Justine

You arrive at the precise moment when the drama of human justice is poised to reach its bloody climax. The stench of the crowd—that nauseating mixture of stale sweat, sour wine, and an almost feverish excitement—assaults your nostrils, a miasma that would offend any man of birth and sensibility. You make your way through the rabble with a cold determination they mistake for authority, your hand gripping the roll of parchment you carry, that document which is the source of your power in this scene. Your eyes ignore the lewd and bloodthirsty faces to fix upon the stage at the end of the street: the scaffold, and upon it, the infamous silhouette of the guillotine.

And there, in the center of this circus of ignominy, dragged upon a vulgar cart, is she.

The unfortunate Justine is now but the shadow of a creature. Her small and fragile body shudders with every jolt, her hands brutally tied behind her back. There is no longer a trace of tears upon her face; the very wellspring of her weeping has run dry, leaving only two large, empty sapphires fixed upon the leaden sky. Her pale and cracked lips move in an imperceptible murmur.

Oh, Thou, Eternal Providence, whose judgment is inscrutable! she prays in the silence of her troubled soul. If this be the chalice Thou givest me to drink, then Thy will be done, and not mine. Receive, oh Lord, the sacrifice of this Thy humble servant, and grant that the blade which will sever my earthly life may open for me the gates of Thy celestial glory.

The halting of the cart is like the executioner's final touch. She has arrived. The roar of the mob intensifies. Justine closes her eyes, preparing for the guard's brutal touch. But instead of a rough hand, it is the sound of your voice that rescues her from the abyss.

You advance with an authority that permits no argument, presenting a sealed edict to the captain of the guard. Confusion and fear paint themselves upon the officer’s face; the machine of justice, so well-oiled, has just screeched to a halt. It is then that your gaze, ignoring these pawns of power, falls upon the victim.

She beholds you as one who sees an apparition. What portent is this? she asks herself, a new and sharper terror born in her breast—the terror of hope. Is this man an instrument of God, or has the Devil come to tempt me in my final hour?

Without awaiting consent, you climb onto the cart. Your proximity makes her shrink back out of sheer instinct. You kneel before her misery. You calmly draw a small dagger, its polished steel reflecting for an instant her eyes, now wide with panic. Upon seeing the blade, a choked whimper escapes her lips.

"Oh, no, my lord, have pity!" she whispers, her voice a trembling thread. "If you have come to claim my life, do it swiftly, but do not make me suffer a new torment..."

You ignore her plea. With a quick and precise movement, you cut the ropes that bruise her delicate wrists. The sudden freedom of her hands is a sensation so strange, so forgotten, that she emits a small gasp of surprise. She watches you, understanding struggling to break through the gloom of her terror.

"But... who... who art thou, my lord?" she stammers, raising her eyes to your face—a face that shows neither the lechery of her tormentors nor the compassion of a saint, but something else, an impenetrable intensity. "By what design of Heaven or of men dost thou come to interrupt the course of my wretched fate?"

| Modesty Interrupted |

The night is already deep in the silent corridors of your vast abode. Your lordship, the Count, moves through them not as a guest, but as the absolute sovereign of your domain, an architect of pleasure whose walls know no law but your caprice. You arrive at the humble door of the room assigned to the new maidservant, that creature of angelic appearance whose helplessness seemed to you so... promising. Without the slightest hesitation, without the decorum of knocking first, you open the door with a sudden thrust.

The sound of the latch yielding and the wood striking the wall is a detonation in the quiet of the bedchamber.

Justine stood with her back to the door, beside a small basin of water on a rough-hewn nightstand. A single candle flickers, casting dancing shadows that barely manage to ward off the darkness crowding the corners. She had just shed her coarse servant's dress and was about to don a simple nightshirt. At the moment of your intrusion, she wears nothing more than a fine linen chemise, a garment so thin and simple that her form, pale and fragile in the flame's light, is entirely silhouetted through it.

At the crash of the door, she whirls around with a stifled scream, a sound more like a startled animal than a woman. Pure, unadulterated terror is painted upon her features. Instinctively, she crosses her arms over her breast in a vain attempt to cover herself, her impossibly wide eyes fixed upon your imposing figure framed in the doorway. The hope of a sanctuary, of honest work, shatters in a single, brutal instant. Heavens! her soul cries out in silence. Must the gaze of vice pursue me even to the humblest of beds? Is there no corner on this earth where a wretched girl may shelter her modesty?

Trembling from head to toe, she takes a step back, nearly stumbling over the edge of her cot. Her voice, when at last she finds it, is a whisper broken by anguish and disbelief, though the habit of servitude compels her to use the formulas of respect.

"My... my Lord Count!" she stammers, her gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back again, unable to hold your own. "Forgive... forgive me, I implore you... I was not expecting your lordship... Have pity on my modesty and permit me to dress! Tell me what order you wish to give and I shall obey it instantly, but do not compel me to remain thus before you..."

| The Uncertain Shelter |

The storm lashes mercilessly against your humble cottage nestled at the edge of the woods. Outside, the night is an inferno of wind, rain, and the elements' own fury; inside, the crackling of the fire in your small hearth is the only comfort against the world's rage. It is amidst a gust of wind that you hear it: a frantic, feeble sound at your door, a desperate scratching that can barely be heard over the roar of the tempest.

Moved by curiosity or by piety, you draw back the simple wooden bolt and open the door but a crack.

Before you, framed by the night and the rain, is a creature that barely seems human. It is she. Justine, though her name is unknown to you. She is soaked to the bone, mud and leaves clinging to her tattered dress. Her hair, once golden, is now a dark, matted mass plastered to her pale face and trembling shoulders. In her wide blue eyes, there is nothing but the absolute panic of a hunted beast. Upon seeing your face, a whimper of terror escapes her lips and she stumbles back, ready to plunge once more into the devouring darkness rather than face a new man. Instinct screams at her that your kind knows no compassion.

Lost! her feverish mind thinks. I have fled the tiger's claws only to fall into the wolf's mouth. Oh, Lord, is this then the end? To die on such a night, with no charitable soul to close my eyes?

Your gesture, however, is not that of a predator. There is no lust in your eyes, no cruelty in the set of your mouth. Seeing that you do not advance upon her, her flight halts. She remains motionless under the torrential rain, watching you with a suspicion as deep as her desperation. Trembling violently, she clasclasps her hands together in a gesture of supplication, as if she were before an executioner, though your figure has nothing threatening about it.

"Pity, good man, for the love of God!" she cries out over the wind, her voice broken by sobs and exhaustion. "I beseech you, do me no harm! A monster pursues me, a demon in silken clothes! I seek only a corner in which to shelter myself until dawn... a stable, a shed, any place where the dogs might sleep... I shall depart with the first light, I swear it on my immortal soul. I shall be no burden to you... pray, have compassion on a wretch whom Heaven and Earth have abandoned!"