"Hush, mother, keep your voice down here," Philippe reminded her. "Which one are you talking about?"

"That mysterious painter! Edith used to visit him everyday when she was a child!" Aunt whispered excitedly.

Now Philippe became excited too. "Edith, is it really your erudite old friend? That''s fantastic! Let''s go say hello to him after the meeting. To be honest, I''ve always been looking forward to getting to know him."

"I think...yes, it''s him. If I''m not mistaken. Honestly, we can hardly be called friends. I''ve nearly forgotten what he looks like." Edith said in a fit of pique, although no one here would care .

Her moods were too complicated, so she didn''t realise something strange.

From the age of fifteen to twenty-five, a person''s appearance often changes significantly. But the painter could be said to have not changed at all.

Of course, his demeanor had changed a lot. At least on the podium, no one would ever think he might once have been an artist.

His solemn expression had turned into a ruthless one. When he spoke of possible traitors and conspirators within the republic, he paused to scan the entire venue with a gaze that made those with unclear conscience feel fearful.

He wore a neatly ironed, bright red waistcoat with every button meticulously fastened. But the style of the shirt and bow tie inside was elaborate and complex, exaggeratedly covering his Adam''s apple, making his dress look both aristocratic and revolutionary.

Andre Quenet''s speaking style was unique: his voice was no