“To the glory of Joachim.”
Maximillian had a mask that covered half of his face until the tip of his nose. It was a plaster mask, shaped after a wolf’s. The edge was lined with elaborately set glass beads. The ears were pointed. It rendered the prince quite like a descendant of the wolves. Jean studied every detail about him. He did not miss the fair skin below the red lips, the justacorps flowing with gold, nor the vest inside that connected to the culottes on the lower half of his person. The hall was not dark, but neither was it bright enough to be reminiscent of the sunlight. Jean felt assured.
Jean took a sip of his champagne. As Maximillian ended his welcome speech, people began gathering around him. Jean had expected this to happen. He felt sorry that he couldn’t be with the prince, but he also had his own affairs to attend to. He slowly took a look around him. The one with the bird beak was behind a pillar by the terrace. The cane the man had was protruding from behind the structure.
Jean put down his empty glass and began moving slowly. When he encountered a lady on his way, he would briefly dance with suave. He felt the man behind the beak look at him. The man was shaded in the shadow of the pillar or of people. He did not appear conspicuous. Jean naturally flattened himself on the post too.
“Quite the dancer, aren’t we?”
The man mumbled, leaving. The voice belonged to the Grand Duke. Jean stayed behind and waited for a little before following the duke’s footsteps out to the terrace. As Jean opened the door that led outside, he felt someone fluidly blocking his way.
“’Tis cold. Winter is getting harsher and harsher.”
The Grand Duke murmured without taking off his mask. Neither did Jean remove his bauta.
“’Tis enough to freeze the river, my lord.”
“How many should I allot, how many should I keep, and how many should I send?”
“Allot about two, keep about four, and send the rest.”
“And the excuse for sending the soldiers to the outskirts?”
“’Tis a time of hardships. No one would raise suspicion should you say that it was to protect the border from foreign invaders.”
“How many could you feed, and from when?”
“As many as you wish, as soon as you wish.”
“And what do you wish in return?”
The wideness of the lower half of Jean’s mask let the cold wintry wind freeze his face. However, not enough to hinder him from chuckling.
“Allow me to inform you at a later time, my lord. Should I speak of my wish now and here, you would honor it, but I would gain naught more than that.”
The Grand Duke’s cane rapped the rail of the terrace. He turned to face Jean, but because of the mask, Jean could only see his eyes.
“After the deed is done, might you be inclined to work for me?”
Jean saw the lips smiling under the mask. The duke continued.
“Needless to say, you have my word that the job would not require you to lie in bed.”
Jean tucked his chin in and simply put on an ambiguous smile. He told the duke that he would send a word later through his clandestine messenger. Upon hearing Jean, the duke left ahead. Soon, one of those standing outside approached Jean and handed him a small piece of paper. Jean saw what appeared to be the number of soldiers and provisions required written on it. He folded it and put it inside his sleeve.
When Jean stepped back into the hall, the Grand Duke was nowhere to be seen. The ball used thirty-five of all the halls available for banquets and events. The duke must have moved to a distant one. And it was a fortunate affair for Jean. He began moving slowly. The sound of music played grew loud and small with distance.
He moved from one hall to another, meeting others who were in bauta. Jean clinked his new glass of champagne with them. He would deepen his voice and make a remark, “I see you have donned a bauta,” and everyone would return him his friendly demeanor. It was when he had taken a few steps more that he was found by the one he was looking for. When their glasses clinked, the person greeted Jean as if in a whisper.
“’Tis a handsome bauta.”
There was no way for Jean to know who the speaker was, for the voice had been deepened. Jean could only discern that the voice belonged to a woman.
“And to whom does the bauta belong?” The lady continued to ask, her manner clandestine.
It was a question Jean had been waiting for. He lowered himself a bit to her level. She was shorter than Jean, and she was wearing a triangular hat. Jean responded.
“Bauta has always belonged to the people. How have you fared, Chantelle?”
Instead of responding, Chantelle emptied her glass. They began walking, mingling among the crowd of people, talking in a hushed voice.
“Nathan seeks the latest news. And if you have acquired the approximate number.”
“I am the one seeking the latest news on Nathan’s business.”
Jean responded as he handed Chantelle his glass, which still had some champagne in it. He did not forget to also hand a small piece of note with the glass, concealed. Chantelle took the glass and walked lazily. She then finished the remaining champagne, put down the glass, and hid the note in her sleeve. She briefed Jean on what had been happening.
“Nathan made a new friend,” Chantelle began.
We have a new member in our cause.
“He suggests we all go out on a picnic when the weather becomes more forgiving. But we couldn’t decide on the right time,” she continued.
And we haven’t set the date yet.
Jean listened, before making an answer with a smile on his face.
“I shall be the one to tell when the day is right. You only have to prepare the right attire.”
Chantelle stopped at Jean’s words. The two masks faced each other. They found themselves to have walked into a place sparsely occupied. It was the last of the hall disclosed for the ball. Chantelle whispered quickly.
“I’ve been told of your suggestion to fund the church,” she spoke.
Jean squirmed his eyebrows at the sudden change of the subject. Only, they weren’t visible behind his mask.
“The opinions differ. Nathan seemed angered, but... I’m for it. Let me know should you need any help,” Chantelle added.
“Your knight would not like it.”
Chantelle laughed. It was a boisterous laughter.
“Surely, you do not believe that I would pay heed to his nags?”
The lady retorted, and Jean did not make an answer but simply touched his chin. Chantelle Francis had numerous differing opinions from those of her lover, and she was not one to alter her mind merely to please another. She took a look around her surroundings before shrugging.
“Nathan is a gifted knight, but he had met many an obstacle from his birth status. ’Tis likely why he dreams of a world where capability and hard work are esteemed with high regard. However, he is also someone who believes that those who lack capability deserve the circumstances they find themselves in, attributing much to the individual. This belief is also the reason he sees this as an unwarranted gold wasted on others.”
“Your tongue is brutal.”
“Oi, I’m his lover, not a follower. I love him, but that does not mean I must always agree with him.”
Chantelle added briefly. Jean could see her eyes roaming here and there through the eyeholes of her mask. She seemed to be hesitant to speak something in her mind.
“...But it took me by surprise that it was you who had made the suggestion,” Chantelle spoke in a soft tone, “I deemed it a proposal that you in your usual self would not make.”
Jean himself had to stop at that remark. His thoughts were consumed by the countenance of Maximillian, gazing out through the window. Back then, Jean had deluded himself into believing that Maximillian was not the origin of his intentions. Yet, upon reflection, he perceived that even then he had been heeding the prince’s words, as if his very instincts had intuited the truth.
Jean recalled Maximillian mocking him for being a dog. Jean smirked, for should the prince be right, then Jean, indeed, was a dog who sniffed his owner’s scent well. It was not a fault. Jean searched the surroundings for the presence of others. There seemed to be no one paying attention this way. Jean poured his words out quickly.
“I wish to speak to our friends. ’Tis of significance.”
Chantelle’s bauta was faced upward to look at him. The mask that was void of all emotions seemed to be lost in thoughts. Soon, she made an answer.
“A week from now, the pub shall be vacant.”
Then, she walked past Jean as if she were a passerby in a brief exchange with him. The day the pub was vacant meant that it was the day when the key members of the revolutionaries gathered in Cornell’s pub. A week... Jean looked outside. He found the gray moon hanging against the young night. He had accomplished the task of entertaining the two people who had sent him letters earlier in the day. It was finally time for Jean to enjoy the ball himself.