Jean brushed his hand across his mouth, from which a subdued sigh escaped. He felt as though someone had yanked him out of a daydream, so much so that his reality these days even felt surreal. He proceeded to rub his eyes as though washing his face. He pressed his eyes with his palms, but no matter what he did, he could not get rid of the otherworldly sensation. And with each occurrence of such a sensation, a visage seemed to haunt his every step.
“I did not mean to fault you, my lord. I understand that it could be confounding. And the conviction in the tone you spoke to me in foretold me that regardless of how events unfolded, you would not be at ease. Merely—”
Cornell spoke calmly before pausing briefly. It seemed that he was about to speak of a cautious matter. Finally, he asked his question.
“—I wondered if you do not find Lady Baden to your liking. Does she not align with the person you have been envisioning?”
“...’Tis naught of the sort, I assure you.”
Jean moaned his answer. It was a ridiculous claim, but he could not accuse Cornell of being unjust in thinking so. Jean was well aware that it was his demeanor that was causing trouble. Had Ariel herself not been shrewd enough to point that out?
“She is an excellent person. To be the Little Pearl was in itself sufficient to attest to one’s excellence, by virtue of that identity alone, yet Lady Ariel surpasses all expectations. I am aware of it, and I hold her in the highest esteem. Whether I hold her in affection or not is of no consequence. How could I dare... She deserves far better.”
“You could have reckoned the person you admired before her was of superior character.”
Cornell was being careful and hesitant, but it was a matter he needed to make clear of, no matter how preposterous Jean found it. Jean couldn’t stop himself from scoffing.
“Of superior character?”
Jean did not intend it, but he spoke in a mocking tone as though anger had conquered his system.
“Who? That lecherous libertine? The mad Crown Prince who holds no interest not only for the fate of the empire but even for his own honor and reputation?”
“...”
“Cornell, I admit that I am finding it difficult to adjust to the presence of Lady Ariel. But do not dare make a comparison of her to that man, for he is—”
Jean’s words failed to continue, however. All he could do was lick his lips, lacking the vocabulary to criticize the man. Instead, what came to his mind was Maximillian’s face under the sun. A deranged man—Jean spat the words inwardly, though they were aimed not at Maximillian but at himself, this time. Even in his situation, he thought of the prince’s face, and for that, he perceived himself as deranged.
“Forgive me if I have offended you with my words, sir.”
Jean knew it was no fault of Cornell, yet he could not bring himself to say so.
“I merely feared that your wavering heart might hinder your duty to the cause, jeopardizing the deed. I ask that you not be so vexed, my lord.”
“...Nothing like that would happen. I am simply a little angered by my own self.”
“I understand. Then I shall hold my tongue regarding the matter for now, Lord Jean. It might bring confusion to Wickham, Chantelle, and to our other brethren.”
Thank you, Jean responded, his tone akin to a groan. Cornell simply shrugged, then gathered his possessions. He spoke before he left.
“The pub shall be open come the morrow.”
It referred to the gathering of their brethren. Jean nodded. He had not been able to attend the one prior, even after telling Chantelle ahead that there was a matter he would like to discuss with her. It was because he had traveled to meet Ariel. Cornell, having conveyed his message, left Jean behind. He continued to grow farther away, and soon, the distance rendered him invisible. His duty as an informant seemed to have made him proficient in concealing himself. Jean returned to the chamber and collapsed on the chair. His head ached.
Jean was in dire need of a draught of alcohol. Such had been his condition of late, inscrutable emotion searing his heart to cinders. Even as he led the Grand Duke Robert deeper and deeper into the trap, he could not seem to compose himself. Even as he was with Lady Ariel, he failed to still his uneasy heart. And it was not solely because of emptiness, embarrassment, and shame. It was a feeling rooted deeper inside him, consuming him. Jean rubbed his face with his hand, frustrated. He found himself unfathomable.
If Maximillian was not the Little Pearl, then that was simply all there was to it. Did Jean not acknowledge it himself that the speculation lacked substantial evidence? Was it not an idea he entertained at first for the smallest possibility? Therefore, it was only proper that he put it out of his mind. However, strangely, the speculation kept its hold on Jean, swaying his mind. An utterly irrational feeling of betrayal kept arising in him. He resented the Maximillian who was not his Petite Perle. Why is it not you? Jean stifled the inquiry incessantly arising in his mind. He felt helpless, for all he could do was remind himself again, and again, of the wretchedness and debauchery of the prince.
And with every reminder, Jean was revisited by the memory of Maximillian, inviting him for occasional tea, seemingly mocking him. Above the face shaded under the shadow, apathy appeared repeatedly, akin to musical notes after a repeat sign.
‘Throughout the entire day, all I have wondered was when you would find me.’
And always, the face would be accompanied by Maximillian’s voice, murmuring as though he was enchanted.
‘I was so entirely consumed with the thought that it was piteous.’
That voice, which seemed like a confession of love, was laid above the visage again and again, so very often and so very vividly that it scared Jean.