“Wait, I do not understand the matter you are speaking of, Lord Jean. Are you claiming—” Cornell began, looking sour.
“I desire to aid him in flight.”
Jean interjected Cornell. Cornell’s jaw dropped a little, and a clear look of shock settled on his face. Jean gulped before launching back into what he was saying.
“I know it is a challenging task. I would not ask for anything more from you. I seek to leave before the day of the deed. I shall harm no one, and I shall speak naught about the plan. I swear this to you. However, you must help me convince him. Help me just a little.”
He keeps denying his true identity—Jean continued in a tone akin to a moan, concluding his confession, honest and sincere. From this point onward, the judgment to follow was Cornell’s. Should he ignore this plea of Jean and confer with their brethren concerning the identity of la Petite Perle and the manner of addressing him, then Jean would be compelled to handle his former comrades with a measure equally fitting. In his head, Jean was already pondering about weapons he could use in lieu of his gun, which he had given to Maximillian. His nerves, frayed as never before, conjured various scenarios within his mind.
“Lord Jean.”
A moment later, Cornell spoke his name in a low tone.
“You ought to calm down first a little. And... Some corrections seem to be in order. Firstly, the one you have been seeking is no ‘he.’”
Cornell spoke in a much composed and clear manner. As if he was apprehensive Jean might lose his temper, Cornell gripped onto one of Jean’s wrists. The hold was stronger and firmer than that of some knights, and it helped Jean calm down. However, at the same time, he was confounded. Not a ‘he?’
“She is the eldest daughter of the Marquess of Baden of the southern border, Lady Ariel Baden.”
Jean blinked, and Cornell further explained himself while meeting those blinking eyes.
“When I spoke of trouble earlier, I was referring to the distance to the marquess’s estate. ’Tis quite far, my lord, which would hinder you from paying a call in ease.”
Cornell’s voice echoed in the small pub, his face still full of confusion. With whom have you mistaken her? His voice crossed Jean’s ear like a dream. Jean could not say anything. The eldest daughter of a marquess. Lady Ariel Baden... Jean had not anticipated to hear it, not even a little.
“...Proof.”
Jean stayed silent, unable to speak, for a long time. Ten minutes had passed before he was able to say the word. His voice sounded ugly even to his own ear.
“Do you have... proof?”
Jean could hear the ghost of Maximillian’s laughter. Jean gripped his empty glass. His hands were shaking, incomparably much more than they had been prior.
“The gemologist informed me of the origin of the pearls and gems you had entrusted me with. Lady Chantelle was right—he was very capable. And among the noble houses that have bought the precious stones, I narrowed them down to those likely to have seen you in the academy. Above all, Lady Ariel responded to the letter I had sent as the final step toward affirmation.”
Cornell let Jean be by himself briefly, coming and going to his room, which was adjoined to the pub. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand upon his return. It was a yellow, aged piece.
Allow me to offer you clothing as a gift upon our meeting. I shall adorn it with pearls and gems you have bestowed upon me. Nay, what if I were to build you a mansion? Although, I am uncertain if it would be to your liking... In any event, all I ask is that you do not reckon these as empty promises of a young fool.
The letter that was written in an untidy handwriting continued. Jean could spot errors in the grammar here and there. The letter was filled with promises and offers, and the tone was surprisingly awkward. However, the passion and excitement were left in writing very vividly, as though the yellowed piece of paper had nestled the young Jean’s anticipation in its embrace.
I so dearly wish to meet you.
The sentence was the end of the letter that continued for long. It was an ambiguous way to conclude a correspondence, but Jean knew better than anyone why it had come to such an abrupt end—he simply had nothing more to say. He wrote such a sentence, for that was his oldest and only wish.
He knew nothing about his patron—not the name, the face, or the voice. He could only thank the person so many times for the generosity. It was why he had filled his letters with what he would do, with what he aspired to do for his patron. He wrote them when he had naught, he wrote them when he had much. And for so long, he had wished for but one thing.
“...”
Yet, how was it that he felt so utterly miserable in the here and now?
“...Did you write the letter yourself, my lord?”
Jean was dowsed in misery despite his imminent prospect of meeting his patron.
Jean parted his lips to speak. It was a simple affair, for he merely needed to confirm Cornell’s inquiry. However, Jean could not bring himself to speak. The face with a particularly fair complexion and delicate lines kept lingering before his eyes. It had that smile on it, the one that Jean had seen at the end of that dark tunnel.
The sensation that overtook him back then, was it a harmful poison he should have abstained from? Jean thought to himself, dazed.
“...I must travel to the southern border.”
Only after a long while did Jean manage to make an answer. His hands had stopped trembling, but his usual countenance was yet to return. Maximillian’s mocking voice and his whispers in bed all came together into one, humming around Jean’s ear. Jean had to grab onto the corner of the table. His world was shaking, as if it were to crumble down at any moment.