The Shadow of Great Britain

The thorn of the rose is part of its beauty, it reminds people that any beauty comes at a cost.

—William Blake

19th-century Paris has always been synonymous with art and romance, but beneath this glamorous exterior, there are also many unknown dark corners hidden away.

In a narrow and dim alley in the Latin Quarter, faint gaslight flickered, casting dappled shadows on the sewage-covered cobblestones.

At the end of the alley, a girl in a dark green dress quietly leaned against the damp wall. Her exquisite makeup, even in such an environment, still looked bright and charming. It's in a girl's nature to pursue beauty, but exuding allure in such a place might not be a wise idea.

All the nearby residents knew that countless thugs hid in these deep alleys.

For those who were barely getting by, who might not see tomorrow's sunrise, displaying gentlemanly demeanor or showing pity was never a priority.

Even if she wanted to conduct business, this girl obviously picked the wrong place. Whether it was the steps in front of the Paris Opera House or the square before the Louvre Museum, plenty more wealthy clients could be found compared to this group of poor wretches.

But the girl seemed completely unafraid. She just leaned against the wall, holding a ladies' long cigarette holder between her lips, lightly pursing her lips adorned with lip color, and a puff of hazy smoke was expelled in an instant.

And she would soon pay the price for her carelessness, as a hunched-back vagabond staggered with heavy steps into the alley.

His clothes were in tatters, especially where a hole had ripped in his ragged shirt at the back, revealing skin that was pale and tinged with dirt.

His hair hadn't been washed in who knows how long, with grime and hair tangled together like knotted balls of yarn.

A numb face kept staring at the cobblestones. Under the reflection of the sewage, his dust-covered face could be faintly discerned.

A dragging, shuffling sound of tattered pants on cobblestones was heard, then unexpectedly, the vagabond's footsteps halted.

He saw the girl's small white shoes and slowly lifted his heavy head.

His gaze lingered on the girl for a moment, his Adam's apple slightly moving, and in his cloudy eyes, a beast-like demeanor seemed to reveal.

Then he slowly stepped closer, asking in a hoarse voice, "Do you need help?"

The girl raised her head, responding in a tone mixed with fatigue and mockery, "Help? You look like you need help more than I do."

The vagabond's mouth twitched into a bitter smile, pulling a copper coin from his pocket and handing it to her: "This is all I found today on the street, though not much, it might help you buy some food."

The girl rolled her eyes, seeming a bit impatient: "Come off it, Lori! Every time we meet, we have to go through this routine. Don't you find it tiresome?"

The vagabond looked a bit embarrassed hearing this. He straightened his back, as if God performed a miracle, instantly curing his longtime hunchback: "Clara, I don't want to do this either, but you know it's the rule, for your safety, and for everyone else's safety. How would I know if you aren't being watched?"

"Watched?" Clara raised her cigarette holder, pointing to the narrow walls around: "Is there anywhere nearby people can watch us from? Could anyone be watching us from the sky? Only God can do that."

The vagabond scratched his head: "But being a little cautious is always good. Paris is like a big maze; there are always paths we aren't aware of. Just a few days ago, because we were cautious enough, we moved before those damned police sensed anything wrong, escaping a capture."

Clara intended to scold him a few more things, but seeing his pitiful look, she couldn't help but soften, though she continued muttering.

"I told you before not to come to Paris, or to seek revenge. They have guns, the cops, the Dragon Cavaliers, and the National Guard all at their command. And you're just a bunch of peasants. Without someone to guide you, you can't even leave the Saint-Germain district. Yet you dream of assassinating the King, restoring the Bourbons!

Now look at it, Louis Philippe isn't dead, not even injured, and two of you fools have died, without leaving intact bodies! What's the use of what you've done?"

The vagabond felt uneasy hearing this: "Clara, don't say that. You also came from the Brittany countryside. We're farmers, and you were a farmer girl. How long have you been in Paris to think of yourself as a city person?"

"How long? I've been here a full six years! I may not be a city girl, but I'm not as naive as before and I don't need others' help to get by anymore."

Clara mocked coldly: "Unlike some fools, who work for nothing, not receiving even one sous as a reward, and get cursed as traitors, stamped with a reputation they can never shake off."

"You..."

The vagabond pointed at Clara, but under the pressure of her sharp gaze, this honest countryman couldn't help but back down.

"You've truly changed. People say a long stay in Paris turns your heart to iron, it seems it's true. Back in the countryside, I remember how kind-hearted you were. Oh well, I know what you think. You're scared we'll get you involved. Can't blame you, assassinations are men's affairs and shouldn't drag women in. We'll part here, and we'll not disturb you again in the future."