Act IV
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The sunlight was shattering, shimmering. Jean woke up, his mind still dazed from his slumber. As his vision gained clarity, he could see the ray of light crashing against the window, broken down into fragments as it entered the chamber. A familiar easel stood under the brightness. Jean moved his gaze slowly, locating the man he was looking for. The prince was painting before the stand.
Jean found himself smiling. He cupped his chin and observed Maximillian. As though engrossed in the meticulous labor of his craft, Maximillian positioned himself directly before the canvas, diligently occupied with the delicate maneuvering of his pencil. He seemed oblivious to Jean’s waking presence. Jean cleared his throat in a light manner, and only then did Maximillian look his way. Their eyes met, but the prince was the first to disengage, turning his gaze elsewhere. A subtle smile clung to his lips. He cast a brief look at the painting before covering it with a fabric.
“I have finished my sketch, the groundwork for the painting.”
Maximillian announced with satisfaction, grinning. Jean pulled the duvet away from his body, revealing his bare person.
“I must still paint over it to be certain, but at present, I am much pleased with it.”
Jean heard a tune—the prince was humming. Jean reached out his arms toward the man and waited for him to fall into them.
And Maximillian, as though fulfilling the expectation, approached the bed. His person fell into Jean’s arms, and Jean kissed the prince’s jaw. Jean was about to tell his prince that it was lovely to know.
“I appreciate the service you’ve devoted. You possess a knack for providing delightful company.”
While stroking Jean’s cheek, Maximillian spoke. The words sounded quite ambiguous. Jean blinked, his face remaining nestled against the prince’s chest. As Jean’s gaze rose, Maximillian gently grasped his chin and lifted it. He kissed the tip of Jean’s nose, making a smacking noise as he continued speaking.
“I shall have your carriage readied.”
The tone was sweet and tender, but the message was not. Jean, dazed, reflected on the words he had just heard. Meanwhile, Maximillian, done with his kisses, went over to open the windows himself. The wind pushed its way in. His red locks swayed and floated in the air, the movement of its strands so very vivid. So was the movement of the fabric falling on the easel.
“...Maximin.”
Jean was only able to speak after a long while. His body felt oddly cold. He saw Maximin turning to face him.
“I do not understand what you—” Jean attempted to continue.
The prince blinked. His complexion was clear, and an expression had descended upon his countenance. At that moment, Jean was reminded of the spiteful words that Matt Grisham had spat through his teeth. His pulse beat ominously.
“Ah,” Maximillian, holding the curtain, put on a soft smile. The sunlight was pouring above his head as he spoke.
“What I mean to say is that I have no further need for your services, Lord Erhardt,” the prince further spoke.
“...”
“Surely, this news brings you great joy?”
Nay, it did not—Jean couldn’t make an answer to the words he had not anticipated to hear. He merely sat, blank and dazed. He felt as though he had been drenched in icy water. Jean rubbed his own cheek, questioning if he was still ensnared in a dream.
“What...”
It was a miracle that he was able to part his lips. Words did not come to him easily, however. He gaped for a long while, opening and closing his mouth, at a loss for words.
“Your words confound me...”
His voice was hoarse. He could feel Maximillian’s innocent gaze land upon him. The prince squirmed his eyebrows.
“What troubles you?”
He took the question that Jean desired to ask, inquiring in a tone of sincere curiosity. Then, the prince added, looking out the window.
“Your carriage awaits. Dress yourself, Erhardt.”
The prince spoke in his usual tone. He did not seem to be concealing any emotions, nor did he seem to be jesting. When Jean failed to move, the prince himself brought Jean’s garment to him. Jean attempted to compose himself, fastening his buttons one by one. In the meantime, Maximillian had tasked a servant with removing the canvas, and a new one was being placed on his easel. His humming penetrated Jean’s blank mind. It was as cheerful and jovial as a bird’s chirping.
“...A moment, Maximin.”
Perhaps, owing to the tune, Jean was awakened from his bewitched and bewildered state, one that was akin to being swept by the waves.
“I find it difficult to understand the meaning behind the words, Your Grace.”
Jean spoke after quickly dressing himself. Maximillian was touching the new canvas as though he was assessing its quality. He made a slight frown on his brows, seemingly wondering what the trouble was.
“Have you forgotten? I sought your service as a muse for my painting. I have completed the foundation for my work. Hence, your service is no longer sought,” the prince spoke.
“I do not believe it is a matter complex enough to require an explanation,” Maximillian added. Empty laughter bubbled up in Jean, and without his knowledge, his eyebrows shot upward.
“Maximin, pray, what do you mean?”
Was the bond between you and I naught but that of a painter and his muse? The words nearly escaped Jean, but they sank back in him before they could. Perhaps Jean’s words were drowned by Maximillian’s icy and aloof demeanor, a demeanor that scarcely befitted a lover who had, but the eve prior, bestowed tender kisses and made love so sweetly unto him.
“...Have I erred you, Your Grace?”
After keeping silent for a long while, Jean inquired. His hands were trembling.
“Nonsense. You have been an excellent muse. A model far more beautiful than any other being.”
“Then... Then, what are you proposing, Your Grace? Should my presence at the palace no longer be required...”
Jean found himself unable to prevent his words from faltering. The words Maximillian spoke to him carried a tone akin to a final dismissal. Jean was overcome with the omen that this was no simple announcement of the completion of a task. His lips quivered.
“Well...” the prince started.
How could the prince be so unconcerned?
“Yesterday eve, I took notice of the striking countenance of the Count de Palatine. Should nothing peculiar happen, I believe I shall select him as my next muse and endeavor to capture his essence upon my canvas.”
How could the prince speak as though there was nothing that bound the two of them together but for the business of painting?
Maximillian’s words cut through Jean’s heart with such clarity that they rendered his ability to hear a cruel misfortune.
‘I wonder when your... painting will be finished, my lord.’
Jean heard Grisham’s words, which he had laughed at back then. The voice seemed to mock him.
‘Jean.’
Jean wondered if the man before him was the same man who called out his name last night.
‘My Montespan.’
Was he truly Jean’s Crown Prince, the one who had whispered to him last night? Nay, most of all...