28.
“Congratulations, monsieur.”
“I enjoyed the race.”
“It was a very impressive performance.”
“Thank you. Haha, it was merely good luck.”
As he dismounted and stepped off the track, congratulations poured in from every side. While he feigned humility, Asil’s chin rose higher and higher.
This was a far cry from his usual self, who would return with slumped shoulders after a narrow second-place finish, or a third-place finish on days when he felt off his game.
Having changed out of his jockey silks into a crisp frock coat, complete with a high-end ebony cane, Asil returned to the grandstand in high spirits.
In the stands, people were gathered in small groups, waiting for the next race and engaging in conversation.
“I’m telling you, I saw it with my own eyes. Madam Russell was clinging to the arm of the Luthes Bank president, begging him.”
It was then that a remark caught his attention, hooking firmly into his nerves.
As he turned his head, he saw a man whose face he had occasionally seen at the Jockey Club, surrounded by a group of young men. Asil instinctively hid behind a pillar.
“They all probably secretly hoped the bank president would visit them next. I hear she’s been in seclusion ever since, assuming she has any pride left to protect.”
Was that Viscount Ortoli? The man acting conceited, surrounded by young nobles with little political experience, was a new member who had only recently joined the Jockey Club.
“If she had come to me, I would have treated her far more tenderly than the bank president.”
Asil clicked his tongue as he watched the Viscount lick his lips with a lewd expression. He had seen enough of the new nobility’s carelessness to last a lifetime.
“He assumes Duke Blanc has turned his back on his daughter again, so he thinks he can wag his tongue so freely. How foolish.”
Between the high nobility and the lower nobility, and between the old nobility dating back to the monarchy and the new nobility granted titles by the current Emperor, there exists a level of misunderstanding as deep as that between commoners and the nobility. It was a fact unknown to Viscount Ortoli, a minor noble of the new aristocracy.
The high nobility of Grandcen might use their kin, but they never truly abandon them.
Even if one were ignorant of the habits of the high nobility, the moment the Mademoiselle stepped foot into the Jockey Club so brazenly, one should have noticed that the relationship between the Duke and the Mademoiselle had shifted—regardless of whatever discord might have existed between them before.
Though, if he had that much wit, he wouldn’t be spouting such nonsense to begin with.
“Come to think of it, Madam Russell is quite pitiful, too. She was once called the most precious flower of all, but because she met the wrong man, she’s now treated worse than a common wildflower on the road.”
“Indeed. Who would have expected the White Saffron to end up in such a state?”
The nickname of the Mademoiselle, long forgotten, reached Asil’s ears as he had been lost in his own thoughts.
“The Mademoiselle is treated worse than a wildflower on the road, while the one who was called the Mademoiselle’s toy is now riding on the coattails of the Ducal family, having even earned the nickname of ‘Railway King.’ I don’t know what the world is coming to.”
For some reason, it seemed there was someone who had been desperate to belittle Max Russell since earlier. Asil glanced sideways to identify the source of the voice.
The young man, who looked like he couldn’t even manage his own affairs properly yet, was wearing a navy coat with red trousers. It was the uniform of an Imperial Army officer.
“That face of his must be his only asset. Considering he spent his time at school cowering like a sewer rat, always stuck to Auguste, it’s galling to see him walking around with his head held high, calling himself a successful businessman.”
At the mention of his older brother’s name, tendons bulged in the hand Asil held his cane with.
“Come to think of it, Russell went to the Imperial Boarding School—which is rare for someone of commoner origin—and even finished his military service.”
“Among my peers, rumors were circulating that his Grace the Duke had intentionally sent him into the line of fire.”
The founding purpose of the Imperial Boarding School was to provide a guaranteed level of education for nobles who could not afford to hire multiple tutors. Though it had now become a rite of passage for the sons of noble families looking to secure a position in the military.
What kind of treatment a descendant of a revolutionary hero would receive upon entering such a place was, in fact, obvious to anyone.
‘I don’t know what the Duke’s true intentions were, but that officer is just as reckless.’
In an era where the nobility and the bourgeoisie maintained a delicate balance of power, to openly belittle a businessman in such a public forum—especially one who, in just five years, had not only brought a failing business back on track but grown enough to branch out into the railway industry—was absurd.
“At any rate, Madam Russell has had a rough time because of a husband without a title. Not only did she throw away the name of a high noble, but now she has to fawn over a bank president who is merely a life peer.”
Just then, someone lowered their voice and asked, “I heard the Luthes Bank president is an Aschuren. Is that true?”
The Viscount replied with a conceited expression.
“What do you think the name Delaporte signifies?”
Delaporte.
“It means ‘one who lived near the gate’ (de la porte).”
“Ah, then indeed…”
Within the Empire, Aschuren were the subjects of implicit discrimination and contempt. Furthermore, since rumors spread that it was the Aschuren who had funded the revolutionary army during the revolution, the discrimination among the nobility was steadily intensifying.
Contempt that could not be hidden flickered across the Viscount’s face. However, he quickly cleared his throat and added, as if to smooth things over.
“Even so, do not speak ill of Mr. Delaporte. Even if he is only a life peer, he was appointed as a new noble by His Majesty the Emperor himself. To doubt the loyalty of such a man is no different than doubting His Majesty’s discernment.”
The young man, who had been on the verge of joining in on the insults against the Mademoiselle who clung to an Aschuren, changed his tune instantly.
“Ah, I was merely mentioning that I had heard such rumors. How could I ever doubt a talent appointed by His Majesty?”
Asil turned away with a scoff. His mood, which had been elevated as if he were soaring above the clouds, sank like a deflating balloon. As he changed locations, the voices of women drifted to his ears.
“A woman entered the Jockey Club?”
“How scandalous. What on earth could she be thinking, frequenting a place that is exclusively for men?”
“Well, you see, the Luthes Bank president…”
Everywhere he went, it was all talk about Freya Russell and himself. Asil shuddered involuntarily and turned toward a less populated area.
Just as he was debating whether to leave the premises before someone recognized him, the surroundings suddenly fell silent.
The women had closed their mouths as if by agreement, and all were gazing in one direction. Asil, too, turned his body toward where their gazes were directed.
The person who had just entered the grandstand, commanding everyone’s attention, was a young man with raven-black hair that brought to mind a pitch-black night sky without a single star.
It was Erle Tristan, the young head of the Tristan family, one of the two wings of the Royalist faction.
The Marquis walked toward the interior of the grandstand with an expressionless face, clearly accustomed to the attention fixed upon him. Soon, a group of men approached the Marquis, acting as if they knew him.
‘I wondered why he was visiting the racetrack, but it seems he had business with the Republican assemblymen.’
The rumors that the Marquis had recently been frequenting places where the Republican faction gathered seemed to be true.
‘He hasn’t suddenly been swayed by republicanism… that, too, must be about the railway bill amendment.’
Among those with a foot in politics or finance, there was no one who didn’t know that the Luthes-Saint-Germain-En-Laye railway project was a joint venture between the Duke’s son-in-law and the Marquis Tristan.
And the fact that the railway construction amendment bill, which seemed at a glance to be a conflict between railway operators and canal operators, was in reality a much more complex battle for interests.
It was a Republican assemblyman who submitted the amendment, but the majority who were profiting from the canal project were figures associated with the Royalists. Among them was Duke Blanc, Max Russell’s father-in-law.
‘It’s ironic, if anything, that it was Max Russell who handed that canal project over to the Duke in the first place.’
At any rate, while it might look like a battle between the Republicans and the Royalists on the surface, the reality was different.
Because as the Marquis Tristan intervened in the railway business, this matter had mutated into a fight between the radical Royalists and the moderate Royalists—or more precisely, between the aristocracy and the Emperor’s faction.
‘I wonder if that young Marquis even knows he’s sticking his head into the jaws of a white lion.’
Had he stared for too long? Their eyes met as the Marquis suddenly turned his head. Asil did not flinch and gave him a natural nod of acknowledgment. However, he had no intention of approaching him to make small talk.
‘Besides, it seems there will be an occasion for us to meet sooner or later anyway.’
With a premonition that the conversation he would have with the Marquis would not be particularly pleasant, Asil decided to leave, however reluctantly.
When he returned to his carriage, he didn’t see his coachman. Asil dismissed it and climbed into the carriage, deciding to wait.
Just as he opened the carriage door and stepped onto the footboard, his right foot sank down with a heavy thud.
With a sinking feeling of foreboding, he lowered his gaze to find his right foot crushed into a slushy mess of horse manure.
As if to signal that his streak of luck had come to an end here.
As he lifted his head while muttering a soft curse, a look of confusion dawned on his face.
“What are you doing here?”
A maid was sitting inside the carriage.
“Monsieur Delaporte, congratulations on your victory.”
“What is this… who sent you? No, never mind. Get out of my carriage at once. What kind of insolence is this…!”
Even as Asil, whose irritation was already peaking, was about to snap, he froze in place. It was because the face of the woman dressed in the maid’s uniform was familiar.
“Are you, by any chance… Madam Russell?”