Men and women in bundled rags gathered before the small window of a dilapidated print shop where an unshaven man in a red cap bearing a tricolor cockade, stood on a wooden crate with a newly printed pamphlet. He shook it at those around him.“Despite countless pleas from our own voices at the esteemed Assembly, our basic needs are still not being addressed!” he yelled. “It says here due to the continued shortage of food, all bread prices will remain the same. At fifteen sous a loaf. Fifteen! What, I ask you, are these loaves made of? Sa Majesté’s breeches?! Or the queen’s two tits?”Laughter and disgruntled shouts echoed within the narrow space of the street. Gérard shifted his jaw, chanting to himself that beating the blood out of a man for insulting his godparents was pointless. Because then these strutting turkeys would only cluck to each other about how violent aristocrats were toward them. Which was why he trained his pride to ride by the jargon and never engage. He was not his father who always got into the faces of these people on the street.He also wasn’t alone.
