Chapter 23

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: An Unsettling Revelation
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But that was all. Though he smiled pleasantly, a constant wariness—a silent ‘What does this man want from me?’—never left my mind.

One of the many lessons my past experiences taught me is that there is no such thing as a “fateful encounter.” This was especially true when the other person was charming enough to bewitch anyone.

In high society, “destiny” was merely a well-orchestrated plan, and “love at first sight” was synonymous with finding a puppet worth using.

Therefore, while I had no choice but to take his hand due to the watchful eyes around us, I never believed that the goodwill Theodore Beatrice showed was all there was to him.

Yet, he revealed nothing until we reached the building with the lady’s room. He maintained a consistent and courteous demeanor, acting as if he had simply met me by chance and was escorting me out of gentlemanly duty.

When he then kissed the back of my hand in farewell, his eyes curved into charming crescents, and I couldn’t look away. It was no wonder that sighs and murmurs erupted from the women standing nearby.

Was that why? I had let my guard down for a moment, complacent in the thought that I would soon part from him and be able to rest in the lady’s room.

And so, I made the foolish mistake of not immediately catching the words he uttered in a near whisper. How stupid of me!

“Ah, come to think of it, the furniture by the artisan named Benjamin Choiseul is truly beautiful. Thanks to you, my eyes have been opened. I applaud your remarkable taste, my lady. Now, please rest well.”

Having said his piece, he turned with an elegant motion and vanished somewhere. Stunned by his sudden, unexpected words, I couldn’t even think to stop him.

Benjamin Choiseul? My eyes have been opened? Benjamin Choiseul?! The Benjamin Choiseul from the Red Bird Workshop? The man who is still virtually unknown?

The furniture maker who would never have come to light if not for Madame de Châteauroux? Wait, what else did he say? “Thanks to you”?

Mulling over his words for a moment, I forgot I was near the lady’s room at the exposition, forgot that countless noblewomen were resting inside, and simply ran. I ran in the direction Theodore Beatrice had disappeared.

The only time I had ever mentioned Benjamin Choiseul was in the letter I sent to Madame de Châteauroux. I had never spoken of him at any other time.

…Was I jumping to conclusions? No. Beatrice was known for his patronage, so one could assume he discovered the artisan by chance, but he had distinctly thrown the words “thanks to you” at me. Which meant…

“Does this mean you read my letter to Châteauroux? But how?”

I stared, dumbfounded, at the street where the man had vanished, now empty of any trace of him. At the same time, I bit my lip, trembling with a fear that seized my entire body.

For him to say such a thing indicated some kind of “intent,” yet I couldn’t begin to fathom his true meaning. Instead, my head spun with uncertain speculations.

Theodore Beatrice, how did you read that letter? And why tell me about it? What are you thinking? What are you planning!

Suddenly, a conversation I’d had with him before came to mind.

‘Are you confessing that you are a dangerous man?’

‘If I am, will you pull your hand away?’

‘No. I’ll pull you closer. I am not afraid of danger. The only things I cast aside are those that offer me no benefit.’

An unexpected future, one my past self had never experienced, was reaching out its dark hand to seize me. No, it was opening its massive jaws to swallow me whole. The horror was so profound it made my mind go blank.

***

“…sse. Cisse!!”

A low voice, tinged with irritation, roused me. My thoughts scattered, and the surrounding scenery began to come into focus.

It sharpened slowly, like light piercing the darkness. In that fleeting moment, as I finally regained my senses, I saw Madame de La Vallière staring at me with a stern expression and swallowed hard.

Oh, heavens! How could I have been so rude?

Something was seriously wrong with me. To lose myself in thought during tea with her… Only a madwoman would commit such a foolish act.

A sharp pain shot down my spine from the tension, and my back was already drenched in a cold sweat.

“You’ve been strange all day, lost in a daze. Are you not feeling well? Still, this pathetic display is simply unforgivable. While a delicate appearance brought on by illness can be one of the virtues of a lady's beauty, losing your composure with such an unsightly expression will only become fodder for shameful gossip.”

“I will take your valuable words to heart and not forget them.”

My exceedingly polite reply seemed to placate Madame de La Vallière, but the crease between her brows remained, her displeasure still evident.

Since our meeting at the exposition, I had been living a very busy life. No, I had striven to. I tried to keep my body in constant motion to avoid thinking. Otherwise, I felt I would be consumed by an unknown fear and lose my mind.

But to my frustration, Lord Beatrice's final words were firmly lodged in my mind, refusing to be dislodged.

Whenever I had a moment of respite, they would surface and echo in my head. They became a tight leash, choking me. It was enough to make me miss my foolish former self.

Back then, I may have been dim-witted, but I was no coward. I didn't know if the sun would rise or if rain would fall the next day, but I never tormented myself by imagining the miserable future it might bring.

I was recklessly brave and cheerful for no reason. It certainly wasn't befitting of a noble lady, but I never lost myself to fear of some unknown—great or otherwise—possibility.

So how could I not reproach myself? This foolish state was not the Cisse I dreamed of becoming. Nor was it the “trainable beast” that Madame de La Vallière expected.

“That will be enough for today.”

With a look of displeasure, La Vallière finally clicked her tongue and closed the book. Her reproach toward me was evident even in that small gesture, of course.

I suppressed a sigh and lowered my head. We were currently taking a break in a lush green garden under the guise of reading.

This was at the Madame's suggestion; gathering under a large tree to read together was one of the simple pleasures enjoyed by noblewomen.

Short shadows stretched out from beneath the dense branches, and the beautiful flowers planted nearby released a rich fragrance each time they swayed in the wind. And nestled within this scene were women reading books.

Among them, the older women used this time to display their experience and knowledge, while the young girls listened intently, indirectly experiencing the world they would one day face.

Was this not a pastime perfectly suited to Madame de La Vallière's tastes?

The reason I joined La Vallière today was also to enjoy this little amusement.

Madame de La Vallière was extremely fond of books. She especially loved the smooth resonance of words as they flowed from a woman's lips—the sound one could hear when letters were read aloud.

There was likely no woman who loved books as much as she did. Rumor had it that Madame de La Vallière's personal collection rivaled that of the royal library.

This was why the Madame patronized young artists and showed such a generous attitude toward literary figures.

“On this earth, the only sound more beautiful than a song is, I declare, the voice of a woman as she reads from a book.”

No woman was as sensitive to voice and pronunciation as Madame de La Vallière. After all, reading aloud was a fundamental virtue for any lady.

How smoothly the pronunciation rolled off the tongue, whether the inflection was appropriate, if the balance of speed and pitch was excellent, and so on.

When she listened to a woman read, she judged her level of cultivation based on these criteria.

It was only natural, then, that she strove to erase the remnants of my back-alley days that still clung to me.

One such remnant was my pronunciation and accent. She would often take me to the garden of her estate and have me read thick books aloud. The books she chose were mostly collections of poetry by foreign writers.

They often contained rather difficult words or archaic terms that were tricky to pronounce, which frequently flustered me.

In truth, my pronunciation and accent were quite good. They probably wouldn't have paled in comparison to Roena's. But when it came to me, the Madame's standards were lofty, and I could never satisfy her. Not even once.

It was because of her astonishingly strict standards. I believed it was because I had grown up in the back alleys. This “prejudice” was what drove her to push me so hard.

Was that why? Whenever I mispronounced a word even slightly or raised my voice, she would scold me mercilessly in a stern tone. Her rebukes were so harsh they provoked a deep defiance in me, shattering my patience—which was already so fractured it felt ready to crumble—time and time again.

Thanks to her, I was able to slowly erase the lingering image of the little girl I never knew I still was—the one who ran around and played barefoot in the filthy back alleys. La Vallière was not a good teacher, but she was an excellent educator.

As La Vallière and I rose from our seats, the maids standing in attendance straightened the creases in our skirts. A few of them folded the blankets we had been sitting on and picked up the books.

La Vallière, who had been silently accepting their service, turned her eyes toward the maid straightening my skirt. To be precise, her gaze was likely drawn to the girl’s bizarre appearance, with most of her skin wrapped in linen bandages.

“A lady must always present a beautiful image. That is why even her serving maids must be pristine in appearance.”

“She slipped on the stairs and was injured. It is not what you are concerned about, so please do not be displeased. Isn't that right, Seril?”

At my words, the maid, Seril, who had just finished straightening my skirt and moved to stand behind me, lifted her head and answered quietly in a small voice.

“Yes.”

Through her swollen eyelids, her terrified pupils trembled, and her red, scabbed lips quivered with a faint tremor. It was another face of “resignation.”

I gave a satisfied smile at the sight of Seril, now as docile as a bridled horse. Then, I quickly spoke to La Vallière, who was looking back and forth between Seril and me as if trying to gauge something.

“Are there any other lessons for today?”

La Vallière clicked her tongue softly and turned away. A woman of her keen perception must have known I was lying, but the affairs of a handmaiden were not her concern to meddle in, so she had no choice but to let it go, despite her displeasure.

“Let us go inside for tea. I heard a fine new tea has arrived. I must sample it to see what it is like.”

“Yes.”

I swallowed the laugh that threatened to burst out and followed behind her. For some reason, it felt as though, for this moment at least, I could forget about Lord Beatrice.