The Shadow of Great Britain

Great Dumas originally wanted to make a few jokes, but seeing Mary’s expression stiffen, he held back.

To lighten the mood, he changed the topic: ”By the way, what books have you been reading lately?”

Little did he know that bringing up books would shatter the fragile composure Mary was maintaining.

”Books?” she repeated, her voice tense, as if a fishbone were stuck in her throat.

The eyes that had been striving to remain calm suddenly welled up with tears, like a floodgate had been opened.

”Alexander...” she softly called out Great Dumas’s name, ”You’re asking me what I’m reading... but now I hardly dare touch any book. Everywhere, in the streets, in bookstores, on newsstands, in salons and theaters, there are shadows of that book ’Beatrice’.”

”’Beatrice’?” Great Dumas was taken aback. He had heard of the book’s name, but unless someone pointed a gun at him, he would never consider reading it in his lifetime.

The reason was simple—it was the latest work from his nemesis, that despicable little fat man, Balzac.

But even so, Great Dumas couldn’t understand why Mary was crying because of a book by Balzac.

Great Dumas scratched his head, perplexed: ”I haven’t read the book, but I think, with Balzac’s ability, it shouldn’t be emotional enough to make people cry, should it?”

”Emotional?” Mary shook her head, her smile more bitter than her tears: ”No, Alexander, you’re wrong. The book wasn’t written to be touching; it was written to humiliate.”

She took a deep breath, as if finally finding the courage: ”Do you know? All of Paris is whispering now, saying that Beatrice in the book is actually me. Her pride, her capriciousness, her fall, her scandals, all of it...”

She sniffed, as if to steady herself, but her smile had already shattered: ”They’re all watching me, Alexander. You know, in Paris, even if people don’t speak, their eyes ask: ’Are you her?’ It feels as if I’ve been stripped bare, displayed on Balzac’s pages.”

Great Dumas didn’t know how to respond to this issue. One reason he preferred historical subjects was because writing modern themes often leads to people identifying themselves, causing unnecessary trouble.

He spoke to comfort her: ”Mary, although Balzac isn’t a good person, perhaps you’re being too sensitive on this issue. After all, Franz is very good friends with him. A few years ago, when Balzac was running a magazine, if it weren’t for Franz’s generous donations, the fourth issue would’ve been shut down due to lack of funds. And you are the most important lady to Franz. I don’t think that fat man would stoop so low.”

”No, Alexander, you don’t understand. Not everyone in this world is as kind-hearted and grateful as you.” Mary wiped her tears with her hand: ”If all of this were just a coincidence, Balzac wouldn’t have added in the novel’s preface: Anyone familiar with Parisian high society can see these character allusions.”

”What? He really wrote such a note in the book?” Great Dumas already had conflicts with Balzac, and hearing that the man would resort to such deceitful measures to boost sales made him quite angry: ”That guy Balzac always relies on exposing others’ secrets to grab attention. He can’t write real heroes, so he resorts to vilifying real people to make money. If he dares to step into my salon, I’d tear his drafts apart on the spot!”

Mary looked at Great Dumas in a daze, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

She hadn’t expected this famous and unrestrained playwright, renowned across Europe, to be so incensed over her matter.

Yet Great Dumas wasn’t appeased. He continued to curse: ”I always looked down on his so-called realism, all full of fairness, but only poking salt in people’s wounds. Does he think he can gain prestige in salons with that? Ridiculous! If exposing friends’ private matters could make one a literary giant, then even a random swineherd or a draftsman on a ship could become a writer!”

Great Dumas’s string of vociferous curses soon attracted a swineherd and a draftsman.

Arthur and Eld, side by side, walked over to Great Dumas with their wine glasses. Before Arthur could speak, Eld placed his glass on the table and scolded Great Dumas: ”Alexander, did you eat too much black bread today and your brain turn mushy?”

Great Dumas uncharacteristically did not engage in a verbal spar with Eld. Instead, he pulled them over and recounted the absurd tale he just heard to his two friends: ”You two judge for yourselves, is that short pumpkin full of malice doing anything human?”

Eld, slightly tipsy, joined in the cursing: ”Such a person on a ship should’ve had a mop stuffed into his mouth long ago!”

Great Dumas laughed heartily, yet still angrily pounded the table, cursing in a voice like a bell, drawing the attention of several nearby salon guests.

Only Arthur remained silent.

He simply watched the crying Mary, brows slightly furrowed.

A moment later, he took out a clean white handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and handed it to Mary. Observing her loose attire, he hesitated and asked: ”Are you...?”