"She gently reached her hand into the thicket of flowers, her fingers closing around a single, vibrant red rose—a gift presented by the Duc de Choiseul upon his return from Holland.*
The tiny thorns on the rose's stem pricked her hand, but she did not feel them.
Snapping the stem, she lifted the crimson rose. Tiny droplets of blood, as if seeping from the flower itself, fell one by one from the stalk, nourishing the earth with their vivid red.
The rose was brought gently to her moist, red lips. For a moment, it was impossible to tell which was redder, the flower or her lips. Savoring the fresh fragrance, still touched with morning dew, she absently recalled those hazy, intoxicating scenes.
An unhappy childhood, entering the court at nineteen, the monarch's favor, the court banquets, the splendid ceremonies—scene after scene flashed before her eyes like a revolving lantern, then vanished into the boundless void. The things she wished to forget, the things she wished to remember, all vanished into that endless emptiness. What lay at the end of that void? Was it the Almighty Father, waiting there for her?
The memories gradually faded. She gazed at the slowly rising sun. The crimson clouds and the crimson rose intertwined before her eyes, becoming inseparable.
It must be almost time, she thought to herself.
The end was coming. Yes, no one could escape this end. Everything would return to nothingness here.
A smile slowly blossomed on her face, which had grown gaunt from illness. A final surge of life brought a flush of color to her pale cheeks.
She gathered her final thoughts, looked up at the azure sky, and then...
Everything returned to nothingness."
Historical Note: The Duc de Choiseul was a famous minister during the reign of Louis XV. He entered politics with the help of the king's favorite mistress, the Marquise de Pompadour, and was eventually made a duke for his service. He held positions as Foreign Minister, Minister of the Navy, and Minister of War, wielding immense power during the era.
Charles wrote furiously, intending to finish the book's ending tonight. The Bluestocking had already pressed him several times, and if he didn't deliver the manuscript soon, she was likely to show up at his door to demand it.
He had agonized for several days trying to give the book a beautiful conclusion, but he still couldn't come up with a good enough ending. The one he had just written still left him dissatisfied.
Readers' tastes were becoming more and more discerning lately. If he simply ended it with a slapdash cliché, it would probably be difficult to get any more money out of them in the future. He had to wrap it up with a beautiful finish.
Should it be more artistic and literary, or should he focus on being more sentimental and melodramatic? The more Charles thought about it, the more his head ached.
He looked up at the clock on the study wall. It was almost twelve.
Forget it, I'll think about it tomorrow. It's so late... He let out a soft yawn.
Just as he stood up, preparing to extinguish the lamp and leave, a gentle knock sounded at the study door.
"Who is it?" Charles asked softly, then got up to open the door.
Forlan walked in, wearing her nightgown and carrying a cup of coffee.
"Forlan, why aren't you asleep yet?" Charles asked gently.
"I saw you were still in here at this hour and thought you must be tired," his sister said, looking at him. "So I made you a cup of coffee, to help you stay awake."
"Oh, well thank you very much!" Charles took the slightly hot coffee cup and placed it on the desk.
He suddenly felt a lump in his throat.
How long has it been since this girl was so considerate?
Was it two years ago, or one? I can't even remember.
"Thank you. But you should hurry and get to bed," Charles said, looking at his sister with affection.
Forlan's reaction was a bit unusual. Her gaze flickered, moving over her brother, and her face showed a rare hesitation and shyness.
"Thank you..." the slightly blushing girl said suddenly.
"Hmm?" Charles was surprised, but a moment later, he understood. "Did Mademoiselle Léaurand return today?"
"Yes," Forlan nodded lightly. "She came back to class today, but she kept thanking me. I told her it was all you who helped her..."
"I imagine she knows," Charles replied flatly. "Alright, it's all in the past now. Nothing more to be said about it. How is she doing now?"
He didn't tell Forlan about the thirty-thousand-franc deal.
"She's rented a place outside and is living alone now. After something like this, I suppose she doesn't want to live with those family members anymore..." Forlan's gaze was still a bit distant. "Oh, how can a family become like this? It's all money's fault!"
"My dear, how could money possibly be at fault?" Charles's face grew serious. "The one who errs is man; it is man's greed. For a man to commit a despicable act and then blame it on money, is that not even more despicable?"
"Alright," Forlan lowered her head.
"However, since we have the chance today, there's something I wanted to talk to you about," Charles said, remembering something.
"What is it?"
"This friend of yours is not as pure and flawless as you imagine," Charles said, staring intently at his sister. "On the contrary, she is an extremely clever lady. I knew it from the first moment I read her letter. She wrote it that way to evoke your sympathy and induce you to help her."
Forlan continued to look down.
"You have a kind heart, and that is a good thing. I'm not blaming you. But if you assume that everyone has a kind heart because of it, that is a great folly, and it will cause you to suffer greatly," Charles admonished his sister in a gentle voice, then took a sip of coffee. "But thankfully you still have your brother. He will do his best to help you, to help you avoid those hidden reefs."
Forlan kept her head down.
Charles felt a pang of regret. Why did he have to tell her these things? Couldn't he have just watched from the sidelines and stepped in if a problem arose?
"Don't misunderstand, I'm not..."
"I know," Forlan, who had been looking down, suddenly said in a low voice. "I've known all along."
"Hmm?"
"I knew..." Forlan looked up, smiling at her brother. "Marie wrote that letter, making herself sound so pitiful, to arouse my sympathy and get me to rescue her..."
"Judging from the outcome, her goal seems to have been achieved," Charles replied impassively.
"Yes, perhaps I was moved and used by her words, and threw myself into achieving her goal without a second thought..." An unreadable emotion was added to Forlan's smile. "But... but if I had ignored her back then, what would have happened...? In that situation she was in, she still thought of me, she believed I would help her... Sir, how could I possibly have ignored her then?"
"That's true," Charles nodded. "The young lady didn't have much money with her, so the number of people she could bribe was quite limited. Choosing the recipient of her letter was therefore extremely important. The fact that she thought of you first... I suppose she has good judgment."
"You say she's manipulative, but in her situation, what sin is there in being manipulative! Fate has played such a trick on her, what choice did she have? If her own brother had been able to help her, why would she have had to go to such trouble?" Forlan looked up, defending her friend. "It is fate that forces us to be this way."
Charles looked at his slightly agitated sister and suddenly realized she had a very good point. He nodded. "You are right. Not every girl has a responsible brother." Then, he took another sip of coffee.
His self-praise annoyed Forlan.
"And not every brother lectures his sister with boring platitudes every day," she said, puffing out her cheeks.
"Haha... alright..." Charles laughed. "Fine, let's not talk about such boring things. Your brother's head is all muddled right now..."
"Achoo!" Forlan suddenly sneezed.
"What's wrong?" Charles was startled, then looked closely at his sister, who was wearing only a thin cashmere nightgown. "You shouldn't stay out for long when you're dressed so thinly. Hurry back to bed!"
"Alright," Forlan agreed to her brother's request and turned to leave.
After his sister left, Charles sat at his desk and continued to brainstorm, but after a moment, his mind still felt like a tangled mess, unable to produce any inspiration.
Sigh, I'd better just get to sleep. In the end, his creativity exhausted, Charles chose to give up.
He finished the rest of the coffee, then extinguished the lamp and walked back to his bedroom.
Perhaps because he had overworked his brain today, or perhaps because of the coffee, Charles still found it difficult to fall asleep after lying down. His mind kept turning over the ending of his book.
Words tumbled in his mind, constantly combining and breaking apart, line after line of dialogue flashing through his head.
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck. A few lines, finally pieced together, appeared before him. If I write it like this...
Yes! Yes! Just like that!
Ignoring his body's fatigue, Charles quickly got out of bed and went to the study, ready to record the new ending he had just conceived.
So as not to wake anyone, he picked up a candlestick and quietly walked down the stairs toward the study.
However, when Charles gently opened the study door, he saw a sight he would perhaps never forget for the rest of his life.
His sister, Forlan, was sitting in his chair, engrossed in the manuscript he had just written. Her face was so red it looked as if it could bleed, her sapphire-blue eyes were shrouded in a thin mist, and there were faint traces of tears having streaked down from the corners of her eyes.
This! How could this be!
Charles's mind was roaring.
As a great and glorious transmigrator, he had always been deeply ashamed of being reduced to writing this kind of female-oriented court intrigue novel to make money. He had therefore kept it a closely guarded secret from his sister and everyone else. And his sister had never seemed to care what he was writing; she had never, not once, asked.
He had never imagined that he would see such a scene today.
"Uh..." The immense shock made Charles let out a gasp.
A moment later, his consciousness returned, and he stifled his cry.
But it was too late.
Hearing the sound, Forlan looked up and saw her brother, his eyes wide, staring at her in utter disbelief.
She froze, the blush instantly draining from her face, leaving only a jade-like pallor.
"Uh..." Charles didn't know what to say, looking awkwardly at his sister.
A moment later, he managed to utter a single phrase. "Good evening..."
A hundred times faster than it had disappeared, the blush once again enveloped his sister's face. Tears seemed to be gathering in her eyes again.
"Sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't know you were here... Actually, I..." Charles didn't even know what he was saying, just rambling on. "If... if I... but..."
"Are you satisfied now!" his sister stood up, her tone so fierce and severe that Charles felt as if he had never heard it before.
"Well..." Charles still didn't know what to say, but finally, he thought of something. "Go to bed early, don't catch a cold... okay..."
"Are you satisfied now!" That look—the look of staring at a dirty, ruined canvas—returned to Forlan's eyes. Blue flames seemed capable of burning everything to ash.
Suddenly, she rushed toward the door with incredible speed, bumping Charles's shoulder so hard he couldn't even dodge in time. "I'm going to bed! Don't bother me!"
Charles stared blankly at the messy desk, his mind a complete blank.
After a good while, he suddenly remembered why he had come back to the study.
Damn it, I've forgotten what I was thinking!
His head began to ache again.
Forget it. I'll just go back to sleep.