I am out of my mind. Jean splashed cold water onto his face in a manner closer to slapping himself. He had repeated the action several times already, and his face had long gone numb from the coldness. He roughly wiped away the moisture but soon regretted it, for when the soft towel brushed his skin, he was reminded of the tenderness of someone’s even softer lips.
He was also reminded of the look Maximillian had after, eyes closed with a slight smile. Strangely, Jean’s heart felt strangled and choked. He threw the towel. There was no one else he could blame. Maximillian Joachim simply did what he so often did, and it was Jean who fell for the trick. He was the fool.
They kissed twice in the garden of the Marquess of Rubin, for as soon as Jean parted his lips, Maximillian pulled him back. When the soft lips clung to Jean’s lower lip, he did not have it in him to deny the man. When Maximillian clung to Jean and sucked his tongue, he did not have it in him to not hold the man in his arms. Jean could feel the flat chest and toned body of a man, but he felt no particular disgust. Rather, he felt subtle excitement. Jean sighed. He could recall himself ravenously devouring the prince’s lips.
Maximillian initiated the kiss, and it was also he who had to push Jean away to end it. Jean carefully lowered the hand cupped around the prince’s face. The thought that someone might have seen them occurred to him only later, but he found himself surprisingly serene. And so he was, from the confines of the garden until his departure in the carriage.
It was when Jean mounted the coach that he lost his peace. Maximillian merely whistled a tune and kept silent, yet it posed a challenge for Jean to look at his face. Jean was scared. He feared that the prince would see through the untamed emotions inside him. He turned to face the window and looked out, still like a gargoyle. Had Maximillian not slumbered beneath the ermine Jean had procured for him, Jean would have stared only at the passing scenery throughout their journey.
‘I shall see you on Wednesday.’
They had traveled quite some distance, and upon their arrival, the sun was slowly rising. Maximillian had adamantly refused the marquess’s request that he spend the night in the mansion.
‘Allow me the honor to escort you back to the palace, my Lord Prince.’
Jean recalled the words he spoke to the prince on that dawn. The Crown Prince had not stopped at the Royal Palace but in a street of the capital. Jean also recalled the prince’s face, with a slight grin, moving left and right.
‘I shall return after I take a look around.’
‘Your Grace...’
Then, Jean pondered how he was to end his sentence. You require guards, which you do not have. Saying these words would surely hurt the princely pride. Maximillian was the Crown Prince of the Empire Joachim. Jean need not remind the prince of this, whether he roamed around the streets without a single guard protecting him. Jean continued what he was saying.
‘You require protection, Lord Prince.’
Maximillian gave a simple but stern response.
‘Jean. My guards already protect me. They are simply concealed, not visible to your eye.’
And that was the end. Jean could no longer stop the prince, not when his voice had been so stern and final. Jean, unable to stop Maximillian, could only stare at his back, disappearing in the morning mist. He went back in the carriage and had just returned to the Erhardt mansion.
“Guards...” Jean mumbled to himself.
He had ordered his hired soldiers to search the area for guards. When Jean asked them if they had found any, they all shook their heads, denying the presence of any such guards. Then, was that the prince’s last hold on his pride? Jean pondered, rubbing his own jaw. He had a man follow Maximillian. The man reported to Jean that the prince took a leisurely stroll in the streets before returning to the Royal Palace. There was no reason for Jean to concern himself with the matter any longer, yet he found himself strangely bothered.
It was a troubling sensation. Jean collapsed on the bed and covered his eyes. He was aware of his needless and excessive observance of Maximillian Joachim. Aye, he was aware. However, he couldn’t control it, especially not since hearing Chantelle Francis’s preposterous speculation.
Whether the prince had guards or not, it was not Jean’s concern. And of all affairs, guards? It was ridiculous for Jean to be concerned with the matter. Once the deed was carried out, Maximillian Joachim would meet his death, anyway. Whether in the hands of the revolutionists or of the greedy Grand Duke, who had fallen prey to sweetened false promises. Perhaps, it would be better to let an unfortunate event be the cause of his slightly premature death. He could be attacked in the streets, simply mistaken for a member of a rich family. He could be trampled over by a traveling horse. Whichever it was, it did not concern Jean, and he was aware of that.
But what if? Just what if the prince truly was the Little Pearl?
Jean felt a chill. He rose to his feet. He brought out the napkin with the Pearl’s writing along with their other correspondences. Elegant, sophisticated manner of speech and writing shone piercingly. Among them, Jean found what he was looking for. He already knew every word by heart, but he had to check in case he was mistaken.
There are matters history cannot evade. To the new world.
The new world. The Little Pearl clearly wrote these words. It was when Jean was deliberating about joining the revolutionaries. He shared certain ideas with his brethren, but at the time, nothing was more important to Jean than the will of his Little Pearl. He knew that the Pearl was an aristocrat living in Joachim. He also knew how most aristocrats felt about the ideas of revolution, republic, and equality.
And if the Pearl were revealed to share the opinions of other nobles, Jean vowed to himself that he would leave the revolutionaries. He would seek out and run away with the Pearl before the revolution commenced, serving his owner for the rest of his life. It was also the reason why, at the time, he had told no one involved in the cause about the existence of his Little Pearl. However, his owner had expressed clear support for the revolution in elegant writing.
Jean was able to breathe only after confirming it again with his own eyes. I am right. Maximillian Joachim simply cannot be the Little Pearl. Not only was he a Joachim, but he was also in the immediate royal lineage. He would sooner crush the sparks of revolution underfoot upon discovery than lend any support to the cause.
Aye, the prince knew Jean’s past and who he used to be, but as the man himself had said, it was a discovery of no challenge for someone with a keen eye. Even Jean had foreseen this mishap once or twice, that some young aristocrats Johnny befriended might recognize him. It was why he bothered to go through the process of identifying the aristocrats, probing into their rearing in the capital. It was also the reason Jean began using his real name instead of the one he was called while serving in the Erhardt mansion. Among Johnny’s friends, very few had a status as noble as a duke’s, and even those who did, their finances were not much different from those of the House of Erhardt. Jean deemed them to be of no threat. It had been a decade, he had a different name, and he had a different social status. Jean anticipated that no one would dare speak of the catamite of the past.
Maximillian Joachim was able to do it because he was the Crown Prince. That was the one thing Jean and his brethren had overlooked. It was their fault to have neglected the wayward, wretched heir to the throne. No doubt, for who could have possibly foreseen it? Even if they had known that the prince had such a keen eye, no one would have anticipated that the man would call upon the now heir to a duke to warm his bed.
Jean gently tidied up his belongings. He had journeyed a long distance and had done an act he had not foreseen. Jean was fatigued. The sun was pouring its light through the windows, but Jean laid himself on the bed, drawing the curtains. Having organized his cluttered mind, he was no longer tormented by musings as they had earlier. And just so, Jean Erhardt fell into slumber.
In his dream, Jean was in the academy library, and he was a boy, sitting in the corner, reading his most prized book. It was probably then that he heard it. Jean was flipping a page, rustling, when someone laid a pile of books next to him. Jean looked up at the shadow cast on the pile, and their eyes met. The person grinned. The eyes were gray like ashes.