The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 2038: Chapter 194: Does Hastings Count as the Third Party? Of Course, I Mean on Stage (3)

Mary reached out to take the wine glass, her hands trembling slightly. "Thank you... thank you, Mr. Hastings."

Great Dumas couldn’t stand it any longer and chimed in gruffly, "Mary, don’t be afraid. If this bunch of literary scoundrels dares to bully you, they’ll be waiting to eat a few bullets from us!"

"By the way," Eld suddenly interjected, "Arthur actually did eat some, but he was lucky and lived later."

Mary was stunned for a moment and didn’t react until Great Dumas burst into a laugh. Then she realized Eld was joking.

Not used to letting things fall silent, she laughed along, but as soon as the laughter burst out, she realized that laughing at this moment seemed disrespectful to the honorable Mr. Hastings, and she immediately stopped.

Mary hurriedly covered her lips with a handkerchief, as if she’d done something inappropriate, "I’m sorry! Mr. Hastings, I didn’t... didn’t mean to. You almost lost your life to such a thing, and I... I laughed at a joke, which was really inappropriate. Please forgive me..."

"It’s nothing, madam." Arthur merely gave a light smile and raised his hand to indicate she shouldn’t worry. He pointed to a spot slightly to the left of his chest, "The bullet went right through here. It hit my rib first, then got stuck at the heart’s gate. It felt like someone jabbed a red-hot iron rod into my chest. When I fell, all the surrounding sounds faded away. All I could hear was my heartbeat, thump... thump..."

Arthur took a sip of red wine, as if to dilute the scent of gunpowder in his memories, "So, madam, you need not feel guilty about laughing. Laughter never offends the dead; it only proves that we are still alive."

"You..." Mary stared at Arthur, the grip on her wine glass loosening, "You are really... a peculiar person."

Great Dumas burst into laughter, "Peculiar? Peculiar is right. How else would a normal person flirt with Franz on stage?"

"Alexander..." Mary was amused by Great Dumas’ joke. She shook her head playfully, her voice finally lightening a bit, "Do you have to joke at such a time?"

Great Dumas spread his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture of helplessness, "Otherwise? Should we all be crying with you? This is the entertainment room, not a funeral site."

"Funeral site?" Eld replied instinctively, starting to tease Great Dumas, "Said like you’ve been to one."

Great Dumas showed no intention of giving in, "What? Haven’t I been? Last time I attended was..."

Arthur saw them about to drag the topic to his embarrassing affairs and quickly interjected, "Alexander, jokes may cheer us up, but some things still need clarification."

He turned to Mary, asking softly, "Madam, to be honest, I just finished Balzac’s ’Béatrix’ in these last few days. Forgive my boldness... the book doesn’t seem like one of those concocted tales but is filled with many... incredible... details. Details that would be hard to capture without firsthand experience."

Arthur’s words were not baseless, for anyone who had read the book and knew about the relationship between Liszt and Mary couldn’t help but associate the story of "the author Béatrice abandoning her husband and children to elope with a younger musician Conti" with them.

"Sir, you are right... those details couldn’t have just come from Balzac’s imagination." Mary’s gaze fell to the floor, and she muttered, "I’ve always had a suspicion. If there was someone passing messages in secret... I think it must have been George Sand."

Great Dumas was stunned for a moment, nearly dropping the wine glass in his hand, "What? That madwoman?!"

Mary let out a bitter smile, her voice trembling, "You may think I’m petty, but when you think about it, who else could it be? You all know her relationship with Franz. That woman always bewitched him with her strange theories like a witch. She wanders around the salons in Paris, saying and writing anything she dares. What’s worse, sometimes Franz himself seems half-convinced and takes her words seriously. How could Balzac, a man, depict my clothing, my habits, or even those one-off remarks during an argument so vividly? Besides Franz, only a few close friends know these things. And George Sand, she’s always clinging to me, pretending to confide, pretending to care, just to get me to talk. You know very well how often she wrote to Balzac. Tell me, if not her, then who else could it be?"