34.
The women who had been listening to the conversation dropped their jaws in shock at the explosive revelation. Only Freya continued to speak with calm composure.
“Surely you won’t claim that you never clung to my husband out of love for a man you are currently divorcing.”
Madam Rossignol remained silent, glaring at Freya for a long while. Then, she let out a scoff and sat back down.
“Fine. I don’t know how you found out, but it’s true. My husband and I are in the middle of a divorce suit. So what? There is nothing between me and your husband. Why don’t you wake up from your delusion that you are the victim?”
And, as if planting a flag of victory, she spat out clearly:
“Or, prove that what I said to the ladies you met is a lie.”
It was impossible to expose their lies. Her past self had not left behind any evidence of the deals made with these women.
But that was true for them as well. There was no evidence for the blackmail and kidnapping that the women and Madam Rossignol claimed had occurred.
She and they alike—it was all just words. Yet, people believed their claims rather than hers.
“That would be difficult to prove.”
Was there not a royal in the past who vanished into the dew of the guillotine because of a remark she never even made?
*If there is no bread, let them eat brioche.* If she had actually said it, she wouldn’t have felt so aggrieved.
The pleasure of crushing a royal with a single word or a single action.
It could not be compared to the madness of that era, but from last winter to this very day, the groundless hostility people showed toward her was rooted in a similar urge.
Cynicism and contempt glistened in the eyes of the women looking at the bloodline of the highest noble in the Empire.
As if avoiding the hands that sought to drag the most noble status down to the most wretched position, Freya rose from her seat.
“I cannot prove the lies you told last winter, Madam, but I can prove this.”
The small handbag in Freya’s hand clicked open.
All eyes turned toward the bag. A moment later, a finely folded piece of paper emerged.
A lesson learned from a life repeated countless times: Information is a weapon. And just as there are codes for wielding a weapon, there are rules for wielding information.
The optimal place, the situation, and the timing.
Curious gazes focused on the paper.
Freya unfolded the neatly creased sheet and, like a judge delivering a final verdict in a courtroom, read out the contents.
“Saint-Pierre, Rocheco, Chalon, D’Alembert, Orléans….”
As the names of families everyone knew slipped past her lips, doubt appeared on the faces of the women, including Mathilde Russell.
There was only one exception: Madam Rossignol.
As the list continued, Madam Rossignol turned as white as a plaster statue and trembled minutely. When the roll call ended, one lady who could no longer contain her curiosity asked:
“What on earth do those names have to do with what we are talking about?”
Freya let out a small laugh, as if she had heard an amusing question. She had already come to a stop behind one of the ladies.
“Ah, come to think of it, there is one person here whose name is on this list. Madam D’Alembert.”
As Freya lightly gripped the lady’s shoulders with both hands, the woman shuddered.
“W-what did I….”
Freya shook her head at the flustered Madam D’Alembert.
“It’s not about you, Madam.”
Then, she lowered her voice as if whispering a secret, yet clear enough for everyone present to hear.
“I am talking about the gentlemen with whom Madam Rossignol had trysts after being rejected by Max Russell.”
“W-what does that….”
Madam D’Alembert, wearing an expression of disbelief, shook off Freya’s hands and stood up.
“In other words, this paper in my hand is a list of the gentlemen with whom Countess Ava Rossignol has been meeting in secret for the past half-year, starting from last winter.”
Like night and day, Madam D’Alembert’s horrified face contrasted with the faces of the women whose family names had not been called—faces filled with relief and curiosity.
Madam D’Alembert swayed as if about to collapse, then turned to Madam Rossignol and asked:
“Madam… Rossignol, is that… true?”
“Of course not! That woman is just spouting nonsense!”
Madam Rossignol shouted loudly, as if to drown out the conversation. Ignoring her, Freya calmly answered for her.
“Madam D’Alembert, if you wish, I can even tell you on what date and where Madam Rossignol and your husband spent their time together. As you know, I have a certain knack for digging up dirt.”
“Lies! Don’t lie! Madam D’Alembert, don’t listen to that insane woman!”
“Everyone else here heard it, too. Please pass this on to those close to the ladies of the families I just mentioned. If anyone wishes to know more details, have them send a letter to the Russell Family. I will gladly answer at any time.”
It is useless to try to erase a nightmare. To escape a nightmare, one must either wake up or become someone else’s nightmare.
Today’s gathering was for that very purpose.
“This is a frame-up! A lie! Who do you think you are… how dare you frame me! How dare you insult me!”
Even in a world where courtesan culture thrives and marriages among the upper class are nothing more than transactions, there are lines that cannot be crossed.
A betrayal all the more unforgivable because the relationship was built on a transaction rather than love. That is the adultery between nobles.
Looking completely unhinged, Madam Rossignol lifted her wine glass, the whites of her eyes showing. Freya closed her eyes, bracing for a splash of red wine.
Not only would Madam Rossignol be at a severe disadvantage in her divorce proceedings, but she would also, in all likelihood, be ostracized from society. The thought brought her a sense of cold delight.
If a more dramatic scene were to unfold, the rumors would spread even faster.
…That was what she had expected. But nothing was splashed on her. Instead, what engulfed her from the darkness were the screams of the women.
“Mr. Max Russell!”
Who?
When she opened her eyes, she saw a broad back and bright golden hair. As she dropped her gaze along the large man’s silhouette, a thick, dark red liquid dripped down to the feet of the man who had taken the brunt of the spilled wine.
“Madam Rossignol, put that glass down.”
For a moment, she wondered if it was a delusion. But she knew it was real when a pleasant bass resonated in her ears. It was truly him.
Her husband, Max, had appeared. Just like a prince from a fairy tale.
“M-Mr. Russell. I, I….”
A deathly pale Madam Rossignol stuttered and reached out toward Max.
Max blatantly avoided her touch and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face with controlled movements.
No one dared to step forward while he wiped the red wine streaming down his statue-like, cold face.
In the ensuing silence, the handkerchief left Max’s hands and fell to the floor. Only then did the head of the Russell Family turn his eyes toward the women gathered there.
“I apologize, but this gathering must come to an end. Please return home now.”
“Th-thank you for the invitation.”
“It was… a lovely gathering. Please invite us again.”
As if that remark were the signal, the ladies streamed out of the Russell garden like an ebbing tide.
“Max, are you alright?”
Mathilde approached Max belatedly, reading the room. How on earth did it come to this? Was the god of misfortune lingering by her side?
She had only wanted to make her daughter-in-law understand her position. She had only meant to correct her behavior.
Before she knew it, Madam Rossignol had become a woman who had trysts with men from all sorts of families, and her son, who claimed to be busy, had popped out of nowhere to take the wine meant for his wife.
While she pondered how to explain this situation, Max made the first move.
“Mother, I have something to tell you inside. Please head in first.”
“Oh, oh. Yes, I’ll head in first, so take your time.”
The gathering was ruined anyway. Relieved, Mathilde hurried into the mansion, barely acknowledging the guests as she left.
Only after Mathilde had disappeared into the mansion did Max turn his eyes toward the red-haired woman.
“I thought we had finished this conversation last year, did we not?”
At Max’s cold reproach, Ava Rossignol bit her lip without answering.
She was sick of a marriage that was merely a union of families. Her husband acknowledged that their relationship was broken but refused a divorce.
They had proceeded with a secret divorce trial as a minimum consensus to protect their own interests.
If she won, they would announce the divorce cleanly; if he won, they would pretend nothing had happened and go on living.
If there were to be a next time, she wanted a marriage for herself, not for the family.
This time, with someone she loved.
She had coveted the most beautiful man in Grandcen. A man who supposedly didn’t even enter his own house because he disliked his wife.
If it were Max Russell, a man who drove a lady to the point of forsaking her family’s name, he seemed like a suitable marriage candidate.
She had been confident. Because men were bound to desire her even if she only smiled at them.
…If only she could go back to the past, she would tell her former self:
*Do not covet Max Russell. He is a trap that will plunge your life into the mire.*
“Why… why is it okay for the Lady, but not for me?”
As she met the eyes of the man she had wanted all the more viciously because she could not have him, the age-old question she had already heard the answer to months ago tumbled out of her mouth.