Chapter 16
Part 5. Le Citon
Ten days later, at the Gustlick Mansion.
The Gustlick Mansion, known as the final masterpiece of the renowned architect Guesto, possessed a singular structure that defied conventional styles. The main building did not follow a standard rectangular form but curved gracefully like a rainbow; to reach its grand entrance, one had to traverse a central garden—reminiscent of a gladiatorial arena—encircled by the sweeping arc of the edifice.
“It seems we find ourselves here every time lately.”
Mauve curtains, light and ethereal, swayed gently in the passing breeze.
In the first-floor drawing room of the main wing, five young men were idling away the hours. This gathering was a private social circle known as ‘Le Citon.’ Though it had been established years ago as an assembly for the scions of noble houses who graduated from the Royal Niccolo Academy, it now served the simple purpose of camaraderie.
“It is a pleasant view, is it not?”
Seated upon a turquoise sofa angled against the eastern wall was a strikingly handsome man with honey-gold hair, porcelain skin, and emerald eyes. He was Francois I. Coquelin—the Crown Prince of Beloff and the very Francois of whom much was spoken.
The second prince of the Beloff royalty and the heir apparent. He was twenty-four this year.
“I suspect it is less about the ‘pleasant view’ and more about the ‘ideal vantage point’ for surveillance.”
A tall man with chestnut hair murmured as he brushed past Francois toward the sideboard. There was no detectable malice or aggression in his tone. His neatly fastened khaki vest shimmered with a polished sheen.
Baron Cobain L. Lombardi.
Since the decline of the Privy Council, he was known to exert the most significant clandestine influence over the Beloff Ministry of State. Hailing from the eastern mining city of Durumbel, he had studied law at the Royal Niccolo Academy. However, the talent he truly unearthed at the academy was a professional connoisseur’s eye for the arts. He was the founder of the ‘Provenance Art Society,’ one of the five major organizations of the Royal Academy.
At twenty-five, he was the eldest of the group.
“Give it up; I am certain to triumph this time.”
“My apologies, but this Henri’s hobbies and talents have never included the word ‘surrender.’”
Behind the sofa where Francois sat stood a marble table with a vivid, pebbled grain. To the right of the table sat a red-haired youth with one leg crossed sloppily over his knee, a brown-haired man puffing on a cigar, and the platinum-blonde beauty, Lionel Yorkshire, all with cards spread before them.
The red-haired youth, leaning forward with his gaze fixed intently on the cards, spoke with a sneer.
“Does a ‘specialization’ even hold meaning in this age? One wakes up to find that yesterday’s common sense has become today’s refuse. I heard even the Gepetta Company’s discovery of the Great Sea Route was a fabrication? I knew as much. Think about it. Jean-Luc, the chairman of Gepetta, is merely teaching us that giving up isn’t always a tragedy. Had he abandoned the search for the route sooner, he wouldn’t have resorted to such pathetic and fragile forgeries. The world is in an uproar.”
The news regarding the Gepetta Company had been published in the Buchanan Times just yesterday morning.
Archibald Ackbert.
This loquacious youth, with his red hair swept up in a rakish style, was the third son of Count Ackbert, a family that possessed a vast manor in the central Beloff region of Le Pêcheterie and an equally sprawling sheep ranch. He had turned twenty-four just last month.
Despite his frequent pessimistic remarks and volatile temperament, he possessed a peculiar tendency to be swindled. He fell for ruse after ruse, and his explanation for his lack of growth was his quickness to give up. He simply abandoned the effort of self-reflection or anger as quickly as he abandoned everything else.
He was the most notorious misfit in the history of the Royal Niccolo Academy—not for a lack of intellect, but due to his reckless habit of yielding whenever things grew difficult.
“I see what you are trying to say, you fool, but this controversy is ultimately about the integrity of the academic world. It isn’t about the truth of Chairman Jean-Luc’s discovery or a reflection on the sailors who risk their lives for the route.”
The youth with brown hair and a bright, charming countenance was Henri M. Buchanan. He was the eldest son of the Buchanan family, which owned two famous trading firms and a newspaper in Beloff. He was the namesake of the Buchanan Times. He was twenty-three.
Beneath his cheerful face and refined demeanor lay a daring young man who might have sold his soul to the gods of gambling—and perhaps already had, several times over.
As for his history at the Academy, he had maintained respectable grades until he was nearly expelled for operating a private gambling den on campus. He eventually graduated properly after two more years of penance, which involved re-sodding the lawns and donating an entire building.
“The troubles of academia are one thing, but it remains a fact that the man must face a severe sentence from the Court of Cassation. All because he could not give up in time. If everyone knew when to yield, such dishonesties would never occur. They are but pitiful lambs who fail to realize that ‘resignation’ is the only escape God granted us… much like the two gentlemen sitting before me.”
Having uttered this gallant nonsense, Archibald played a card. Henri sneered, “Is that all you have after such grand posturing?” and immediately drew and played a card. It was significantly higher than Archibald’s, causing the latter’s confidence to waver.
“Archi, is that why you gave up ‘that inheritance’ so absurdly?”
“I merely exchanged it for art of a higher value. And I preserved my fraternal bonds.”
“Idiot.”
It was the sophisticated Francois who joined Henri in his blunt assessment. Leaning his chin back against the sofa, Francois spoke with a faint smile.
“Indeed, on that matter, I find myself in complete agreement with Henri. Exchanging the Peary Castle and the unfinished works of Musot for a few million livres is quite preposterous. It feels like a total inversion of value… as if you have personally caused the currency to devaluate.”
“It is not Peary Castle, but Pre-y Castle, Your Highness. And surely you know there are many things in this world that money cannot buy? History is one of them. I am merely investing in artifacts that possess a priceless history that wealth cannot procure. If you lack even that much artistic sensibility, you might as well hang yourself.”
“I only spoke out of concern for you… You are sentenced to death.”
“Oh, please, Your Highness. Grant me your mercy just this once.”
Archibald replied in an exaggerated tone, twisting his face into a comical grimace while rubbing his hands together like a fly. Henri watched Archibald’s lack of sincerity with disdain, before realizing their game had stalled and turning his head.
“It is your turn, Lio.”
Lionel Yorkshire sat diagonally from Henri, elbows on the table, staring at his cards… but he did not move a muscle. “Lio?” He was clearly not focused on the game. He was simply sitting there.
“Hey, you.”
Archibald, ever the provocateur, waved a hand in front of him. Lionel remained unresponsive, lost in some profound depth of thought.
As the saying goes, ‘a vessel that leaks inside will leak outside,’ and ‘one who is handsome abroad is handsome at home.’ Even to his long-time friends, Lionel’s beauty often seemed otherworldly. His face appeared sculpted from every angle. While such delicate features on a man might polarize opinions, Lionel possessed a ruggedness that defied such contradictions. Archibald, in particular, occasionally felt a sense of allure from the seductive depth of Lionel’s pensive gaze.
Archibald, watching Lionel intently with his chin propped on his hand, whispered:
“If I were a woman, I would have been impregnated by him just now.”
“Ugh.”
Henri made a gagging sound, but Francois, who had turned completely around in his seat, added smoothly:
“Archibald bearing Lionel’s child… if I could witness that, I would even sell Lenore’s Monument.”
At that moment, Lionel let out a soft sigh and placed his cards face down. Glancing through half-closed eyes at Archibald and then at Francois, he looked back at Archibald and smiled.
“Stop talking rot…”
“You heard us, then?”
Francois asked with a chuckle, but Lionel denied it with a cold smirk.
“Hardly… but Your Highness knows that if you truly desired it, I could make Archibald believe he had conceived all on his own.”
“Your loyalty never fails to delight me.”
“I am charmed that you recognize it.”
