Maximillian was nowhere to be found. Jean would identify pointed ears in the crowd of people. He would approach them, but most of them were masks of a cat. As the most highly esteemed person in attendance, wherever he was, he would be surrounded by people. However, even in the gatherings of people, the prince was absent. Jean had been held behind to dance several times. The repetition of circular motion was now giving him nausea.
Jean leaned against a pillar. People in masks exhibited a jovial demeanor, engaging in lively revelry. He also spotted some who had abandoned their civility at their excitement. Champagne was served endlessly, flowers were replaced immediately with the slightest sign of wilting, and food rolled on the ground. When a dress of splendid color adorned with shimmering stones swept the floor of the Royal Palace, someone would come and wipe after the trail. They were the ones who eyed the fallen food with desire, the ones who had quashed the protest of their hunger with a single piece of bread.
The air was occasionally chilly. Yet, the dispersed heating stoves, hearths in every hall, and the combined warmth of the gathered throng all came together to heat the premises. The only ones shuddering from the chill were the servants, posted at the edge of each hall, warding off the cold with their own persons. In their face hung a look of exhaustion that could not be hidden despite their forced smiles. Jean handed his coat to the one standing closest to the entrance of the Royal Palace. He wanted to tell the servant to use the coat to shield himself from the frost, but Jean knew that an action as such would be deemed too strange.
“Pray, have you knowledge of the whereabouts of the Crown Prince?”
Instead of showing kindness, Jean inquired a question to the servant. The servant shook his head. All he said was that the prince disappeared alone after conversing with the attendants of the ball earlier. Disappeared alone. It was very much like him to do so. Jean was suddenly struck by the thought that the prince was someone who would be in his chamber, painting rather than enjoying a ball.
It was when he was moving toward the palace of the prince that he found himself looking somewhere. He saw a person standing diagonally by a pillar from where he was. The person had a larval mask that covered only the eyes. There was a hand over the mouth as well, making it nearly impossible to discern the face. The hair was concealed beneath a hat. However, strangely, the person kept attracting Jean’s attention.
His neck was held high, and so was his gaze, observing the banquet hall. His chin was slightly lowered, yet his eyes were gazing into the far distance. He appeared engaged in contemplation, deep in thought. What he appeared not to engage in were the festivities of the ball or the enjoyment of the music. He must not be someone of fame, for there was no one in his surroundings.
Jean studied him. As he did, he thought to himself that the man stood as tall as Maximillian. His unwavering stance was also akin to that of the prince. That was all Jean thought as he walked toward the stranger as though bewitched. His movement was soft, but with every motion, his cloak billowed, causing the fabric to wrap and unwrap around his legs. The stranger looked at Jean’s way. He then looked away as if avoiding Jean’s gaze. At the same time, Jean smelled a familiar scent, vanishing his woes at once. Jean couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. The stranger was slowly facing away from him, a mischievous jest. Jean approached the stranger. Once was enough to fail to recognize who he was. Jean would not repeat the same mistake twice.
Perhaps the stranger intended to feign ignorance, for he did not turn to face Jean. He stared ahead and far, sparing no glance for the young lord. Jean cleared his throat deliberately. That was when the stranger slightly turned his body. Jean did not miss his opportunity. He embraced the man. The stranger flinched from the contact. Is he bothered by the stares of others? Jean pulled the fabric of his cloak to hide himself and the stranger in his arms.
“Maximin.”
Jean contemplated how to address the stranger. It was his first time speaking of this particular name. Alas, his Crown Prince seemed to be striving to hide his identity from others. Jean chuckled in a low tone.
“Did you truly believe I would not recognize you?”
There came no answer. Jean saw the lips, slightly ajar. He blinked. He remembered his own bauta, which he had entirely forgotten about. He also recalled that he had not informed Maximillian of the kind of disguise he would don himself. Jean spoke in haste.
“Your Grace, ’tis I, Jean—”
“I am aware.”
When Jean was about to say Erhardt, Maximillian stopped his words. There was a sly smile on his lips.
“My catamite.”
The prince whispered, touching his lips to the tip of Jean’s nose. Jean glanced behind him. He sensed no lingering gaze, but still, the place was crowded. He took Maximillian’s hand with caution. Maximillian did not resist.
The two were quick to pass through the banquet hall. Maximillian did not inquire about their destination, and neither did Jean know where they were headed. He simply wanted to see Maximillian’s face, which was behind the larval disguise. The ball music continued to play. The two walked and ran according to the rhythm, passing by all the halls and chambers disclosed for the guests. Their feet were as light as feathers.