The Shadow of Great Britain

However, outside the lively whirl, near the fireplace, there was a solitary figure.

Countess Mary de Dagu sat there, her attire still magnificent, her skirt trailing on the floor, pearl earrings shimmering faintly under the lights.

Yet a circle of emptiness surrounded her, as if even the air instinctively kept its distance.

People would see her, offer a vague nod and smile, but no one truly wanted to stop and engage her in conversation.

The corners of her eyes drooped slightly, and she gently closed the fan in her hand; her demeanor carried a hint of forced smile, anyone could see her isolated plight.

Although no one brought the matter out into the open, everyone was tacitly aware; ever since the news of her elopement with Liszt spread in Paris two years ago, her former standing in various social salons had shattered like a mirror.

Many noblewomen directly added her to the unwelcome list, while those who verbally expressed sympathy towards her did not publicly ban her from attending their salon events, but whenever Mary asked why she hadn’t received an invitation, most would just laugh awkwardly and dismiss it with excuses like ”accidentally forgot.”

Nowadays, in Paris, perhaps only a few generous hosts like Great Dumas were willing to welcome her.

But Great Dumas’s willingness to welcome her did not mean the guests attending the salon dances were willing to accept her.

Mary’s fingers gently caressed the handle of the fan, as if it were her only reliance at that moment.

The laughter and applause around filtered through intermittently, yet she always felt as if she were encased under a layer of transparent glass, with the discussions blurred and distant.

She understood that the glances, which occasionally flickered her way, held not kindness, but a subtle curiosity and indifference, as if she had become a living negative example — beautiful, passionate, yet failing to keep decorum.

The firelight from the fireplace cast her features pale, as the drape on her shoulder slipped a corner, and she couldn’t bother to fix it.

A waiter walked over with champagne, politely bowing slightly, yet didn’t begin the customary small talk he would with other noblewomen.

Mary took the glass, her fingertips trembling slightly, not daring to lift her gaze.

She suddenly regretted attending the salon hosted by Great Dumas; had it not been for Liszt suddenly returning to Paris from Geneva, she probably would never have set foot in this city again, which looked at her with different eyes.

It was at this moment that a hearty laugh pierced through the salon’s clamor.

This was the dramatic entrance style for which the salon host, Great Dumas, was known for; his stature was tall and formidable amidst the crowd, and the most popular playwright in Paris exchanged jokes with a few poets while walking — as he spoke, Great Dumas’s gaze shifted unexpectedly, capturing the lone figure by the fireplace.

He paused slightly, then apologized to the friends beside him, raising his glass as he approached her.

”Mary!” He stopped beside Mary, leaning slightly, half-jokingly said: ”What’s this, one of the evening’s main characters, sitting alone in the corner?”

Mary lifted her head, her eyes slightly red, as she barely managed to form a smile: ”Alexander, long time no see.”

Great Dumas glanced around, unable to help frowning: ”Where’s Franz? Didn’t he come with you today?”

While speaking, Great Dumas took out a pocket watch and glanced at it: ”That guy, he has simply no sense of time, agreed on eight o’clock, and it’s already half-past eight.”

”He...” Mary’s fingers suddenly tightened, the liquid in the glass gently swaying, she bit her lip as if forcibly enduring something: ”He said he has to rehearse a new piece... might be a little late...”