Nicolas felt like a fool. He yanked off his hat and ran his hands roughly through his own hair. How could he have been this pathetic? Ilona had died in France. The girl's body had already mingled with the earth and dew. So why had he been fooled by the illusion of another girl whose hair looked just like Ilona's?
Nicolas sat there, stunned. For the first time, the world felt utterly unfamiliar. There were countless hurried footsteps around him—footsteps he no longer recognized. On the sidewalk, he saw countless people, yet he was trapped in a loneliness that could not be named. Here, the crowd swallowed him whole, but he felt lost. He had deliberately sailed far away to forget this grief. Yet the distance spanning the Strait of Calais meant absolutely nothing. The silence he felt was far greater and beyond his control.
The loss he felt was devastating. From that moment on, the world we saw was no longer the same. Everything once understood as beautiful was now nothing more than a misfortune.
This can't go on. I have to leave at once.
Nicolas slipped both hands into his coat pockets. Then he slowed his pace and moved away from the bakery, swiftly turning around and heading in another direction. But the sound of his footsteps had changed. They were no longer the firm, spirited steps of before, but the weary steps of a desperate man. Every time he walked, an unease lingered that he could not deny. He felt as though everyone was staring at him with suspicion. As if the words 'Le Bourreau' had been carved into his forehead. As if every trace of blood still clung clearly to his body. Would people recognize him as the angel of death?
"No, no. Get a hold of yourself, Nicolas. It's all in your head."
Again and again, he tried to calm himself. He kept walking down the street. The world was crowded, yet he felt trapped in alienation, emptiness, and uncertainty. Every so often, he glanced back and caught a brief look of confusion before everything returned to its usual routine. Maybe this was for the best, or at least far better than what he had always received until now. Unfamiliar stares were far more dignified than all the insults he had constantly endured in Etampes.
After walking aimlessly for a long time, something compelled him to stop. It wasn't a person. It was only a clothing-store window by the roadside. Several Victorian dresses and riding coats were displayed inside.
If this had happened in his homeland, the shop owner would certainly have driven him away by force. Nicolas belonged to the untouchables, people society had to shun. Whenever he walked down the street, everyone would agree to keep their distance. Not a single merchant was willing to sell anything to someone like him. They would all berate him, curse him, and even drive him away.
Lost in thoughts like these, he failed to notice a tiny hand slipping into his coat pocket. Its movements were as delicate as an owl's feather brushing against grass. Every so often, the hand's owner cast a sidelong glance at Nicolas, making sure her victim was still lost in his own world.
Snatch!
Nicolas suddenly felt his pocket grow unnaturally light. He reached inside. Good Lord, it was empty! His watch and wallet were gone!
He turned around. His eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of tiny legs darting away. The movements were hurried and nervous.
There was no mistaking it. That was the culprit!
"THIEF! THIEEEEF!"
Nicolas hurried after her. But the tiny figure was faster. Her slender body slipped skillfully between the crowds. Nicolas was completely overwhelmed. Being robbed as a stranger in a foreign land was truly a stroke of bad luck.
"THIEF!"
He kept shouting. Several people in the street turned to look in confusion. On one side, they saw a young man sprinting in a panic; on the other, a tiny creature darting like a cheetah cub. Several people decided to join the chase. A police officer on patrol spotted the pursuit from an intersection. Just as the thief passed close by, he intercepted her and quickly grabbed her. He even lifted the back of the suspect's clothes until her small body dangled several inches off the ground. She was panting heavily. Sweat poured down her face. But no one cared. They nearly beat her before realizing that the thief was a girl.
"Is she the thief, sir?" the officer asked. Nicolas nodded. His eyes remained fixed on the silver watch and wallet in the girl's small hands, which the officer immediately snatched away.
"I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. I'll take her to the police station," the officer said as he returned the stolen belongings.
Nicolas did not answer. He was still stunned by everyone's attitude toward him. Was this what it felt like to be a free man? He was no longer an executioner. He was truly a normal human being, treated like one!
"Come on, you're coming to the police station. You'll be detained until your guardian arrives!"
"Hah... hah... Please, don't, sir. Don't..." The thief grimaced. Her voice trembled—soft, fragile, and full of fear. Nicolas was momentarily transfixed. He couldn't ignore that voice. Somehow, it pained him to hear the thief continue to whimper.
That was when she looked up. His eyes met the unfortunate thief's face. In an instant, his body went rigid. His heart dropped. He fell into an unfathomable abyss.
That face! How could he find that face here?