“My lord, we have arrived.”
Jean was startled by the voice calling him. He had been deeply lost in his thoughts. He had not realized it, but the coach had come to a stop. It seemed that they were back in the Erhardt mansion.
“My apologies, I have been lost in pondering...”
Jean stepped out of the coach. He noticed the red back of the coachman’s hands; the man must have been standing in the cold for long, calling Jean. He was about to pick up the painting, but Jean stopped him and dismissed him, telling him to rub some pig’s oil on his hands. The coachman disappeared quickly, blowing hot breath into his frozen hands. Jean walked toward the doors of the mansion. The steward was waiting for him with an anxious look on his face.
“You have a guest, my lord.”
The steward spoke hastily as Jean came to a stop before the doors. He seemed to be quite flummoxed. Jean surmised that there must be a reason the steward did not announce the name of the visitor but merely referred to him as “guest.” Jean nodded as he stepped inside. The steward led the way and climbed up to the second storey. Just as the Grand Duke had earlier, the steward seemed to have welcomed the guest not into the drawing room.
“He shall depart promptly after meeting you, my lord, for he wishes not that word of his visit should spread...”
The steward presented an excuse as if he had read Jean’s thoughts. Jean simply nodded solemnly. He stood before the door of his own chamber. He knocked, but no sound came from the other side. Jean glanced at the steward, who nodded when their eyes met. The man was ensuring Jean that there was indeed someone awaiting him inside. Yet, whoever it might be, they displayed a most grievous lack of courtesy by calling at the mansion of a duke without an appointment and remaining silent after occupying another’s bedroom. Jean briefly wondered whether it could be Wickham or Cornell. But his brethren were neither so rash nor lacking in courtesy. Jean opened the door. The room was dark. No lamp must have been ignited.
“...It would be best to kindle the fire in the hearth. The chandelier too, please.”
Jean mumbled as he stepped inside. The moonlight discerned the person sitting by the window from the shadows of all else. Jean knew who it was at a glance.
“No, I would prefer the darkness for a while,” said the person.
His voice was hoarse. Jean felt strange. He closed the doors first. His lips parched at the unexpected situation. He placed the painting he had gained from the Grand Duke on a table and turned back to look at his visitor. Maximillian Joachim. The one man Jean had not anticipated to see in this place.
By the windowsill he was sitting on, one could see the entire path leading into the mansion. The prince would be aware that Jean had just returned. What should Jean answer when the prince inquired where he had been, what he had done? Jean had told the prince before that he had been to the Grand Duke’s residence. But would it not appear to be a frequent summons? Jean was anxious as he stepped toward the window when Maximillian, sitting slanted, turned to face Jean. He must have heard Jean’s footsteps. The faint light illuminated him.
“Your Grace, may I inquire as to the purpose of your visit at this hour, if it pleases...”
Jean had just started speaking, choosing his words carefully, when Maximillian reached out and wrapped his arms around Jean. Jean felt a faint shaking. The prince was lightly panting. It was a surreal sensation, which caused the words Jean had prepared in his head to vanish. Jean found himself returning the embrace. He could feel the man’s hands, clutching his clothes tightly.
“Has something happened, Your Grace?”
And a voice that sounded like his own and not his own at the same time followed. Jean spoke in a tone that seemed to be concerned whether the prince was hurt or harmed. It sounded weak and frail.
“Ah,” Maximillian spoke quietly after a brief moment, “’Tis nothing.”
The prince continued. His tone was quite animated, but strictly theatrical.
“I simply missed you. You seemed to have gone out?”
The prince spoke just as he did as usual, but it sounded quite awkward. Jean was aware that it was rude to do so, yet he cupped the prince’s face, tilting it slightly upward. The darkness was slight, allowing Jean to see the entire face.
“Maximillian.”
The name that had been staying on Jean’s tongue finally flowed out. It felt strange. He felt tautness in his chest enough to surprise him.
“What is the matter, Your Grace?”
Jean was suddenly reminded of what the Grand Duke had said earlier. He said that Montespan’s servant was practicing packing and unpacking daily. Did that mean that the emperor was not doing well? The prince looked peaceful, but Jean could feel the fingers trembling lightly against his back.
“Naught.”
The prince responded. He then slowly removed his hand. Jean simply watched Maximillian as if he was urging the prince for an answer.
“Have you made a purchase of a portrait?”
But Maximillian maintained an air of nonchalance. Jean took a glance at the painting he had laid on the table. And Maximillian moved toward it. It seemed like he would attempt to unwrap it. And if he did, Jean would not be able to conceal the fact that he had been to the Grand Duke. Jean, who had been occupied with sentimentality, began thinking quickly. He lit the lamp on the desk. The chamber turned a little brighter. And Maximillian was now standing right before the painting.
“It is the painting that you have presented as a gift... to the Grand Duke, Your Grace.”
Jean spoke slowly on purpose, feigning hesitation. Maximillian turned to look at him. Jean slightly lowered his gaze, rubbing the crease between his brows.
“Ah, you have been to the Grand Duke.”
Maximillian nodded and spoke in an indifferent tone. Jean gulped air.
“I wanted to own it too much...”
“Have you made it a new hobby of yours to collect my paintings? Wanting even the one I had gifted to my uncle.”
“...Does it displease you, Your Grace?”
The intent was political, but it did not change the fact that it was the prince’s gift to the duke. It couldn’t please him to know that his gift had been an object of trade. Perhaps it would have given the prince a greater satisfaction if the duke had torn it into pieces. However, the Maximillian Jean knew was not the type to fuss over such things. And he was right; the Crown Prince shook his head.
“The painters in the streets do better than I. I simply find it amusing that you had spent money on acquiring it.”
“You need not be humble for your craft, Your Grace.”
“Is that so? True, I did pay this one particular attention.”
Maximillian mumbled as he removed the wrappings. Jean sensed mockery behind the words. Soon enough, the dying snake revealed itself, and Maximillian hummed a tune. He held the frame on the edge. He lightly brushed his fingers across the painting. It was in the upper right corner.
Jean narrowed his eyes. He could see now what he missed, having been captivated by the striking image of the serpent. There was the footprint of a beast. Despite the brightness of the lamp, it was still dim around them. The piece of art itself was not bright in its shade. It was hard to discern what exactly it was that the prince had touched. Maximillian’s hand was also concealing half of the area. Jean could only have a glimpse of the color and the shape. However, he was sure that the paw belonged to a beast with four limbs. He guessed that it was a wolf. It was the symbol of the royal house and the animal that symbolized Maximillian himself, after all.
The wolf that killed the snake... As had Jean suspected upon his initial observation, the intent of the painting was rather clear. Jean concluded his thoughts and removed his eyes from the frame. However, something troubled him. The image of the paw seemed quite odd to belong to a wolf. Jean decided to take another look when Maximillian murmured.
“’Tis a Spitting Cobra. A snake that spits poison, blinding its adversary.”
Jean’s eyes were instantly reoriented to the center of the frame. Maximillian’s eyes, looking down on the portrait, looked cold and empty at the same time. Jean chased the prince’s gaze, then suddenly inquired, as if it was a matter of no importance.
“Did Your Grace inscribe this with your own hand?”
But his heart was beating faster than it had ever had. He felt as though the organ would burst at any moment. Maximillian kept his gaze on the art while responding in a nonchalant tone.
“What artist, pray tell, would permit another to inscribe their name upon his creation?”
A brief ecstasy found Jean, one he could not tell the cause of, one that caused him a sudden and mysterious fear, prompting him to look at the prince. Unlike himself, who seemed to have lost his composure, the prince looked at ease.
“I shall return. You will escort me back, I assume.”
Had the passion Jean summoned to feign sincerity toward the prince betrayed him instead?
“...I shall ready the coach, Your Grace.”
Inside the lamp, the flame danced. Jean watched as Maximillian’s lips curved, seemingly enchanted and entranced. Suddenly, he remembered how the prince feebly trembled in the darkness. Maximilian smiled as if he were a man who had never known such an experience. However, Jean could not forget the earlier trembling of the prince and felt compelled to embrace him gently.