Free Web NovelChapter 2037: Chapter 194: Is Hastings Considered a Third Party Interfering? Of Course, I Mean on Stage (2)
Before Arthur finished speaking, he saw Mary’s shoulders trembling gently.
She reached out to take the handkerchief but didn’t immediately wipe her tears. Instead, she clutched it tightly in her palm, her knuckles turning white.
For a long time, she finally took advantage of the moment when Eld and the Great Dumas turned around, whispering in a voice almost inaudible: "It’s been six months..."
Arthur’s brow was tightly furrowed, and then he raised his hand to touch the Great Dumas’s elbow: "Let’s find a quieter place. It’s not good for this to get out of hand."
The Great Dumas understood: "The lounge is empty, let’s go there."
Arthur nodded, swiftly and naturally supporting Mary’s arm.
The Great Dumas walked behind, joking coarsely with the surrounding guests: "Is there anything else you’d like to eat? I’ll tell the chef to bring more."
Mary was half-supported and half-guided out of the hall, through the corridor, and pushed open the heavy oak door of the lounge, where the air was filled with the scent of wood and red wine.
The lounge had only a few small round tables and a sofa against the wall, with the curtains half-drawn, blocking out the noise from outside.
The moment the door closed, it seemed as if the whole world had quieted down.
The Great Dumas gentlemanly pulled out a chair and patted its back: "Come, Mary, sit down first. Don’t worry, it’s only Balzac. We’re all here."
"Thank you, Alexander, and..."
Mary, who was still striving to maintain the last shred of dignity, clutched the handkerchief tightly in her palm, her knuckles white, her chest rising and falling, as if still trying to hold back the tears.
But finally, a certain string snapped in the silence.
She suddenly bent forward, as if an invisible burden had crushed her, the handkerchief in her hand crumpled and wrinkled, her forehead pressing against her knuckles, a stifled sob escaping from her throat.
That sob started as a low tremor, like a night wind, but in the next moment, it exploded into a heart-wrenching cry.
The tears were no longer controllable, streaming from the corners of her eyes, wetting her hand, her bodice, until they fell to the floor.
"Why... why does it have to be me?"
The cry was anything but graceful, not reserved, but raw and desperate.
Mary’s emotions finally completely collapsed, she choked, almost unable to speak.
"Do you know, Alexander... after that book came out, I didn’t sleep for two whole nights. They all laughed, all pointed and sneered!"
In the room, only her sobs and the crackling of burning wood intermingled, even the Great Dumas and Eld fell utterly silent.
She hugged herself tightly, her fingertips almost digging into her skin: "The ridiculous part is, I cried and went to Franz... do you know how he responded?"
She raised her tear-streaked eyes, anger and despair shining under the tears: "He said the story was indeed true, but that doesn’t mean the people in the book are him or me. He even laughed at me, said I was too sensitive. He said, ’Is your name in the book? Is your address there? Is your house number there? No, right. So why are you crying?’"
Her shoulders suddenly shook: "But how could I not cry? I’m carrying his child, six months already! Yet all he thinks about every day is his musical duel with Talberg, his rivalry with Hastings on the stage!"
Mary’s sobbing gradually subsided, she seemed drained, collapsed against the chair back.
The room was extremely quiet, only the occasional crackling of wood from the fireplace.
The Great Dumas was about to step forward to comfort her, but before he could move, Eld tugged at his trousers, pulling him back. The plump man was about to get angry when he saw Arthur already approaching.
"I’m sorry... madam."
Mary’s eyelashes were still wet with tears, she struggled to lift her head, seeming startled by the words: "Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for, sir. The one who truly needs to apologize is Franz. The fact that you gentlemen are willing to listen to my trivial complaints is already a great help to me. It’s I who should apologize to you, for disturbing your night’s enjoyment."
"But..."
The air was silent for a moment.
Arthur gently continued: "But, madam... I am the Hastings who is vying on stage with Mr. Liszt."
Mary was completely stunned.
Her eyes widened instantly, filled with disbelief, and then a wave of embarrassment and shame surged to her cheeks, turning the pallor from her crying to red.
"You... you are..." She was momentarily at a loss for words, hurriedly using the handkerchief to cover her flushed face, stammering in defense: "Please forgive me, sir! I... I had no intention of targeting you with those words! You are a remarkable pianist, almost as famous as Franz, I... I just..."
Her speech was rapid, somewhat panicked, as if afraid of once again saying something out of grief that would offend this person in front of her.
Yet Arthur only looked at her calmly, not showing any anger, but instead with a smile: "If saying those words makes you feel better, I don’t mind if you say a few more."
Mary’s face turned crimson, the indignation and isolation-driven grievance she felt moments ago now transforming into embarrassment and awkwardness.
"I... I really didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just... just that I feel like I’m living in a joke."
Arthur did not immediately respond but stood up, fetched an empty glass from beside the fireplace, leisurely poured a bit of red wine, and placed it beside her: "Madam, living in a joke is better than in a tragedy, because compared to a tragedy, a joke can at least provide some fleeting joy."
