Seek the mask of the bird beak, and let us resume our cheerful discourse.
The letter arrived on the morning of the masquerade. It was stamped with the Grand Duke’s seal. He must be utterly vigilant to have only sent it in the morn of the ball, thought Jean to himself, watching the flame lick and devour the letter. And next to the duke’s, there was another letter Jean was burning. In it was written a single word.
Bauta.
Jean turned his back to find a grand mirror facing him. He saw himself donned with a black hat with a wide brim and a black cloak. Looking at the reflection, Jean closely studied his face. He sought to ensure that there was no blemish on his face, that his skin wasn’t dark or blotched. He was of mind to borrow a lady’s powder if need be.
“Is someone special coming to the ball, my lord?”
The steward asked, bringing Jean tea. Jean flinched and turned to look at him. The steward had a full grin on his face.
“You do not heed your appearance usually, and yet, today, you seem to be consulting the mirror glass frequently. Both the mask and the attire look very well. You need not worry, my lord.”
The steward said as he laid the teacup on the table. Jean could not conjure a response. He merely cleared his throat as he failed to react to the observation.
“That is... not true.”
Jean spoke a while later. However, his tone was so shy that it would have served him better to not have spoken at all. Jean concealed his entire face with the mask he had prepared. It was white. The upper half was curved with facial features like a plaster statue, while the lower half fell in a wide line, allowing the wearer to feed himself. This mask was referred to as ‘Bauta.’ And Jean surmised that this was perhaps what the writer of the correspondence meant. He forced himself to think of other matters, grabbing the handle of his teacup when the steward spoke once more before leaving.
“Your ears have reddened, my lord. Perhaps you would take a moment to calm yourself before departing.”
Then, Jean heard the door closed. He stood still. He could see his ears having reddened clearly in the mirror. He let out a low moan and removed the mask. He saw the reflection of a young man with a red face. The honesty of his emotions rendered him closer to a young boy than a man.
Jean swept his eyes with his hand. He had lived his life confident that he could put a rein in his sentiments. However, in recent days, he had been more inept at it than little kids. He looked at his face again. His encounter with Maximillian was set and certain. Then, he would not want to show an unsightly countenance upon removing his mask. Jean knew well what his Crown Prince cherished, what he was particular to.
The tailor had dispatched word that a very handsome garment had been completed. Jean had stressed that the tailor be not frugal with the pearls and embed big and small alike, befitting the Crown Prince of the empire. Jean could not feel at ease, however. He was not bothered by whether the garment would suit the prince or not. He knew better than anyone that the prince would look just as glorious as the sun in white. Perhaps too glorious that he would ascend to the sky with a stream of light.
Jean was aware that it was a silly thought, yet he could not help his heart drop to his feet whenever that sensation overtook him. After all, didn’t the Little Pearl also vanish into thin air in the same manner, with that one correspondence as the last of their exchange?
Jean felt lucky that the masquerade began after the sun had set. The darkness lurking in every corner would hold Maximillian in place. It mattered not what reasons he had, what thoughts he had, for Jean was of no mind to let him disappear this time.
“Had Wickham seen me, he would have called me a madman.”
Jean mumbled to himself before the mirror. Jean believed that Maximillian was his Petite Perle when he had not sought its confirmation thoroughly. His usual self would never have done such rash action, and he would have laughed at anyone else who believed it as such. However, Jean was sure this time. He had gained this conviction when he saw Maximillian’s face at the end of the dark tunnel when the prince spoke.
Jean hadn’t said anything to his brethren. No matter how strong his confidence was, Jean was aware that in order to convince others, he needed evidence. The pearls Maximillian had bestowed upon Jean long ago would be the very proof, assuming that the gemologist Chantelle informed Jean of had performed his duty faithfully.
The problem was elsewhere. Although not as significant in presence as Robert Joachim, the archnemesis of the revolutionaries, Maximillian Joachim was just as much a target of elimination as the Grand Duke. He was the blood and flesh of the royal house and the next in line to the throne. His existence alone was a threat to the revolution. He was assessed by everyone as a vain and idle man, therefore saving him from being identified as a target of vigilance, but all it meant was that he presented no challenge to be killed. When the deed was commenced, Jean’s brethren would attempt to eliminate the prince. It was not a conclusion hard to arrive.
Then—
There are matters history cannot evade. To the new world.
—could Maximillian’s correspondence serve as a way to salvation? Or was there truly no way for Jean to bring the new world with him in it? Would it not be easier to amass support for a republic that the royal himself advocated? Jean pictured again and again how the conversation with his brethren would unravel. He was armed with words of persuasion. But he could not be sure whether they would be sufficient to convince them.
As he descended the stairs with his mask in his hand, he thought again and again. If ever he failed to reach a compromise with his brothers, it was clear as day that he would be facing complications. He couldn’t ignore the need of having to pack his treasures. It was to ready ahead in case he would have to flee with the prince. Jean had his factories and mines, and it would pose no problem should they flee to a foreign land. However, for the duration of their elopement, they would require cash. In his head, Jean had already decided on the inns and lodges Maximillian would be staying in each province and location. He had already settled upon a safe way to cross the border.
But for now—
“To the Royal Palace.”
His business was to head to the Royal Palace in a bauta like he had been instructed to.
The coach started moving soon. He saw the sun lazily descending in the sky. Jean stared out the window for a long while. He recalled the countenance of the Crown Prince, who mumbled ‘My Joachim,’ gazing upon the realm of Joachim as if beholding something he so very loved. Jean found himself smiling. He tried to stop, but alas, he failed. He would make an effort to calm his face, but the memory of Maximillian’s face would appear and render his effort futile. Jean gave several more attempts before giving up and donning his mask over his smile. A stranger’s face was reflected in the window, appearing and disappearing.