35.
Max looked down at the Countess. She was peering up at him with a piteous expression, her voice trembling with an earnest demand: explain why Freya Blanc was acceptable, but Ava Rossignol was not.
He had sensed this moment coming since the day the Rossignol woman first stormed into his office. Her target had never been Freya; it was him. Her intentions were as transparent as glass, particularly when she offered him free use of her family’s smelting plant, making no effort to hide her designs.
Having finally purchased an hour of his time on the condition that she would no longer bring up his wife, Rossignol had become heavily intoxicated. She had spilled the bitterness of her married life—the agony of those obligatory nights with an indifferent husband.
“It’s not as if you even love your wife, anyway.”
With that, she had proposed a “one-night deviation.” When Max refused, she had posed that exact, biting question.
It was a question born of a fundamental ignorance: she had no idea that no such nights existed between Freya and him.
Perhaps he, too, had been drunk. It was a meaningless answer provided to a meaningless question. Max searched his memory, leaned down, and whispered into the Countess’s ear.
“Because you, Countess, are not a princess locked in a castle.”
Ava’s head fell. The same answer had returned to the same question. It would have been less miserable if he had simply said he wasn’t attracted to her.
A princess locked in a castle, of all things. It was ridiculous. Everything had crumbled into ruins because of that man and that woman. Ava gripped her wine glass until her knuckles turned white. Her life was ruined anyway. The moment she raised the glass to hurl it at Freya, a firm hand clamped down on her wrist.
With a sharp gasp, the glass shattered against the floor. He was a man who would, until the very last, deny her a single thing she desired.
While still held captive, Ava glared at the pair of them, spat out a curse, and turned away.
“I hope you two are truly miserable.”
When the guests had finally departed, the two remained alone in the garden. Freya opened her mouth.
“Max.”
“Later.”
Max left only that word behind and disappeared into the mansion without a backward glance. As she hesitated, wondering whether to follow, someone called her from behind.
“Madam Russell…”
Turning, she found the Mademoiselle who had defended her and her mother standing there, radiating tension.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Albanne Solnie. And this child is my daughter, Louise Solnie.”
Looking closer, the young woman wearing the pince-nez seemed familiar. The girl, flushed with excitement, spoke up first.
“I was deeply impressed by what you said in the department store lounge the other day. And again today.”
Freya did not recall saying anything particularly profound.
“You are truly amazing! How did you find out the secrets of Madam Rossignol?”
“Louise!”
Madam Solnie seemed ready to cover her daughter’s mouth, but Freya offered a faint smile.
In her previous life, the unveiling of Madam Rossignol’s affairs had occurred on a winter day, just before the revolution broke out. It had followed an incident where three men engaged in a life-or-death duel, leaving two of them critically injured. The scandal regarding the “woman behind the duel” quickly unspooled, revealing a count of lovers that could not be counted on one hand. It had been a massive sensation, but the subsequent revolution had swallowed the story whole. Furthermore, the death of Count Rossignol during the chaos had allowed his widow to escape the scandal unscathed.
Now, that future would never arrive. Freya had ensured it. It was a truth these two did not need to know.
“I assume you didn’t wait around just to ask that question.”
As Freya shifted the subject, Louise tactfully seized the opening.
“My parents run a small newspaper. If you would allow it, we would like to write an article about today’s events. I promise, it will be handled with the utmost care, Madam.”
“…Which newspaper is it?”
“‘Présent Luthès.’ It cannot be compared to giants like ‘Le Xixe Siecle,’ but it will certainly have an impact.”
She hadn’t left much of an impression at the department store, but seeing her now, the girl possessed a rare boldness. She was likely only a year or two younger than Freya herself. Moreover, it was curious that she, rather than her mother, had stepped forward to solicit permission.
Wondering if the girl understood the weight of her request, Freya asked directly.
“You will be at odds with ‘Le Xixe Siecle.’ Are you sure about that? You don’t expect me to intervene, do you?”
“Ah, that is…”
Perhaps she hadn’t considered the consequences, or perhaps she hadn’t expected such frankness, but Louise was visibly flustered.
“It is fine. That is a burden for us to bear.”
As if to demonstrate that this wasn’t merely the headstrong spirit of youth, Madam Solnie stepped in.
“I taught my daughter that the calling of the press is to deliver information based on facts, as neutrally and objectively as possible. Today, I realized our previous articles regarding Madam Russell were biased and distorted. If you give us the chance, I want to deliver proper information to the public this time.”
The woman appeared sincere.
‘Présent Luthès…’
Since no specific details came to mind, it was clearly not an aristocrat-owned outlet. And yet, given that they had been invited to Mathilde’s salon, they should have had every reason to be hostile.
“How did you come to attend the salon today?”
“Ah… that is.”
This time, Madam Solnie closed her mouth, and Louise answered instead.
“My parents had a personal acquaintance with Madam Rossignol. That was why we were so inclined to trust her words.”
Worried Freya might refuse, Louise added quickly, “Don’t worry. This time, I will personally keep watch so that absolutely no biased article is published!”
The way she pushed up her pince-nez was so resolute that Freya let out an involuntary laugh.
Louise Solnie. That half-impulsive act in the department store had brought this about. No, in truth, it had started with Mathilde. She had intentionally manipulated her relationship with her mother-in-law, which had drawn Ava Rossignol to the Russell mansion, and Louise Solnie, who had heard the exposure by what seemed like fate, had followed.
One action, one word, triggered ripples in unpredictable directions. This time, the current flowed in her favor, but she couldn’t foresee what would happen next.
Even so. If you want to collect honey, you must be prepared to be stung by bees.
Freya nodded toward the two women.
“Do as you wish.”
“Thank you for your permission. I won’t let you down!”
The meeting ended abruptly.
‘Now, what remains is…’
Another person who had deviated from her expectations. Freya looked toward the mansion, her expression complex.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Max, I didn’t know you were coming. You said you were busy…”
“Why did you do it?”
Mathilde stopped in her tracks as she approached Max in the drawing room.
“Do what… what are you talking about?”
Max watched his mother, who feigned ignorance, with a stony silence. He knew his mother had likely been harassing his wife behind his back for a long time, just as she had done today.
Concealing his turmoil, Max sat on the sofa.
“Mother, go and take a rest in the countryside.”
Mathilde’s expression, just as she prepared to sit opposite him, twisted.
“You, you… what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just… leave for about two years. If you want to travel, I will make arrangements, and if you want to settle down, I will find a mansion for you. Since it won’t be a short stay, it would be wise to visit other countries as well.”
Unable to even sit, Mathilde’s hands trembled.
“How can you do this to me?”
Betrayal. It was a sense of abandonment greater than the day her husband had left them both to run away.
“…Is it because of that child? Is it because of Freya?”
Max did not answer. He didn’t need to.
“Do you think I did this for no reason! It’s all for you. If it weren’t for that child, your life would have…”
“What would it have been like?”
“…What?”
His blue eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed upon her.
“What would my life have been like?”
Max asked the question with the indifference of one discussing a stranger’s affairs. Mathilde’s tone sharpened, becoming frantic.
“What would it have been like! If it weren’t for that Lady, you could have been connected to an Imperial Princess…”
“Mother.” Max said the word quietly. “If the Imperial Princess had truly wanted me, the Duke would not have been able to stop it.”
“W-well, even if that were true, if you had married into another aristocratic family, you would have secured a title long ago and be living as a nobleman for all to see by now!”
Max looked at his mother—who believed with all her heart that her son could have been a nobleman—with a wry smile. Just as he had been a prince in a fairy tale for as long as Freya could hold the dream, he had been the perfect son for his mother, for as long as he could play the part.
But the reality was far colder.
“Max Russell is the grandson of a revolutionary hero and the son of a swindler. Regardless of whether Freya is in my life or not, the future you desire is an impossibility.”
“No, did I ask for something big? Besides, what help did she ever give coming to the Russell family!”
“Thanks to the dowry Freya brought, we prevented the bankruptcy of Father’s company, and you, Mother, have lived in comfort.”
“Th-that is…!”
“Mother, stop now.”
He never expected to resolve this with a few words. Max cut off her rebuttal and stood up.
“I told you before. That was the last time. To stop paying attention to Freya. You said you would stop then, too.”
“That was then!”
“Tell the butler where you would like to go. Or I will choose a place for you.”
“Max!”
As Max walked toward the door, he added, “Don’t be too upset. When you return… by then, things will be as you wish.”
Mathilde was left alone in the drawing room. Her face twisted as she stared blankly at the door through which her son had disappeared.