shadow of britain

Chapter 884 Was Hastings a third party in a relationship? Of course, I'm referring to the stage...

Alexandre Dumas originally wanted to make a few more jokes, but seeing that Mary's expression was a bit stiff, he held back.

To ease the tension, he changed the subject: "By the way, what books have you been reading lately?"

To everyone's surprise, it would have been better if Dumas hadn't brought up the topic. As soon as he mentioned the book, Mary's previously strained expression immediately crumbled.

"Book?" she repeated, her voice tight, as if a fishbone was stuck in her throat.

Those eyes that had been trying so hard to remain calm suddenly burst into tears, as if someone had opened a floodgate, and the tears slid down their eyelashes.

“Alexander…” she whispered the name of Alexandre Dumas. “You asked me what book I was reading… but now I almost dare not touch any book anymore. The shadow of that book, Beatrice, is everywhere—on the streets, in bookstores, newsstands, salons, and theaters.”

“Beateles?” Dumas was taken aback. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard of the book, but unless someone pointed a gun at him, Dumas probably would never have read it in his life.

The reason is simple: this book is the latest work by his arch-rival, that shameless little fat man, Balzac.

Even so, Dumas still couldn't understand why Marie Antoinette cried so much over a book by Balzac.

Dumas scratched his head, looking bewildered: "This... I haven't read the book yet, but I think that with Balzac's abilities, he probably couldn't have written a work so emotionally moving as to bring people to tears, right?"

“Emotional?” Mary shook her head, her smile more bitter than her tears. “No, Alexander, you’re wrong. That book wasn’t written to move people; it was written to humiliate them.”

She took a deep breath, as if finally mustering her courage: "You know what? All of Paris is whispering that Beatrice in the book is actually me. Her pride, her willfulness, her depravity, her scandals, all of it..."

She sniffed, as if trying to steady herself, but her smile had already shattered: "They're all looking at me, Alexandre. You know, in Paris, people don't say it, but their eyes are all asking: 'Are you her?' It's as if I've been stripped naked and placed on Balzac's pages."

Alexandre Dumas didn't know how to respond to this question either. Part of the reason he preferred historical subjects was precisely this: writing about modern subjects could easily make many people identify with the characters, thus causing a lot of unnecessary trouble.

He comforted her, saying, "Marie, although Balzac wasn't a good person, perhaps you're being too sensitive on this issue. After all, Franz and he were very good friends. A few years ago, when Balzac started his magazine, if it weren't for Franz's generous donation, the fourth issue would have had to be discontinued due to a lack of funds. And you are the most important woman to Franz; I don't think that fat man would go so far as to kick someone when they're down, would he?"

“No, Alexander, you don’t understand. Not everyone in this world is as kind-hearted and grateful as you.” Mary raised her hand to wipe away the tears on her face. “If all of this were just a coincidence, then Balzac wouldn’t have added in the footnote at the beginning of the novel: Anyone who knows Parisian high society can see the allusions in these characters.”

"What? He actually wrote such a footnote in the book?" Dumas and Balzac were already at odds, and hearing that the guy would resort to such a despicable act to boost sales made him quite angry: "That Balzac fellow always tries to grab attention by exposing other people's dirty secrets. He can't write about real heroes, so he has to rely on vilifying real people to make money. If he dares to walk into my salon, I'll tear up all his manuscripts on the spot!"

Mary stared at Dumas, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes.

She never expected that this renowned, unconventional playwright from Europe would be so angry about something so trivial.

But Alexandre Dumas wasn't satisfied. He continued his tirade: "I've always despised his self-proclaimed realism, all talk of fairness and justice, yet he only knows how to rub salt into other people's wounds. Does he think he can gain prestige in salons this way? What a joke! If one can become a literary giant by betraying friends' private affairs, then any random pig farmer from the countryside or a draftsman from a ship could become a writer!"

Alexandre Dumas's series of loud shouts and curses quickly attracted the swineherd and the illustrator.

Arthur and Elder walked side by side with their wine glasses in hand to Dumas. Before Arthur could even speak, Elder slammed his glass on the table and began to berate Dumas: "Alexander, did you eat too much black bread today? Your brain is all chewed up like mush."

For once, Dumas did not engage in a verbal battle with Elder. Instead, he pulled the two of them aside and recounted the strange and outlandish theories he had just heard to his two friends: "You two be the judge. That short, chubby Balzac is full of bad ideas. Is he even human?"

Slightly drunk, Elder joined in the cursing: "If this kind of person were on a ship, he'd have a mop stuffed in his mouth by now!"

Upon hearing this, Dumas burst into laughter, but still slammed his fist on the table in anger, shouting so loudly that it drew the attention of several salon guests nearby.

Only Arthur remained silent.

He simply watched Mary weep silently, his brows furrowed slightly.

A moment later, he took a clean white handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Mary. He glanced at her loose clothing and hesitated before asking, "Are you...?"

Before Arthur could finish speaking, he saw Mary's shoulders tremble slightly.

She reached out and took the handkerchief, but instead of wiping her tears immediately, she clenched it tightly in her hand, her knuckles turning white.

After a long silence, she took advantage of the moment when Elder and Dumas turned away and whispered in an almost inaudible voice, "It's been six months..."

Arthur frowned, then nudged Alexandre Dumas's elbow: "Let's find a quiet place. It's not good to make a big fuss about this."

Dumas understood immediately: "The recreation room is empty, let's go there."

Arthur nodded and quickly and naturally took Mary's arm.

Dumas walked behind, joking gruffly with the surrounding guests: "Is there anything else you'd like to eat? I'll go to the back and tell the chef to order more."

Mary was half-helped and half-supported as she was led out of the hall, through the corridor, and pushed open the heavy oak door of the recreation room, where the air was filled with the smell of wood and red wine.

The recreation room contained only a few small round tables and a sofa against the wall, with the curtains drawn halfway down to block out the noise from outside.

The moment the door closed, it was as if the whole world fell silent.

Dumas very gentlemanly pulled out a chair, patted the backrest, and said, “Come, Mary, sit down first. Don’t be afraid, it’s just Balzac, isn’t it? We’re all here.”

"Thank you, Alexander, and..."

Mary was still trying her best to maintain the last shred of dignity, clutching her handkerchief tightly in her palm, her knuckles white, her chest rising and falling, as if she was still trying to suppress her tears.

But finally, a certain string snapped in silence.

She suddenly bent over, as if crushed by an invisible burden. The handkerchief in her hand was crumpled, her forehead pressed against her knuckles, and a suppressed sob escaped her throat.

The sobbing started as a low tremor, like the night wind, but in the next instant, it suddenly exploded into a heart-wrenching cry.

Tears could no longer be controlled and streamed down her face, wetting her hands, clothes, and finally falling to the floor.

"Why... why me of all people?" The cry was neither elegant nor reserved, but rather a naked despair.

Mary finally broke down completely, choking back tears and barely able to speak.

“You know what, Alexander… after that book came out, I didn’t sleep for two whole nights. Everyone was laughing and pointing fingers!”

The only sounds in the room were her sobs and the crackling of burning firewood; even Dumas and Elder fell completely silent.

She hugged herself tightly, her fingertips almost digging into her skin: "The ridiculous thing is, I went to Franz crying... Do you know what he said to me?"

She raised her wet eyes, her gaze filled with anger and despair: "He said the story was true, but that didn't mean the people in the book were him or me. He even laughed at me, laughed at me for being too sensitive. He said, 'Is your name in the book? Is your address in the book? Is your house number in the book? No, right? So why are you crying?'"

Her shoulders trembled violently: "How can I not cry? I'm six months pregnant with his child! But all he thinks about all day is his musical duel with Talberg and his rivalry with Hastings on stage!"

Mary's crying gradually subsided, and she slumped against the back of the chair, feeling utterly drained.

The room was extremely quiet, with only the occasional crackling of firewood coming from the fireplace.

Dumas was about to go over and offer a few words of comfort, but before he could take a step, Elder tugged at his pants and pulled him back. The fat man was about to get angry when he saw Arthur step forward.

"I'm sorry... Madam."

Mary's eyelashes still clung to tears as she struggled to lift her head, seemingly startled by the words: "Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for, sir. It is Franz who should apologize. The fact that you gentlemen are willing to listen to my trivial complaints is a great help to me. I should be apologizing to you for disturbing your enjoyment tonight."

"But……"

The air was quiet for a moment.

Arthur added softly, "But, madam... I am Hastings, the one who competed with Mr. Lister for his affections on stage."

Mary was completely stunned.

Her eyes widened instantly, her face filled with disbelief, followed by a surge of embarrassment and shame that flushed her pale cheeks.

"You...you are..." She stammered, momentarily speechless, hurriedly covering her flushed cheeks with a handkerchief, and stammered, "Please forgive me, sir! I...what I said before was absolutely not directed at you! You are an outstanding pianist, almost on par with Franz, I...I just..."

She spoke rapidly, with a hint of panic, as if afraid that she might say something inappropriate in her grief and offend the person in front of her.

Arthur simply looked at her calmly, without a trace of anger on his face, but instead smiled and said, "If these words make you feel better, I don't mind if you say a few more."

Mary's face flushed red; the grievances that had welled up from her earlier feelings of humiliation and isolation had now turned into shyness and unease.

“I…I really didn’t mean to offend you. I just…I just feel like I’m living in a joke.”

Arthur did not respond immediately. Instead, he stood up, took an empty glass from beside the fireplace, slowly poured some red wine, and placed it beside her: "Madam, it is always better to live in a joke than in a tragedy, because compared to tragedy, a joke can at least bring people temporary happiness."

Mary reached out and took the glass, her hands trembling slightly. "Thank you... thank you, Mr. Hastings."

Dumas, unable to stand it any longer, interjected gruffly, "Mary, don't be afraid. If these literary scoundrels dare to bully you, they'll be in for a few bullets from us!"

"By the way," Elder suddenly interjected, "Arthur really did eat it, but he was lucky and survived."

Mary was stunned for a moment, not realizing what was happening until Dumas burst out laughing, at which point she realized Elder had made a joke.

She wasn't used to making others feel awkward, so she laughed along. But as soon as the laughter came out, she realized that laughing at this moment seemed disrespectful to the esteemed Mr. Hastings, so she immediately stopped.

Mary hurriedly covered her lips with a handkerchief, as if she had done something inappropriate: "I'm sorry! Mr. Hastings, I didn't... I didn't mean to. You almost lost your life because of that, and I... I laughed out loud because of a joke. It's so inappropriate, please forgive me..."

“It’s alright, madam.” Arthur simply smiled and raised his hand to indicate that she didn’t need to worry. He pointed to a spot slightly to the left of his chest: “The bullet went through here. It hit my ribs first, then got stuck at the entrance to my heart. It felt like someone had struck my chest with a scorching hot iron rod. When I fell, all the surrounding sounds faded away, and all I could hear was my heartbeat, thump… thump…”

Arthur took a sip of red wine, as if trying to wash away the lingering smell of gunpowder in his memories: "So, madam, you don't need to feel guilty about the laughter. Laughter never offends the dead; it only proves that we are still alive."

“You…” Mary stared blankly at Arthur, her fingers gripping the wine glass loosening. “You are a really… strange person.”

Alexandre Dumas laughed heartily and said, "Strange? That's exactly what's strange. How could a normal person be jealous of Franz on stage?"

“Alexander…” Mary was amused by Dumas’s joke. She shook her head reproachfully, her voice finally lightening: “Do you have to joke like this at a time like this?”

Alexandre Dumas spread his arms wide, making an exaggerated gesture: "What else? Are you going to make us all cry with you? This is an entertainment room, not a funeral scene."

"A funeral?" Upon hearing this, Elder instinctively began to mock Dumas: "You talk as if you've been there yourself."

Alexandre Dumas showed no sign of admitting defeat: "What? Haven't I been there before? The last time I participated was..."

Seeing that the two of them were about to bring up his old troubles again, Arthur quickly said, "Alexander, jokes can be funny, but there are some things we still need to figure out."

He turned to Mary and asked softly, “Madam, to be honest, I just finished reading Balzac’s ‘Beatrice’ a couple of days ago. Forgive my bluntness… but this book doesn’t seem like a story made up out of thin air. Instead, it’s full of… incredible… details. Details that would be hard to grasp without firsthand experience.”

Arthur's words were not made up, because anyone who reads this book and knows about the relationship between Liszt and Marie would find it hard not to associate this novel, which tells the story of "the female writer Beatrice abandoning her husband and children to elope with the younger musician Conte," with the two of them.

“Sir, you’re right… those details couldn’t have been Balzac’s own idea.” Marie’s gaze fell to the floor as she murmured to herself, “I’ve always had a suspicion. If I had to say who was secretly passing the message… I think it was probably George Sand.”

Upon hearing this, Alexandre Dumas was stunned for a moment, nearly dropping his wine glass: "What? That crazy woman?!"

Marie gave a bitter laugh, her voice trembling: "You might think I'm petty, but think about it carefully, who else could it be but her? You all know about her relationship with Franz. That woman is like a witch, bewitching him with her strange and outlandish theories. She roams the salons of Paris, daring to say and write anything. What's worse, Franz himself sometimes half-believes her words, taking them as truth. How could Balzac, a grown man, describe my clothes, my habits, even the fragments of words I uttered during an argument one night, so clearly? Besides Franz, only a few close friends know these things. And George Sand, she always pesters me, pretending to confide in me, pretending to care about me, trying to get information out of me. You all know very well how many times she wrote to Balzac. Tell me, if it's not her, then who else could it be?"

(End of this chapter)