Chapter – 22
After the carriage carrying the Lady and the two actors departed, Alfredo asked the Count, who remained behind in the manor:
“Why did you not go with the Lady, sir?”
“I told you. I have documents to look over.”
Arno did not lift his eyes from the papers, as if determined to keep his word. But that was absurd.
Those weren’t documents at all.
What the Count was reading was the script the Lady had left behind, claiming she would not embarrass him at the party. A script for the two-person play that would be performed at the ball.
<The Prince and the Pauper>
‘She really does have talent for writing, doesn’t she?’
Alfredo couldn’t help but be impressed that the Lady could produce an entire script overnight.
He had assumed the only things she liked were men—or dresses and shoes at best—but judging by how fast she devoured books recently, she must have been a huge bookworm.
‘Maybe the Lady isn’t the frivolous spendthrift everyone says she is—’
Maybe she’s an artist.
The maids thought the same.
In truth, Alfredo, who didn’t even serve the Lady directly, once wished, “That crazy Lady would just hurry up and leave this manor.”
So the maids who served her directly had wished it even harder.
The Lady Louisa, who caused havoc daily, demanded ever more expensive clothes and delicious meals, and constantly threw tantrums—it was impossible for the maids not to hate her more than Alfredo did.
There was even a maid who had intentionally given Louisa items of poor quality and was caught—and subsequently fired by Alfredo.
Her final outcry had been:
‘I did it for the Count! So that woman would leave sooner! How did she notice so fast that the carpet was swapped with a cheap one?! Does this really deserve getting fired?!’
It did deserve it. Because the Count’s orders were to give Louisa anything she wanted.
Even as Alfredo dismissed the maid, he could feel the silent agreement of all the others.
But their sentiments began to change when the Romeo and Juliet performance began.
Some maids had gone to see the play.
The next day, several returned with swollen eyes and began raving about it.
‘She really HAD been practicing theater with that male slave.’
‘It was so sad—I sobbed the whole time. You have to see it too.’
‘Maybe the Lady… has artistic sensibilities. That’s why she was so sensitive.’
Artistic sensibilities.
Ah, what a convenient phrase.
The young maids believed all artists to be sharp-tempered and sensitive, and that such temperament should be endured for the sake of creating something so beautiful.
Of course, it helped that Louisa’s tantrums had drastically reduced at some point.
When did that start?
Probably when she began preparing for the performance.
Once she poured all her attention into the production, she treated the maids like wallpaper.
She rarely demanded anything, and when she entered her room, she would simply read by candlelight or scribble something until she fell asleep.
Seeing this, even the maids began to think she looked admirable.
‘Artists need to pour themselves into their art to stay sane…!’
If that were true, then being an artist required a fairly dangerous personality.
Alfredo found it strange, but regardless, a positive shift in opinion about the Lady was beneficial for him.
Because—
“Count. Honestly… you’re worried, aren’t you?”
Arno Dienche had been pouring all his attention into Louisa these days.
He hadn’t cared for her this much since he was very young.
Perhaps even before they were engaged…
“I am worried.”
At that moment, Arno lifted his head.
He set down the script on his desk and wore an unreadable expression.
“If you’d like, I’ll prepare a carriage now—”
“That slave—what is his name?”
“Pardon?”
Arno tapped the desk lightly with the script.
“Where did he say he was from?”
“Ah… well…”
“What about his parents? His siblings? Where did he say they were?”
“…….”
As Alfredo failed to answer even one question, Arno asked again:
“You’re telling me the Lady never asked him any of that?”
“Well… in all the time I watched them, she never asked. And I’m sure she never did. She always just called him ‘slave.’”
Arno looked back down at The Prince and the Pauper.
In this script, the slave’s role was the “Prince,” wasn’t it?
A royal whose clothes get switched with a pauper’s, leading him to live in a completely different world.
Arno recalled the slave’s perfect table manners in the dining hall.
His strangely sharp eyes, his noble intonation, the refined gestures.
‘If all of that is acting, then Louisa truly has incredible talent.’
And indeed, she did possess incredible talent.
But if it wasn’t acting—
Then the boy was at least a provincial noble.
‘And such a man sticks close to Louisa, acting like he fancies her.’
The motive was obvious. He wanted to use her. With that pretty face of his.
Arno’s brows furrowed.
He spoke.
I was impressed as I looked through the interior of the Mesena main estate.
It was far more beautiful than I expected.
I thought I’d only see a few paintings or sculptures flattering the Duke of Mesena—but it was much more.
There were odd murals reminiscent of expressionism, and sculptures so detailed they looked like taxidermied humans.
The Mesena estate was practically a museum.
‘And she really planned to sell this for pocket change…?’
Even after stripping out everything that could be sold, the remaining items were stunning enough.
But the woman who once considered selling them for scraps—Louisa—
Could such a fool preserve any of this?
Catherine Herotia.
My aunt rushed toward me the moment she saw me, thrilled at the chance to humiliate me for bringing two men with me.
But her plan was thwarted quickly.
Before Catherine could introduce me to her guests one by one, her daughter, Jeanne, came to greet me.
“Nice to see you, sister.”
“Yeah.”
Catherine immediately inserted herself, unable to bear even a second of us speaking.
“Well, then—let’s go greet Baron Hemia—”
“Before that—your necklace. You didn’t steal it, did you?”
“……?”
I made a face at the bluntness of Jeanne’s question. I could feel the guests watching us with amusement.
So this was “high society.”
Well, I could treat it like a party for chaebol heirs back in Korea.
Thinking that, I opened my mouth.
“My fiancé gave it to me. He said only I could pull it off. He’s very good at saying sweet things, you know.”
I embellished the truth as much as possible, flaunting myself.
The attention around us sharpened.
The necklace was the kind that would sell for billions of won in Korea.
So of course Catherine’s face twisted when she heard the Count had gifted it to me.
She must’ve been eager to gossip about our falling-out—what a shame.
‘…But…’
I looked away from Catherine’s expression and toward Jeanne. Her emotionless eyes.
Did she mention the necklace on purpose?
Because of her provocative remark, all eyes turned toward my neck.
And because she had phrased her question in suspicion, it gave me the perfect opportunity to brag about the necklace’s origin.
‘Why?’
Was she stopping her mother from making a fool of herself?
Or helping me?
I was puzzled.
“Well, that’s good then. If you had stolen something so precious to the Count, that might have been dangerous.”
And with that, Jeanne slipped away before I could ask anything further.
This necklace is precious to the Count?
‘Has word already spread that Dienche bought a diamond mine?’
As I pondered that, several nobles approached me.
Amusingly, that brief exchange made them see me—though a “ruined Lady”—as still worthwhile as Dienche’s fiancée.
And I welcomed their attention, responding politely to each.
All the while, I kept glancing toward the one person who wasn’t paying attention to me.
A man pressed against the wall, dead drunk.
The nobles called him Baron Jean Pierre, but his audience called him “Molière.”
‘Molière, really.’
In my original world, Molière was the stage name of Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, the famous French playwright and actor.
And amusingly, this world’s Molière was a famous actor too.
‘Though right now… he looks like nothing but a drunk.’
I tore my gaze away from the red-nosed man. I had no intention of approaching him.
I would make him come to me.
