Chapter 38
‘Le XIXe Siècle’, recruiting new advertisers!
‘Le XIXe Siècle’, recruiting new advertisers!
Mathilde slammed the newspaper onto the table with a sharp crack.
“Butler, where is Max?”
The butler, who had been mid-pour, paused his hand. He finished filling the empty teacup before answering, his tone steady and unflappable.
“He has left for work. He asked me to convey that he would be unable to see you off, and to wish you a pleasant day.”
Mathilde let out a dry, jagged laugh, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him.
“Did you do this, Lorenzo? Or was it her? Did you feed my son to that salon?”
She knew the truth; she had seen the genuine shock on Freya’s face when Max arrived. Yet, her spite demanded an outlet.
“What did she promise you? Whatever it is, it’s worthless. Once I return, both you and the Lady will be out on the street.”
The butler set the teapot aside and stood straight, his posture impeccable.
“It was neither ordered by the Lady, nor have I been promised anything. And should the Lady be forced to leave, I would naturally intend to resign as well.”
Mathilde’s vision blurred with bloodshot rage. She spat the words out like a curse.
“You ingrate. You bit the hand that fed you. You speak with such brazen arrogance—wait and see. I will ensure you never find employment in Luthes again.”
Lorenzo looked down at her, his expression unblinking.
“Madam, do you know my name?”
“What? Is that the idiocy you choose to offer right now?”
“It is a question I ask precisely because of the ‘now’.”
Mathilde faltered. He was the man she had personally hired when she first moved into the mansion. But in the five years since, the name of the man who had overseen every detail of her life had simply vanished from her mind. To her, he had always been nothing more than ‘Butler’.
“Th-that is…”
“It is Lorenzo. Gerald Lorenzo.”
“I-it’s human to forget a name. Are you suggesting you betrayed me simply because I couldn’t recall it?”
Lorenzo didn’t expect her to understand, yet he continued calmly.
“You called me Butler. Mr. Russell called me Lorenzo. And the Lady—she called me Lorenzo.”
He knew she would interpret his loyalty as a petty grudge over a forgotten name. Let her think that; it didn’t matter.
“Ironically, the woman you deem the lowest in this house held me in the highest regard. That is why I informed Mr. Russell that the Lady would be attending the salon. That is how I stabbed you in the back, Madam.”
It was absurd. To be dismantled by a man she had employed for five years over something so trivial?
Only a short while ago, everything had been within her grasp. She had been the mistress of a grand estate, living a life of envy, intending to use the Blanc name to cement her status among the elite. Now, it had all crumbled.
She felt as though she were waking from a beautiful dream into a freezing, dark reality.
She had been abandoned by her husband five years ago, and now, her son had cast her aside as well. The servants she had hired treated her like a ghost. The rumors of the ‘witch trial’ she had staged had backfired, leaving her tainted by the very scandal she hoped to inflict upon Freya.
“Ha, haha….”
Even a servant mocked her now. All because of a name.
It was all because of Freya Blanc. That cunning girl had poisoned everything. Yes, it was the fault of the Lady who had played the fool, nodding to everything Mathilde said, only to strike from the shadows.
She wouldn’t be pushed out this easily. Mathilde rose with a sharp, ugly laugh.
“Butler, I am going out.”
“Where are you headed, Madam?”
Mathilde scoffed.
“What, are you going to report to her again? Stay out of it. I shall return on my own.”
She grabbed her handbag and swept out of the room. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing her destination. With a sneer, she left the mansion, refusing to even use the Russell family carriage.
Two hours later, Mathilde returned on foot, her face a mask of cold resolve. Shortly after, she departed again—this time in a carriage she had arranged herself.
The woman who had ruled the house for five years set off on a long journey, with only the butler there to see her go.
As soon as the carriage vanished, Lorenzo went to find Freya.
“She asked if the situation was of my doing, and I denied it. She went out for two hours, and since she bypassed our carriages, it seems she met someone she wished to keep hidden from you.”
Freya blinked, startled by the natural, intimate report—as if he had served her, not Mathilde, for all these years.
“Um… thank you, Lorenzo.”
“I only did what was expected, My Lady.”
The butler’s lips twitched upward for a fleeting second.
“How shall we proceed with the assets and staff that the Grand Madam has managed until now?”
Freya offered a bitter, weary smile.
“I will speak with Max about it.”
“As you wish.”
After he left, Freya looked out the window. Time and again, the cycle repeated, but the shadow of Mathilde always lingered. She had tried to lock Freya away under the guise of ‘recuperation,’ and in her first life, that plan had succeeded.
She had been half-crazed then. When Max had asked for a divorce, she had wept, clinging to him and rambling incoherently about a life that had already passed—how she had fought, how she had betrayed him, and how he had died before her eyes.
To a man who remembered none of it, she had appeared no better than a madwoman. It had been easy for Mathilde to paint her as unstable.
*“I am grateful. Thanks to you acting out, things became much easier. Don’t resent us. No one in this house wanted you here. With you gone, Max will finally return home with peace of mind.”*
The mockery was cruel, but the thought that Max would at least have peace was what had sustained her.
But now, at twenty-two, Mathilde was gone, and Freya remained. By Max’s own choice.
*Max, this time… will you return with peace of mind even if I am here?*
She watched the horizon until the light bled out of the sky and the silhouette of Max’s carriage finally appeared at the gates. Her heart hammering, she stood and walked toward the foyer, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.
“Max.”
His deep blue eyes, vast and restless as the sea, fixed on her.
“…You are here?”
The greeting was stiff, awkward. Max handed his coat to the butler and crossed the distance to her in a few strides. They stood in silence, the air thick with the weight of five years. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing the corner of her eye.
“I’m home.”
His voice was low, a vibration that settled deep in her chest, and she felt a sudden, sharp sting of tears. The butler discreetly retreated to the kitchen, leaving them in the quiet hallway.
For the first time since they had moved into this house, a dinner for two was prepared. The new servants, unaware of the history between them, served the meal with efficiency. In the silence of the dining hall, there was no one left to whisper, no one left to tear them apart.
Freya spoke of books she had enjoyed in her youth. Max listened, his expression softening into a familiar, quiet smile.
As they ascended the central staircase after the meal, they stopped at the landing, a silent understanding passing between them.
“I think,” Freya murmured, “it would be best if Lorenzo managed the household affairs and the estate from now on. He can report only the essentials to you.”
And with that, one of those ordinary, peaceful evenings she had once only dared to imagine, drew to a close.