Cornell’s pub was open. Jean could spot men here and there, drinking beer, but they were not his brethren. Jean strode to the front of the bar. Cornell, who had been pouring a drink into a glass, looked at him, wide-eyed. Jean sat down across from him, saying naught. He could feel Cornell’s gaze briefly land on him before moving away. Jean called for a glass of whiskey. The potent liquor tasted most bitter upon his palate.
Time passed, and the patrons of the pub made their exit one by one. Jean had to wait for a long time—albeit a shorter span than he had anticipated—before he found himself alone with Cornell. It proved to be worth his efforts to have troubled himself to come to the pub at this unholy hour, with his noisy heart that wouldn’t be silenced. Jean pushed aside the glass he had emptied in the meantime. Having finished closing the shop, Cornell turned to look at Jean only after he had draped the curtains in the windows.
“You have shocked me out of my wits, my lord. What has brought you here without any prior notice?”
Cornell inquired, shaking the moisture from his damp hands. Jean wiped the whiskey on his lips with the back of his hand. He was sitting in an upright posture. He threw a glance at the closed door. Then, he got to his feet to yank it open. It was a way to confirm that there was no one listening. There was no particular issue, yet Cornell clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
“You strode in here without any inhibition for someone who embodies vigilance, my lord. It was foolish, a feat quite unlike yours. Has a trouble of magnitude happened?”
Cornell asked, taking a seat next to Jean. Jean sighed. He was aware that he had been rash and foolish to have come to the pub. He felt like an imbecile for hastening to the establishment. Jean shook his head and rubbed both his cheeks with his hands.
“Anyway... ’tis most favorable that you are here, for I have a matter I wish to convey to you as well, my lord.”
While Jean was lost for words, Cornell initiated the conversation. He looked at Jean squarely in the eyes. A matter to convey... Jean sighed at Cornell’s announcement. He was eager to arrive at the pub, but now that he was looking into the face of his friend, he did not know where to start. He pressed his temples; they throbbed. His head was aching.
“Would you like me to speak first? It is an auspicious tale, at the very least.”
Cornell, who had both hands covering his mouth, asked. He must have surmised from Jean’s demeanor that he did not bring good tidings. Jean nodded. His heart was not ready yet to speak of what he had to. His tale would be lengthy, and if Cornell were to say that he had lost track of the Little Pearl, Jean would find himself even more convinced. There was also the gemologist whom Chantelle had introduced. Jean had been anticipating the fruition of that introduction, yet he also had to prepare himself for unforeseen possibilities. Jean calmed himself with these thoughts. That was, until right before he heard what Cornell had to say.
“I have found the one whom you have sought even in your dreams,” Cornell began, pausing before adding the following words, “there is a slight problem, however.”
Jean almost did not hear the second sentence. He had leaped from the frying pan only to find himself in the midst of the flames. The subject Jean had been meaning to postpone was brought right before him on a silver platter. He felt ensnared in a corner. He saw Cornell gauging his face, seeking to know Jean’s mood. The gaze seemed to urge Jean into a confession. And as if found guilty by the gaze, Jean’s one brow was slanted downward, his countenance full of troubles. Silence reigned for a moment. And when Cornell’s lips moved as if to say something, Jean interrupted him.
“Wait, who else knows about this business?”
Jean first inquired. Cornell seemed to be taken aback.
“Cornell, pray, who else but you knows the identity of the Little Pearl?”
“’Tis only I, for the time being, my lord. I deemed it prudent to inform you first before any others, hence why I have withheld the information...”
A silver lining for Jean. His hands shook lightly. He asked for another glass of whiskey. As the liquor went down, his throat felt like it was torched by fire. The heat resided only for a moment, but it conjured such courage in Jean that it almost seemed like an illusion.
“...Forgive me for stopping your speech, but I must interject before you continue.”
In such a predicament, their brethren would not deem Maximillian an ally. Especially when Maximillian himself was denying the truth. Hence, Jean decided it would be for the best to confide the truth in Cornell first, then seek his promise to keep it a secret. Whilst a revelation ostracized a person, a confession embraced him.
Jean began speaking, his words flowing fast. “I am aware of who he is. I have come across the truth recently by chance—truly, by pure chance. I did not mean to conceal it from you... but it has not been long since I have known it myself. And it seems that he does not wish to disclose his identity either, so I have not been able to convey the matter to you. Nay, if I could be truthful, he is denying the fact himself.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“’Tis also the reason I have come to you today. I am in need of your help, Cornell. He must acknowledge his identity for me to muster a plan, any plan—yet I... could not see how to venture forth from here.”
Jean finished his speech, then observed Cornell, seeking his reaction. Cornell had a strange look on his face. The countenance bespoke neither amity nor enmity, yet to Jean, it seemed to bear an icy demeanor. Should Cornell insist that he abandon Maximillian... At that moment, Jean found himself thinking of his gun. His mouth felt dry.