mes louis

The woman smokes at the window. He stands on the guillotine with all the eyes of France upon him. He’s decided to meet his fate bravely.

She put on a plain white dress in front of the guards. She was now a widow in France. Her hair was shorn, her hands were tied. A priest sat beside her; she ignored him for the one hour ride. She had nothing to confess, nothing left to say.

The wine keeper’s wife knits no longer. La môme is yet to come. She had nothing left to say.
Non, rien de rien.

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