He had anticipated it, but the Grand Duke Robert did not appear on time. His steward merely delivered his message to Jean, that a sudden affair had risen in the royal family and that Jean ought to wait. It presented no novelty to Jean, for he was well aware that the art of keeping individuals in anticipation was the favored approach among the aristocracy in obtaining someone’s submission. He simply nodded in response. The steward offered Jean a tour around the house in the meantime.
The castle of the Grand Duke was spacious indeed, worthy of being esteemed as a fief within the capital, but it was not lavish. Perhaps it was in the duke’s nature, being a man of war, to prefer the art of simplicity and modesty rather than that of elaboration and intricacy. He was a man who preferred to adorn his home with swords rather than statues, with drill yards rather than gardens. And so, the supposed tour was merely an observation of the Grand Duke’s collections of aged armor, guns, and swords. However, it was a much welcome sight for Jean Erhardt. It would be of great help to know what the enemy had, how his dwelling was structured, in case a situation emerged where the enemy would have to be fended off with violence.
Jean took deliberate steps, and with each step, he made keen observations of the surroundings. The castle did not have many windows, but it had an abundance of weapons, those that could be used in times of urgency, although most of them adorned the walls at the moment. At the end of the hall, one could see the entire drill yard. It was too vast a ground to be allotted for a single noble, be that a grand duke. The stable was just as grand, seemingly sufficing to house more than a hundred horses. The Grand Duke seemed to be a man equipped for war.
At the same time, the sight reminded Jean of the man who was supposedly in a struggle for power with the Grand Duke back at the Royal Palace. The man who held a brush in his hand in lieu of a sword, the man who called a coach instead of riding a horse. The man who cried in Jean’s arms merely hours earlier, the man whose face was so arrogant and depraved.
What adorned his chamber was no gun, no sword, not even an ax. His chamber was adorned with an easel just as skimpy as its owner was, a bed too ample for his lone person, elaborate carpet and drapes, and paintings. That was all. The disparity was so stark that merely speaking of a contest of power between the two seemed laughable. Jean suddenly recalled the slender neck he seemed capable of snapping in a single twist, turning around in the spot he stood, when it caught his attention.
At the far end of the hall, in a spot slightly missing the window, there was a small painting that captivated his sight. A snake was gaping its mouth, looking at Jean. It seemed to be screaming for its last breath. Its tongue was so vividly painted as though it would come to life at any moment. However, the blood that was spattered around it and its rolled-back eyes, showing only the whites, indicated that the painting seemed to depict the moment of its final hour. It was a colorful, striking oil painting.
“A gift, from Maximillian.”
It was a hideous scene, but Jean could not seem to look away from it despite the unsightliness. Jean found himself looking at the man who had arrived and stood next to him. The man had gathered and held his hands behind his back, gazing up at the piece.
“The title was... ‘The Bitten Snake,’ if my memory serves me.”
The Bitten Snake... Jean looked at the painting again. The eyes of the dying snake were filled with clear spite. It was evident that it was no object fit to be presented as a gift. What was more, the snake had once been the symbol of the dukedom. The duchy that would have still existed had the empire not been as impoverished as it was, the domain that would have belonged to the Grand Duke. What could it possibly mean, to send the depiction of the demise of such a symbolic beast, but a political threat?
Jean recalled the man who had been in his arms just earlier in the day. It made him huff out a laugh, realizing that the same man, indeed, certainly had the bravado to commit an act so rash. He slightly covered his smiling lips with his hand before lowering it. The Grand Duke Robert looked at him.
“The painter seems to be of quite the skill, Your Grace.”
Jean mumbled, taking another glance at the art. He was looking for the signature of the painter, commonly found on the lower right corner of the frame. It was faint, but the trace was easily found. Joachim, M. Jean simply blinked briefly, and the duke spoke, a breath late.
“He claims to have painted it himself. After all, he has always had the gift for the arts.”
Then, the man gave a hearty laugh. He resembled a father proud of his child. It was an opportunity for Jean to continue the conversation. However, he failed to find the words to do so. It was not because he was startled that the painting had been drawn by Maximillian Joachim himself, but because—
“What is the matter?”
—of the painter’s signature. The handwriting was oddly reminiscent of—
“...Nothing, my Lord Duke. I was simply surprised at the technique of the art. It almost seems to have been drawn by a court painter.”
—someone’s Jean was familiar with.
“Indeed, the Most Noble Prince does befit the grace of art.”
Where have I seen it? Jean asked himself. He retraced his memory as he conversed with the duke. A vivid memory emerged in his mind. However, it could not convince him to be true. Nay. Jean bit down his lip.
Meanwhile, the Grand Duke had moved ahead, and Jean merely traced the man’s steps, his mind absent from his body. Soon, the grand dining hall came into view. The entire hall readied for a lone guest—it was far too grand a welcome for a single man. Jean turned to look at the Grand Duke, who gave a smile, standing still. A servant came to draw out the chair.
“I appreciate that you have honored my invitation, though tardy it may be. Why, the gentleman, so handsome that he is the subject of much gossip, graciously took the time to attend to me. I saw it only fitting that I return the favor in equal measure.”
“You do me much too kindness, Your Highness. The privilege of your invitation alone suffices as my honor.”
“It might be the whim of an old man, but I have been eager to know you since the ball, Lord Jean. And after the banquet at the mansion of the Marquess of Rubin, even much more so.”
A stream of wine drew a graceful curve as it was poured into the glass on the right. Jean looked at the speaker, maintaining the smile on his face. The Grand Duke reciprocated the gaze as well, his hands clasped together. He then proceeded to inquire with Jean.
“Pray, how fares my young lord upon his reunion with his estranged kin? The Duke of Erhardt seldom ventures beyond the confines of his abode, and I eagerly await tidings of his welfare as well.”
The Grand Duke sought to read Jean’s face as he spoke of his inquiry. Jean responded with ease and grace.
“Father has always been aware of my birth, extending his graciousness to make me feel welcomed. It only pains me to wish for my mother and brother, how ecstatic it would have been for them to be living... There has been much ill fortune upon the House of Erhardt.”
The ill fortune referred to the death of the Duchess of Erhardt and of Johnny Erhardt. The Duchess of Erhardt departed this life from sickness, a shadow cast by the passing of her son, whose demise was brought about by a fall from horseback. It was said to be sickness, however. Jean’s informant had told him it was syphilis. It was a common illness among the aristocrats. It was simply not spoken of as common, for they all sought to conceal it, a taboo.
“Father has taken up a new hobby, which I am grateful for, as it has greatly improved his health.”
To be precise, the old man had vibrant color to his face now that he had money to squander away in his gambling pursuits. Jean smiled as he partook of his salad, an appetizer for the meal ahead. It was a preposterous affair that, regardless of the actual misery experienced by a noble, when given sufficient embellishment, the tale could be transformed into a grand saga of woe.