sed up in the air by the hands of women and children in the square, waving and shouting to the blue sky, "Liberty, thy name is woman!"

The painter''s brief stay in her life had sowed the seeds of republicanism in her soul. The blaze burning within her was unstoppable.

As the maiden looked around the grand hall, Citizen Quenet ascended the high podium to thunderous applause.

He began to speak, his pace quick and his tone mercilessly serious.

But that voice instantly seized Edith''s heart.

She looked up at the person on the podium in amazement.

The most familiar cerulean eyes, an indistinct hint of blush on his fair cheeks, semi-long blonde hair tied back behind his head, and those thin lips that still seemed pursed as he spoke...

It was Andre.

How could it be Andre? Wasn''t this person supposed to be Quenet? Andre pretended to be Quenet?

No, Andre Quenet... Quenet was the surname. But what was the surname of her little painter Andre?

Only then die she realise that she had never asked Andre''s family name in those three years.

The person on the podium continued the speech with resolute gestures. But she averted her gaze, panicked and disoriented.

Her idol had disappeared in an instant. There was no such great man at all as Quenet in her imagination.

She was a tangled mess of emotions, unsure of how to feel about encountering her childhood mentor once again. At first, an instinctive joy bubbled up inside her, but it was quickly followed by memories of this man''s faithless F