Chapter 112

The candle burned with a clear, steady flame, brightening the room without a trace of soot. It was early autumn. The sweltering heat that had gripped the late summer was finally receding, and already, chilly winds were blowing in the mornings and evenings.

Though the seasons shifted without pause, the salon of Countess Bonatienne remained as elegant and refined as ever. At the entrance to the salon, the gentleman handed over his cane and hat to the butler who had escorted him, then stepped into the brightly lit room.

Countess Bonatienne’s salon was one of the most renowned cultural spaces in the capital city of Michèle. Situated at the very heart of the Bonatienne estate, the central salon boasted a ceiling two stories high and a breathtakingly open design, unobstructed in all directions.

A domed ceiling bore a graceful fresco painted by Anatole Gercien, the most celebrated ceiling artist of the age. From its center hung an opulent chandelier, its every branch densely draped with teardrop-shaped crystals, meticulously placed to reflect the light.

Around the grand hall, beautifully adorned columns stood neatly in place, each wrapped in pleated amber satin.

The cozy interior of the salon was at once familiar and subtly altered. The lady of the house, Countess Bonatienne, had a distinctive habit of changing the interior decor with the seasons. But she was famous for always preserving that air of elegance and sophisticated charm that made her salon so beloved.

“Mother of Heaven, Régire! Has it truly been that long?”

As befitted the most esteemedprécieuseof the imperial social scene, Countess Bonatienne had been reclining gracefully on a rose-pinkduchesse briséewhen she caught sight of the gentleman entering the room. Her face lit up with delight, and she rose to greet him.

He had once been one of her most devoted regulars, but had not visited for some time due to personal reasons. Now, seeing the Countess again, the gentleman noted with mild surprise how her figure had changed since he last saw her.

“It has been a while, Countess Bonatienne. And yet you are always newly radiant. You never cease to astonish.”

He smiled warmly as he pressed a light kiss to the back of her pale hand. Though a harrowing tragedy had left him visibly more gaunt than before, the charm that had once stolen countless women’s sleep had not faded in the least.

“You are too kind. Still, this is hardly a sight anyone wants to see, is it not? I have yet to find someone worthy of managing the salon in my stead, so I have ended up showing myself like this. It truly is shameful.”

The Countess replied graciously, though a hint of embarrassment flickered across her usually poised expression. As she confessed, her free hand, unnoticed by him, rested instinctively upon her belly, once so fashionably slim. Now, it was gently rounded with a fullness that left no doubt of her current state. She was pregnant.

As she said, noble ladies of the empire were especially reluctant to reveal their pregnant forms in public. Though he had long moved in these circles, this was the first time he had ever seen a noblewoman in such a state. For them, preserving their beauty was paramount above all else.

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As she lowered the hand he had kissed, the man instinctively extended his arm to assist her. It was a motion so habitual it seemed almost instinctual. Leaning against that arm, Countess Bonatienne turned and introduced her long-absent friend to the gathered guests.

“Look here, my dear friends. The companion who had been away from our haven has finally returned. May I present to you, the Duke of Fernand!”

As it was not a formal ball but an ordinary social gathering, there was no designated announcer in this salon. From the very beginning, the Countess had founded the salon on the principle that anyone with talent, regardless of rank, was welcome to join. In that sense, dispensing with formality suited them all the more.

But this was a special occasion. From the moment he stepped into the room, guests who had been quietly murmuring among themselves now rose in unison the instant the Countess made her announcement, rushing forward to welcome the Duke of Fernand. They greeted their long-absent friend with warmth, guiding him to the most honored seat.

“Welcome, Duke Fernand. We had been wondering when you would return.”

“Oh, Viscountess Farel. It is a pleasure as well to see you again.”

“Hahaha! It is an honor to meet you again, Duke. While you were away, there was scarcely a decent critique or a literary conversation worth our ears. At last, we shall have spirited debates again.”

“Viscount Du Pré.”

Nodding politely to each of those who offered greetings, the Duke made his way further into the room. A well-cushioned armchair had been specially set aside for him, his seat placed directly beside that of the hostess. Countess Bonatienne, whose movements were now heavy, leaned into her chair with the help of her maids, and gave instructions for warm tea and refreshments to be brought out in his honor.

“But tell me, has something happened in your salon during my absence? I cannot help but notice a number of familiar faces missing today.”

The Duke asked, settling into his seat and glancing around the room. Countess Bonatienne’s literary salon was known for its constant stream of guests, typically between a dozen to twenty people gathered there at any given time.

However, today, strangely, there seemed to be no more than half a dozen present. At his question, the Countess’s expression visibly darkened.

“There is a reason for that. When I heard that Your Highness would be stepping outside again after such a long time, I had hoped only to greet you with glad tidings… but, alas, there is grave news.”

“What has happened?”

“Your Highness will remember the Young Lord La Baille, surely. A dear friend who has shared long years of friendship with us all. Sadly, he lost his life a few days ago. Tonight is the vigil before his funeral.”

The Young Lord La Baille? The Duke furrowed his brow as the memory came to him. He had indeed been a regular presence in the salon. The younger half-brother of Marquis La Baille, he had always stood apart from his austere elder sibling with his warm and sociable nature. Though descended from a noble lineage, he mingled with friends without pretension, and true to his wealthy upbringing, was generous to a fault, traits that had made him widely beloved.

“How terrible. But how could that have happened? From what I knew, he was still young and in good health.”

“It was a tragic accident.”

The Countess Bonatienne, her eyebrows delicately arched like the antennae of a butterfly, furrowed them in sorrow and let out a deep sigh.

“You know the late Young Lord La Baille had a very active disposition, and he was quite fond of outdoor activities. Of those, he particularly enjoyed hunting. Every autumn, he would return to his estate and spend several weeks there. Since it is hunting season now, it seems he had been preparing for the trip again this year. But unfortunately, he had a habit of cleaning his firearms himself rather than entrusting the task to his servants. That habit, it seems, led to an unforeseen tragedy. From what I have heard, it was a truly horrific accident.”

Rumor had it that a misfire caused the death of the Young Lord La Baille while he was cleaning a firearm. Half of his face had been blown off, and he died instantly on the spot. The servants who had come running at the sound of the gunshot opened the door only to witness a scene so gruesome it defied belief.

She had also heard in vivid detail from indiscreet gossips that it had taken over a dozen servants to scrub away the bloodstains on the floor and the pieces of brain matter that had splattered all the way up to the ceiling, right up until just before the funeral, but she could not bring herself to repeat such things aloud and ended her account there.

“Poor Young Lord La Baille. That I cannot even be there to send off my friend on his final journey makes me feel utterly wretched.”

Countess Bonatienne sighed softly with a mournful expression. Though she had defied the unspoken rule of high society by appearing publicly despite being pregnant, that leniency only extended as far as the walls of her own salon.

This was her home, and showing herself to receive her guests was a natural duty as hostess. But any public activity beyond that, no matter who she was, would never be permitted.

“The late Young Lord was pitiful to have died so young, but if I am being honest, I find his elder brother, His Lordship the Marquis La Baille, far more pitiable. To lose the last of his heirs at his age… How could he possibly endure the shock, as a proud nobleman of ancient title, when his direct bloodline has been extinguished?”

The Viscount Du Pré, who had also suffered his own long years of frustration over the lack of an heir despite marrying young, spoke of the Marquis’s tragedy with a heavy heart. Fortunately, his own dilemma had been resolved a few months prior, thanks to his wife, who had finally borne him a son. But for the Marquis of La Baille, the real ordeal was only just beginning.

“Now that you mention it, I believe you are right. Was the Young Lord La Baille not the last direct heir of the Marquissate?”

The gentle Viscountess Farel asked the question in a concerned tone. Viscount Du Prè nodded with a cautious air.

“As far as I know, yes. His Lordship lost his only legitimate son to illness before the boy even reached twenty, and now he has lost the younger brother who was to inherit the title in a tragic accident.”

“House La Baille is an old and noble house, is it not? Might there be any collateral relatives who could inherit the title?”

This time, the question came from the Young Miss Lanson, barely sixteen years of age. She was the daughter of the imperial poet, Laureate, and already the most dazzlingly popular debutante of the year.

“As our charming Young Miss Lanson has rightly pointed out, House La Baille is one of the most venerable noble houses in the empire. The fact that the family name is identical to the title means they have held the same land and dignity for countless generations. The title dates all the way back to the Old Kingdom Era.”

Most of those present were young noblewomen or debutantes, and the gentlemen were likewise relatively young, so few had a deep knowledge of noble genealogy. Having spoken rather thoughtlessly at first, Viscount Du Prè now found everyone’s attention focused on him and began elaborating further.

“But like so many other old families, House La Baille has long suffered from a chronic lack of heirs. Children have always been rare among them, so much so that it is a wonder their line has not died out already. For several generations, the title passed only to single sons, with no siblings. His Lordship’s father, the late Marquis La Baille, was an exception. He had two sons and a daughter. That was considered quite unusual, given the family’s traditions.”

For noble families, having no successor to inherit a title was one of the worst possible misfortunes. It meant they had failed to preserve the legacy handed down by their ancestors over centuries, due to the misfortune of their own line. And it seemed that very fate had now come for the House La Baille. When Viscount Du Prè’s somber forecast concluded, the atmosphere in the salon grew all the heavier.