“Wait for me here.”
Jean said as he seated the prince upon the stairs with great care. He had placed his frock coat beneath Maximillian, anxious lest even the smallest mote of dust should alight upon him. Maximillian nodded, tame, which was unlike him. The prince had been particularly subdued and docile since they had left the Erhardt residence—no, since they had exited the groom’s quarter. Whether it was weariness from their earlier indulgence in pleasure or the mask once more veiling his visage, Jean could not discern. Whichever was the cause, it was to Jean’s advantage. He turned on the spot and knocked on the door. It was the door to Cornell’s pub, upon which hung a sign announcing its closure.
“...Cornell.”
Jean called out with caution and softness, and soon, the door opened. As it did, he noticed the chain latch inside pulled taut. A familiar face appeared at the same time.
“Lord Jean.”
The man uttered his name in surprise. Jean then traced Cornell’s gaze, which had landed on the spot where Maximillian was sitting.
“What... What is this...”
“Could you open the door for a moment? I have a favor to ask of you.”
Jean whispered, pressing his body close against the door. Cornell’s eyes quivered in apprehension, for he had come to recognize the man behind Jean. Jean’s mouth felt dry. He shifted his stance to conceal Maximillian from Cornell’s sight. And when he called the man’s name again, Cornell finally looked at Jean. He closed and opened his eyes in slow, deliberate blinks. Then, he unlatched the chain on the door, with seeming determination. The door creaked open.
“Step inside first. And as for the gentleman behind... if you’d be so kind, please wait for a moment.”
Jean nodded, and when he turned, he saw Maximillian, whose eyes were partially closed. He seemed fatigued. His mask was in his hand. Jean lowered his body to speak to the prince.
“Stay, please. I shall return quickly.”
At Jean’s words, Maximillian lifted his face, tilting it to the side. Jean kissed the bridge of his nose, his lips leaving a delicate smacking sound. He also kissed the forehead, and only then did the strange trepidation in his chest begin to calm. Jean turned around and entered Cornell’s pub.
It was empty inside. Cornell must be ridding all trace, for the tables and chairs that had graced the hall but a few days ago have now vanished entirely. Jean took off his hat, and in no time, Cornell had placed himself behind the bar. When their eyes met, the barman glared at Jean. It was Jean’s burden to carry. Jean took a step forward. That was when he heard a gun cocked.
“...”
Jean raised both his hands in the air. Cornell, with a gun in his hand, stepped out of the bar. His eyes bore an unfamiliar intensity, their gaze fierce.
“That man outside—”
Cornell gestured at the door with his chin. Jean waited patiently for him to continue.
“—is he who I think he is?”
The gun was pointed not at Jean but at the door. Instead of answering, Jean moved a little toward the door, placing himself between it and the gun. Cornell huffed out an empty laugh. Jean spoke urgently.
“There is no need for you to do this. He does not know anything.”
“Do you expect me to believe that? When you have brought the man to this place?”
“Cornell, I give you my word. I have said naught to him. I have not informed him of anything, and I shall not. I merely need your help.”
It was true. A little help. That was all Jean needed. It was why he had come to Cornell, despite knowing that Cornell might not be so willing to provide aid. It was why he had come here, despite knowing that this might be a perilous decision. Cornell kept silent. Jean bit his lip before letting it go.
“Lead him eastward, unscathed and intact. I desire naught else. I shall bear the weight of all consequences.”
“Listen to yourself! Speak reason, sir! Where do you plot to grant the man sanctuary? Have you not heard the bells toll? All shall be resolved come the morn... ‘Tis the day of your betrothal, what have you done, Jean. What have you... Does Lady Ariel know of this?”
Ariel. The name pricked Jean in the throat like a thorn, hindering his speech. Jean failed to make an answer, and his failure seemed to have given Cornell the answer he was seeking. Cornell lowered his gun, his face filled with desolation.
“How could you do this?” asked Cornell. “How could you do this to your brethren, whom you have been with years, and to your patron, who has aided you for ten years? You cannot—you shall not do this to us,” Cornell continued, his voice filled with desperation.
“...I am aware.”
Jean slowly responded. His mouth was parched. His hand trembled as he ran it over his cheek and mouth. I am aware, Jean repeated his own words, which Cornell was quick to refute.
“If you are, then return things to how they were! Bring the man back to the Royal Palace, for everyone is surely in pursuit of him. You, of all people, should know that his absence tonight would suffice to jeopardize our entire endeavor.”
Cornell’s tone turned more and more into a pleading one. Jean stood still. Jean, Cornell called upon him, as though begging him.
“...I cannot, Cornell.”
Jean made an answer long after. Let the thorn tear at his throat, for this was an answer he had to bring forth.
“It is not he whom you harbored in your heart, my lord. ’Twas a mere misunderstanding. He was not the one. And you have found the true one, have you not?”
“...”
“...Lord Jean.”
Had Cornell heard the response in Jean’s silence? His tone was akin to that of a lament. Lord Jean! Cornell cried out again.
“You are not in your right mind. You have merely been bewitched, entranced.”
“You are right.”
He was right. Jean himself had held the same opinion for a long time now, and it made no difference that the statement was voiced aloud by his brother in cause. Jean failed to stop himself from laughing. He felt void, and vain.
“I have lost my mind.”
“...”
“I have instructed my steward to send a message to the palace should I fail to return on time. I had written it ahead before I left.”
Cornell briefly frowned at Jean’s words. He seemed to have failed to understand the meaning right away. Jean waited patiently, until Cornell’s eyes widened and quivered. Jean must fake nonchalance and confidence. He had no wish to resort to this method, but he was left with no choice.
“Are you betraying your brethren?”
Cornell asked. The words were oh so bitter to Jean. Instead of rendering a direct response, he equivocated.
“Perhaps.”
“...You are mad.”
“...”
“You are an utter madman.”
Jean did not refute the accusation, for he himself believed so. He had no wish, nor any desire, to make excuses for himself. In the story of posterity, he would be written as a filthy traitor—and thus did he willingly burden himself.
“Tonight. He shall depart eastward. We shall make a brief call at the royal palace to collect his garments. I will ensure that all see he was present in the palace before he embarks on his journey.”
Jean slowly spoke of his plan. Cornell was now dispirited, disheartened. He merely stood, his face filled with emptiness. The gun fell to the ground, sliding while making a loud noise. Cornell was staring at Jean, his gaze denying belief. Abhorrence, surprise, distrust... The eyes were a concoction of many an emotion. Jean strove to press on with his speech.
“I have arranged for three mercenaries to accompany him for protection. Join them and obliterate any trace of your passage on the route you choose. I shall remain here and partake in the deed on the morrow.”
“The deed shall suffer, and it shall be entirely owing to you.”
Jean was aware of it. The revolutionists would be left without any justification. Their rationale for fighting against Grand Duke Robert Joachim, who had slain both the emperor and the prince, would vanish without a trace, and it was not difficult to foresee what the nobles and the neighboring nations of kingdom and empires would refer to them. Outlaws. Nothing more, nothing less. And that name would take far more lives, far more sacrifices than now.
“Right.”
Jean responded, his demeanor composed. Cornell jerked his head, looking up at Jean.
“Do you not see the sin you are committing?”
Jean saw the man’s chin tremble as he spoke. He made a short answer.
“Aye.”
Jean saw his own sin clearer than anyone. Perchance, Cornell might permit Maximillian to depart from hence, but not Jean, on the morrow following the deed. Should there be punishment for a man who betrayed the people of his cause and their trust, Jean shall receive it, Jean thought to himself. After having been intimate with Maximillian, everything became clear to him. Clarity began to dawn upon Jean in a manner he had not foreseen. He feared naught, and felt neither confusion nor despair as he had previously.
“I shall fall in the pits of hell.”
When he mumbled these words, his eyes met with Cornell’s. They were different from earlier. They had calmed down, observant. It presented a challenge for Jean to read any emotions in them. Jean did not avoid the gaze. He faced it straight and stared back at the man. Soon, Cornell lowered his body seemingly into a bow. Only when Jean had heard the sound of a shot did he realize that Cornell had pulled the trigger. The bottle of wine above the shelf had been shattered into pieces.