow of a smile twitches at the corner of Maxime’s lips, and Saint-Just’s heart leaps.
“A bath would be nice,” Maxime says, though he looks apprehensively through the doorway at it.
“I…can help you,” Saint-Just says shyly, for his sensibilities have become too modern. It was once fairly common for men to go to the baths — the same baths — together, though he never went with his fellow deputies. He and Le Bas had seen each other naked dozens of times, army tents hardly being paragons of privacy. Maxime didn’t usually conduct Convention business from a bath like Marat, but Saint-Just had seen him in various states of dishabille at the Duplays, where he insisted on continuing to work even when terribly ill.
He fears leaving Maxime alone.
By the dim amber nightlight, he quickly gives the promised tutorial on modern plumbing, then helps Maxime’s shaking hands remove his blue coat and then his waistcoat and shirt. There’s no cravat. As with the powder and curls, the painter seems to have eschewed the details which had already been stripped from them before the tumbril.
He folds the green spectacles and sets them safely aside on the sink. Then kneels to remove the black buckled shoes and then — one of Maxime’s trembling hands pressing into his shoulder for balance — one stocking, then the other. Maxime slides his own breeches off. And then Saint-Just helps him into the steaming mountain of bubbles.
The littlest sigh escapes Maxime’s lips as he leans back in the luxurious tub. (Yes, luxurious! Well, Saint-Just has learned how to appreciate some luxuries! Oh, how his enemies would mock him now! But just watch them try and resist on-demand hot water and two-inch-thick towels!)
“Here.” He nudges the bowl of fruit and the cup of tea, and when Maxime takes an orange slice, Saint-Just almost laughs in relief. He settles for beaming, and is gratified when he gets a small smile in return.
Maxime sniffs at the tea before sipping it.
“I’ve got coffee, but you need to sleep,” Saint-Just says, leaning his head on the edge of the tub thoughtfully. “I’ll make it tomorrow. I can make pancakes now, too.”
“You cook?” Surprise seems to push Maxime past the obstacles to speech.
“I only needed a century of practice.”
Maxime picks at the food in silence for a while, enough to ease some of Saint-Just’s worry. He drinks the tea. And when that’s done, he slips further back, the water soaking the ends of his hair, a puff of bubbles floating up to his ear and settling right where a snow-white curl should be. He closes his eyes and a deeper sigh escapes.
Treasuring that sound, Saint-Just, too, closes his eyes.
They will have to… talk.
Sometime.
Maxime will have to know some things. Things beyond the basic functionality of the modern world. He will have to learn the word Thermidorian. He will have to know what came after. He will have to learn the reason why he may want to go by another name; the decision must be his, of course, but he must warned. He must understand — Saint-Just feels his breath catch in his throat, half sorrow, half rage — but he must learn what the name Robespierre means now.
Saint-Just has a sudden flash of Maxime stumbling across Napoleon on Netflix and shudders.
A hand closes on his and squeezes.
He opens his eyes and hates the worry he sees in Maxime’s gaze.
“I could wash your hair,” Saint-Just says to preempt any questions about his thoughts. He'll deal with those later. He doesn’t want anything to interrupt this calm, safe moment.
Maxime nods and Saint-Just gently guides his head back into the water, brushing bubbles out of the way. When the strands are soaked, he rubs in a liberal amount of shampoo. Maxime makes a quiet, pleased noise and, though his hair is hardly dirty, Saint-Just lingers over it, massaging the lather in well, then rinsing it thoroughly. He smoothes some conditioner in, sweeping the hair back until it is slick and glittering in the low light like an amber crown.
“We can leave that in for a few moments,” he says.
“Florelle…”
“Maxime?”
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, my friend. Everything I have—“
“And I’m sorry.”
Saint-Just’s throat abruptly closes up again. He can only shake his head. There’s so much to say, but he doesn’t want to say any of it. But Maxime’s green eyes are wide and begging, and he feels — again — the horrible sensation that his friend is tumbling into an abyss, and he has no idea how to save him.
So he just wraps his arms around Maxime’s bare shoulders, and then he’s being hugged back, water slopping over the tub’s edge, but he doesn’t care because Maxime is shaking, weeping in his arms.
Saint-Just bites his lip to force back his own sobs. He taste’s blood before he’s able to murmur, “Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about any of it. We’re… we’re past it.”
But he knows Maxime isn’t really; Saint-Just has had a hundred years to process everything. A whole century, which has almost been enough time to process his less than two years in the Convention. But Maxime has only just stepped away from Sanson’s hands, the roar of the crowd in the Place de la Révolution, and the split-second sound of a blade falling. He has only just been betrayed. Only just been outlawed. Only just seen his Republic crumbling before his eyes.
It will take time.
Saint-Just rubs his wet back and holds his trembling body until his own knees are aching and the tub’s edge is bruising his ribs, but he doesn’t even care.
Eventually, he rinses Maxime’s hair and then helps him out and wraps him in a luxurious towel.
In the guest bedroom, lit only by another nightlight, Saint-Just holds out a neatly folded pair of sweats and a t-shirt. “These should fit you.”
He doesn’t say that he bought them specifically to fit. That he has spent decades buying extra clothing that’s slightly too small for himself and setting it aside.
Maxime gets dressed without complaint, though this century’s loungewear is hardly his style. Well, they can worry about that later.
“The bright light is here,” he points to the switch, but doesn’t flick it, then crouches beside the nightlight and points. “You can turn this one off by pressing here.”
“Thank you,” Maxime says. “I hardly deserve—“
“Everything I have is yours,” Saint-Just says as though ordering a general into battle. “And you’ll tell me if you need anything.”
Maxime watches him for a long quiet moment, and Saint-Just is afraid he’ll argue. Not that there’s anything to argue about, but these last few weeks — those last few weeks — it had seemed like there was a fight around every corner.
But the Incorruptible nods. Then he yawns. He slips tentatively into the bed, hands pressing into the sumptuous covers.
“Goodnight, Maxime.”
He looks up, green eyes sparking with anxiety again. “You’re going?”
“I…”
Saint-Just is silent for a long moment. There is, of course, no reason why two men oughtn’t rest together in the same bed — the California King in his guest room is certainly far larger than the little inn beds he’d shared with Le Bas. He has become too solitary, too modern and forgotten the age old comforts.
“Would you like me to stay?”
Maxime nods.
Saint-Just smiles. “Let me just get something dry to wear.”
He almost breaks his neck sprinting for his own well-worn sweats in his bedroom across the hall, but he makes it back to Maxime in one piece, and when he slips under the covers he breathes a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers. “I know that… maybe it doesn’t feel like it, but you are home. You are safe.”
The answer is a hand squeezing his, and Saint-Just realizes that the hand is no longer trembling.
Notes:
Ok, so apparently multiple people have had their souls preserved in paintings? (Not a sequel, just the same idea.) And it turns out that if you’re resurrected this way, you’re kinda immortal — your body just keeps going, driven not by cell mechanics and electrical impulses but by the devotion that was strong enough to drag your soul between worlds. (Look, it’s complicated & I’m not a wizard. Ask David about it. If he he even knows.) Anyway. Saint-Just emerged a while ago — I dunno, like 1920 or something? Some cool time. And he’s kinda like the secret mob boss of immortal portrait people now…
I come from the Sandman fandom where bathing is a perfectly legitimate display of love, romantic or platonic.
God, I wanted this to be sexy, but by the time I got to the bath part, they were just so sweet and needing comfort and I didn’t want to interrupt that. [I mean there’s a whole sequel in my head where it takes a different turn, but… uhh, it’s just sweet, platonic comfort for now.]
So, I will admit to knowing literally nothing about platonic bed sharing in France, but it was very common in England, and this article suggests it used to be fairly normal in a lot of places.
Saint-Just may be exaggerating his cooking skill a little. I think he 100% was an early-adopter of microwave veggie burgers — I’m talking like 1993 bland, rubbery white people tofu pucks — which allow him to avoid cooking in any real, laborious sense but also maintain his proper revolutionary austerity. (He did develop a connoisseur-level expertise in barbecue sauces, though.)
I have so many other question. Where has Maxime’s portrait been this whole time? How did Saint-Just know how to find him? What was their first meeting like? Was he just like hey… so, come home with me; I’ll explain later.
I think it’s possible that not only does Saint-Just have extensive YouTube playlists of educational videos on things like toothbrushing and handwashing and stuff, I think he's actually made several of them. I mean, there’s plenty of information out there, but he really felt like there was a gap in the market for people who lacked even the basic fundamentals of modern plumbing, germ theory, etc.
I wish Le Bas & Augustin could survive too, but I don’t know how 😞 Maybe that’s how David spent his last 31 years? Like, he deeply regretted that he never actually got to give his life in defense of his cause/people that he… did this? (Maybe accidentally. It could be accidental magic. He just liked painting his old friends and accidentally poured his soul into them, which was the catalyst for the magic, and actually, there’s a storage unit somewhere with a bunch of portraits…)
This was supposed to be the Frevtober prompt: Crown, but it exploded, proving that I cannot even be trusted with a single word.
literally I saw the word crown and immediately thought of shampoo/hair stuff/someone washing someone else's hair and like...???... it looks like a crown. I don't know wtf my brain is doing and this is probably why i get lost in life.
I'm not sure if Couthon actually has decendants. French Wikipedia has more info on his kids, but the Family Tree link is broken. Also apparently one of his kids mysteriously died/disappeared so.... I dunno what if Couthon was the first one to come through because his family obtained the magic portrait and [ I really need to stop]
I kinda thought Saint-Just would make French toast for breakfast, but I couldn't figure out what he would call it (and also came across this horrifying nonsense), so he'll make pancakes instead
Editing to add the link to more of my Revolutionaries in the Modern World because they are in my heart now and I can't get them out without damage
[thirteen meetings, on the stairs]
after his execution, camille decides to haunt the staircase outside robespierre’s rooms. saint-just may not appreciate running into an overly loquacious ghost every time he comes to visit. at least not in the beginning.
[this one’s for camille, and for saint-just].
14. Family
Frevtober prompt for October 14th.
"I heard that you and Philippe's sister broke up. I was honestly surprised. Would you like to talk about it?" Robespierre asked, watching Saint-Just, who was sitting in the chair across from him with a serious expression on his face.
"There's nothing to talk about," Antoine shook his head, avoiding looking into those green eyes that always managed to read the truth in his heart.
"I thought you wanted a family. Henriette would make a good wife. You two were right for each other."
"Like you and Éléonore?" Saint-Just replied curtly. Maximilien ignored this. He stood up and went to the sideboard, where he poured them both a glass of diluted wine.
"I won't ask you why. Just tell me, is everything good between you and Philippe?"
Saint-Just nodded.
"That's good." Maxime placed the glass in front of Antoine, and he too fell silent now. But not for long. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed gently.
“I just wanted to say, if… if you don’t want to get married because of what’s between us…” He didn’t finish. “You can’t ruin your future because of that.”
"What future? Maxime, we have none," Saint-Just tilted his head back and looked into his face. "You know that as well as I do. Don't you?"
Maxime sighed, suddenly understanding everything, his heart clenching for a moment. He bit his lip and nodded.
"Forgive me. I thought you could still do it… If you… left, got married, started a family."
“YOU are my family, Maxime. I’m not going anywhere.” Antoine suddenly stood up and hugged him tightly. Maxime allowed him to do so, just staring helplessly at the wall behind him. “I couldn’t live without you.”
Maxime put hand onto his head and just whispered softly.
“I know, my dear. Forgive me.”
23. Gothic
Frevtober prompt for 23rd October.
Saint-Just wanted to be remembered, but he knew nothing of the large wings that would get permanently sewed to his slender frame.
Archangel of the Terror, archangel of Death, archangel of the Revolution if he was evoked in kinder words. Large, stretching wings casting a long shadow, reaching across centuries, making him immortal, adulated or feared, but never cast aside as insignificant. Protective wings, soft and warm like an embrace in the hearts of the revolutionaries who came after him. A scythe in his hand, wings dark and dripping with blood in the mind of others.
Disproportionate appendages wrapping around him, heavy like centuries of lies and misconceptions, the myths burying the man he was under heaps of feathers.
Saint-Just knew nothing of the gothic figure he would become. Someone to be feared, but so beautiful and tempting he needed to be cautioned against, for even the wise could fall for his beautiful lips and thoughtful eyes.
Romance and horror dancing together in the shape of a captivating young man with a fire in his belly but a cold stone for a heart and an appetite for blood.
Neither did he know anything about d’Angers chiselling him into a stern bust of classical beauty with the pure, caring intent of a romantic. He never knew of all the ink spilled about him. Never knew people would one day give him the looks of modern gothic subculture; not as slander, but for fun and with love.
If the word “gothic” could ever come to his ears in relation to him, maybe he would be puzzled for an instant.
Then maybe he would smile.
“I was elected deputy in the cathedral of Soissons, it was one of the happiest day of my life. It’s a gothic cathedral. Laon’s also gothic.”
Contemporary descriptions of the girondin execution compilation
Picture of the scene, printed in number 213 of Révolutions de Paris
The next day, the 10th, around noon, the condemned were brought to the place of their execution. Since 1766, at the day of Lally’s execution, and 1777, at the day of Desrues’ execution, one had not seen such an immense crowd of spectators. The ports, the quays, the squares and the streets were filled with numerous people, the windows were overflowing with citizens of both sexes. Along their route, they heard thousands of voices shouting: long live the republic, down with the traitors. None of them showed any uneasiness, with the exception of Brissot and Fauchet (they were in two separate tumbrils), on whose faces one noticed a dull and pensive look. Several of the others, notably Mainvielle and Duprat, chorused with the spectators several times along the road. Around one o'clock, the condemned arrived at the Place de la Revolution. When getting off the tumbril, Boyer-Fonfrède and Ducos embraced each other, this was repeated by the other condemned, who were already at the foot of the scaffold. Sillery was executed first, he greeted the spectators to the right and left with a serious air. Those who succeeded him in the fatal operation spoke in broken sentences that no one could grasp. Lehardy, who shouted vive la république, was generally heard, thanks to the vigorous lungs which nature had provided him with. The others, while waiting for their turn, sang the refrain, plutôt la mort que l’esclavage, c’est la devise des Français. Viger was executed last. After the execution, which lasted thirty-eight minutes, people threw their hats in the air, and the cries of vive la république, repeated a thousand times, were heard for more than ten minutes. Bulletin du Tribunal Criminel, number 64, page 255-256.
At one o’clock, the condemned arrived at the place of their death. The execution lasted 45 minutes. Sillery and Fauchet each had a confessor, they were the first to be executed. Most of them embraced as they got off the tumbril. Mercure universel, number 968 (1 November 1793), page 12.
Simpronius, who was not a juror in the great affair, came over the day before yesterday to give us an exact account of the execution of the twenty-one criminals of which he was a witness, two steps away from the fatal machine. Sillery was the first and Brissot the seventh. Everyone showed the nuance of their character, and the leaders Brissot, Vergniaud, Gensonné showed fear only by their extreme pallor. The young Fonfrède, Ducos, Mainvielle, Duprat and Duchastel wanted to brighten these last moments through patriotic songs, and this detour of human pride, to give charge to nature, was belied by the lividity on their faces. But let us throw a veil on all that. The majesty of the sovereign was maintained and the place of execution resounded with no cries other than ”Vive la République.” Rosalie Jullien in a letter to her son, November 4 1793, cited in Les affaires d'État sont mes affaires de coeur: Lettres de Rosalie Julien, une femme dans la Révolution, 1775-1810 (2016), page 268.
The next day all of them were executed on the Place de la Révolution, among cries of ”Vive la République.” One man only escaped the blows of justice by by killing himself, his corpse was carried to the execution site and buried in the same grave as his twenty companions. Never, despite the bad weather, did an execution attract more spectators and appear so necessary for the maintenance of the republic. Despite what some of the condemned said on the road and on the scaffold, who shouted: long live the republic! but you will not have it, one was very convinced that their death contributed not just a little to consolidating it. At the foot of the guillotine, several also, while embracing each other, sang this well-known refrain: Plutôt la mort que l’esclavage; C’est la devise des français. Révolutions de Paris, number 213, page 148.
It was, Madame, in the afternoon of 31 October that all our masters, including those in the National Assembly, set a quite ferocious example for themselves. Brissot, along with twenty of his colleagues, was condemned to the guillotine, and all their possessions confiscated for the nation’s profit. One of this group, Valazé, stabbed himself straight after the verdict in order to avoid the punishment; the other twenty were taken to the guillotine that afternoon. The bishop of Calvados and the count de Sillery were in the same cart along with the confessors they had asked for; the others did not request one. Brissot and one other, following in the next cart, were clearly distressed. The rest, all young people aged twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-two, followed on behind laughing, singing about the nation’s glory, and shouting out to the people ‘Long live the Republic’. And it is in this manner that these 21 individuals entered into the great light of eternity. I see in this, Madame, the Lord’s hand exacting a great vengeance already, and presaging much more of this over the next year. Innocente-Catherine de Rougé in a letter to a friend, November 6 1793
Frevtober 2025
31. Halloween costumes
He saw no purpose in wandering this world, especially not on such a loud night, especially not in a foreign country. But they needed to feel the revolutionary spirit, Maximilien said. Saint-Just sneered; they were supposedly born from it, so how could they lose it?
The night had its advantages: if people could notice them now that the veil was thin, their strange attire might not draw too much attention amidst the carnavalesque costumes everyone wore. Some he truly did not understand at all. Most, to be fair. But the times had changed, and few things looked similar.
Maximilien nudged him. "Look over there."
There was a couple hurrying on the street, one he couldn't quite make out in the shadows but the other wore a parody of a wig of their times.
"Another one of their Founding Fathers. Or worse: if it's that marquis again, I will lose my mind..."
"Look again."
The couple walked into a streetlight and Saint-Just was stunned when he more clearly saw the details of their costumes. One of them looked vaguely like him, and they wore tricolor sashes and cocardes.
"That... that's us."
Maximilien smiled, and placed his hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Indeed it is."
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, CITIZENS! 🎃👻
