The Shadow of Great Britain

280: Chapter 187: The Devil’s Contract Spirit (4k6) 280: Chapter 187: The Devil’s Contract Spirit (4k6) In the dark corner of the Coburg Theatre’s grand hall, Victor reached into his bodice to pull out his pocket watch, opened the gilded cover, and saw the hour hand pointing exactly at eight o’clock.

He looked up at the already overcrowded and fully seated theatre hall, occasionally hearing the sonorous and mournful sounds of orchestral music playing in his ears.

In the center of the stage, the musicians from the London Philharmonic Association played their orchestral instruments—organs, string instruments, flutes, oboes—shining a golden brilliance under the chandeliers above the hall.

And in the lounge next to the aisle, several priests dressed in religious attire could be seen; they would pray and preach between the first and second parts of the “St.

Matthew Passion.”

But none of that mattered because, at this very moment, all of today’s guests were focused on the center of the stage, where stood none other than Mendelssohn in his tailcoat, with a faint smile on his lips, his eyes closed.

He held his baton as if in a trance, and with each movement of his arms and the rise and fall of his baton, the choristers from Westminster, clad in spotless white robes, chanted the arias rhythmically.

This young pianist and conductor, renowned throughout Europe, commanded the attention of countless members of the opposite sex with his overflowing musical talent and dashing appearance as soon as he appeared.

And those ladies seated in the front row, hardcore fans of Mendelssohn, could not help but press their hands against their pounding hearts, lamenting, “I can think of no better fate in this world than to die in the arms of Mr.

Mendelssohn, after succumbing to consumption, with that hauntingly beautiful pale face.”

Perhaps it was the ladies’ laments that had an effect, as the subtle smile on Mendelssohn’s face gradually faded, replaced by a growing sense of pain and sorrow at the corners of his mouth.

As his baton sharply rose into the air, the choir’s alto began her aria, “Repentance and guilt, tearing this sinful heart into two halves.

May my tears, be worthy to anoint You, faithful Jesus, repentance and guilt…”

Just then, the priest who had been waiting in the aisle stepped forward with the “Bible” in his hands, placing it over his heart, following the chant, “Later, one of the twelve disciples, called Judas, went to the chief priests and said…”

The bass portraying Judas continued the chant, “What are you willing to give me if I deliver Him to you?”

The priest continued in a low hum, “So they paid him thirty silver coins.

From then on, he looked for an opportunity to hand Jesus over.”

With a mournful voice and a sorrowful tone, the soprano lamented, “Let the blood in my heart flow.

Alas, a child you have raised, who once suckled at your breast, has turned into a venomous snake, claiming it will kill its nurturer.

Let it flow…”

Leaning against the wall, Vakul couldn’t help spitting on the ground and muttered lowly, “Damn it, who are they cursing?

Who said this job pays thirty silver coins?

This is sixty thousand Francs, a fortune in gold.

Are they singing this because of us?

Boss, has the plan been exposed?”

Upon hearing this, Victor glanced at him and said, “Vakul, you should learn some culture when you’re free.

They are singing about Judas.”

“Ah…

so it’s Judas!” Vakul replied, his face showing embarrassment as he scrambled to save face, “I thought they were singing about Holy Mary.”

Victor gave him an annoyed look, “Forget it, I won’t bother explaining so much to you; just do your job, and leave the thinking to me.

We’re clear on tonight’s program; after the ‘St.

Matthew Passion’, comes Mr.

Hastings’s ‘Bells’.

We’ll take this time to locate Mr.

Dumas’s hiding spot and act immediately when Mr.

Hastings is about to take the stage.”

Upon hearing this, Vakul immediately felt troubled, “But, boss, that’s a tight timeline.

You want me to find the man during one song?

That’s asking too much.”

Victor looked at his unimpressive subordinate and almost wished he could slap him across the face, “Idiot!

The ‘St.

Matthew Passion’ lasts for two to three hours.

If you can’t get it done in that time, I’ll cook you myself.”

Vakul broke out in a cold sweat from the boss’s intimidating manner.

He quickly tried to pacify Victor’s anger while giving a thumbs-up, “Boss, the fact that you even know this, no wonder everyone says you’re not like a common thug at all, so cultured, so cultured!”

Upon hearing this, Victor, infuriated, reached his hand under Vakul’s skirt and forcefully yanked out nearly two pounds of cotton, “Now get going!”

Vakul scrambled away, keeping a hand on his half-exposed backside as he scampered up the stairway to the second-floor box.

As he went, he continued to mutter a complaint, “Leave some for me at least, without the cotton, even a slight breeze is damned chilly.”

Hearing this, Victor was even more enraged, murmuring a curse, “Son of a bitch, if it weren’t for all the smart ones being disobedient, why would I have to work with a bunch of donkeys?

Had I known all thugs were this stupid, I would’ve just grabbed someone in London!”

As Victor seethed below, in a second-floor box above his head, the Great Dumas and Tom, tied with ropes, sat side by side in chairs, enjoying the most prestigious music event in all of Britain.