The servant had prepared Jean’s mask ahead. It was one that only covered his eyes. Jean merely placed it above his face, barely in disguise, and sat on his chair. More people had gathered since the ceremony. The mansion and the garden were now full. Jean’s brethren had joined them, and there were aristocrats who had come only to enjoy the reception of the wedding, which was quite understandable. Jean merely sat in the garden, rolling loose tobacco leaves and smoking. He was not in the mood to partake in the festivity. He was simply waiting for the tidings.
Who shall be the first to stumble upon the corpse of the emperor? Maximillian? Or Montespan? The latter had the higher chance, for it was she who attended to the emperor in his sickness. And it was more likely that the crown prince would be absorbed in his painting even at this hour. He would be absorbed in his art, until the words of death reached him.
“You there, gentleman.”
It was when Jean recalled Maximillian’s face that someone called him. Jean flinched, lifting his gaze. There stood a man in a bauta right before him. Jean removed the cigarette from his lips.
“Would you be so obliging as to lend this lady and myself some tobacco?”
The speaker was holding on to someone in a black oval mask, which was made of velvet. Jean said nothing but simply handed them the loose leaves. The speaker seemed to be glee in his spirits as he took a seat, sitting the person he was holding on to as well. Jean stole a quick glance at them before looking away.
“Now, let us engage in pleasant conversation whilst indulging in our cigarettes. Why, she does not wish to dance. She also does not wish to speak. Not a word.”
The speaker continued to talk, lighting a match stick. He had started smoking, yet his partner did not show any movement. The person was wearing a robe, and the disguise made it challenging to discern whether the individual was a lady or a man from the outset. The speaker merely shrugged when his eyes met with Jean’s. He then cast a sidelong glance at his silent companion, his eyes appearing to scrutinize what he perceived to be a troublemaker. He proceeded to attempt to make a conversation a few more times. However, there came no reaction from the person.
“...Pardon me, but it appears your partner is not disposed to partake in the festivities.”
And it was when the man had finished his cigarette that Jean began speaking. As if in agreement with Jean, the person in the black disguise abruptly raised one’s head. At the gesture, the chatty man muttered what appeared to be curses under his breath before promptly vanishing. He already seemed drunk.
“On an occasion like this, I advise that you be clear about your intention.”
Jean remarked as he tapped the ash into the tray and extinguished his cigarette.
“For no matter how joyous the celebration might be, there will always be those who conceal their baseness behind a disguise.”
The person still did not speak at all. Jean turned around to look at the individual. The black mask the mysterious person had was a moretta, one that was most commonly used by women. The mask was likely the reason why the earlier man had referred to this silent person as a lady. However, upon closer inspection, Jean discerned that the person in moretta was of considerable height, the physique far too robust to be that of a lady. The person was wrapped in a black robe, but the garment failed to wholly conceal the masculinity of the body.
The individual must have sensed the observant gaze, as it was reciprocated with equal intensity, watching Jean. Jean could not see the man’s eyes, but he could tell the observation from the angle. At that moment, strangely, Jean felt his mouth parching. He had even neglected to avert his gaze, merely blinking his eyes instead. The eyes that beheld him were strangely familiar. Searching, and keenly observant. The gaze was as though it caressed Jean in the most tender way. As though—
“...Wait.”
—he would sketch the man before him.
The moment Jean reached out his hand, the man stood up. Jean saw the porcelain hands beneath the robe. The man nodded, then quickly left Jean in an unnatural manner. There was no time for Jean to think. He hurried himself and followed after the man, who also hurried, waving his arms before him as though he was being chased. He moved in such a manner as to compel others to avoid him, rather than he them.
Jean kept himself busily following him. The back of the man’s head kept appearing and disappearing among the crowd. Jean sometimes collided shoulders with others, but he did not feel any pain. Even with his flailing limbs, the man progressed fast away from Jean. He appeared to be making his way beyond the residence. Jean took a look around him. Some cast occasional glances at him, fearing that confusion might reign. They were probably either the revolutionaries or caretakers of the mansion. Jean’s reason knew that he should stop. However, his body refused to cease its progression. It was as though he was bewitched, entranced. As though he had become a slave to opium, one who succumbed to its lure despite knowing it to be poison.
Jean marched on. The man was striding toward the other side of the garden, the perimeter of the residence, where the stable was. Jean knew the quick way to the other side. He pushed his way past people. In the middle of his chase, someone had called out his name.
“Jean?”
He surmised it was Ariel. But it was still not enough to stop his footsteps. He quickly strode across the mansion. Once he reached the rear entrance, the stable would be right before him. There, he would be able to catch the man who was taking the long way.
Jean’s breath gradually turned shorter. And by the time he had reached the rear entrance, his destination, he was even sweating lightly. Without any hesitance, Jean pulled the door open and bolted the lock from the other side. The man was nowhere to be found. Jean’s heart dropped to his feet. Did he not come here? Jean asked himself.
“Ah!”
That was when Jean stopped the man, who had been walking absentmindedly, his head turned as if in search of something behind him. When Jean seized the man’s wrist, he let out a moan in shock. Jean felt as though the man’s exclamation and gasps carried with them a familiar scent, one that of mint. Jean was panting as well, catching his breath. Most fortunately, there was no one present around them.
“...Follow me. Please.”
Jean spoke, his voice deep and low. The man’s mask had fallen a bit lower in the meanwhile.
Jean dragged the man and went into the nearest enclosed space. It was a groom’s quarter, the place where stablehands resided. Thankfully, it was empty. The stablehand of the residence had gone out to assist with tending to the horses and carriages of the guests. He should be at the front entrance, diligently performing his duties. Jean closed the door. He locked it. The small room gave off a moldy smell.
Jean turned to look at the man, who had no time, nor the presence of mind, to fix his mask. The slanted disguise bothered Jean. He took a step closer. The man took a step back. Then, he stumbled over the stablehand’s bed and ended up sitting on it. Jean advanced toward him as though he was herding the man deeper into the bed. He did so until the back of the man’s head hit the wall that the bed was resting upon. Soon, a low moan followed.