Isabelle stared at her husband.

Her gaze was hollow – not because she had completely given up on him, nor because she considered the situation trivial, but because she really didn’t know how to react.

“You’ve gone mad…”

She spoke the words for the first time because she simply couldn’t accept his behaviour – asking his own wife to choose someone to warm his bed for the night.

“This is absurd. Completely absurd.”

But Arnaud didn’t get angry. Instead, he grabbed a nearby bottle of brandy from the console and poured another gulp down his throat.

“You know, Moerne has a dirty old custom. Maîtresse-en-titre, they call it. My esteemed great-grandfather, they say, once asked his mistress to choose another mistress for him, Isabelle.”

“…….”

“You should do the same for me. Like the lover of any king – offer me one.”

At his words, Isabelle’s mind seemed to disappear behind a distant hill. Arnaud was the only one who spoke, but Isabelle reacted as if Camille had slapped her across the face. Meanwhile, Camille just chewed on her cigar, looking indifferent.

Perhaps irritated by Isabelle’s silence, Arnaud tilted his head and leaned closer until their eyes almost touched.

“Why don’t you answer? Is it acceptable for Henri but not for me?”

“You’re really…”

“Are you saying I’m cruel? Is that what you dare say to me, Madame?”

Yes, he was cruel – undeniably cruel – but Isabelle found herself unable to speak. She was haunted by her own words from Calvador, the memory so vivid that even the smoke surrounding Arnaud seemed to be etched in her mind.

“It’s just as you misunderstood, so please stop asking. I have nothing more to say to you.”

She too had been cruel to Arnaud.

Even before Calvador, her husband had struggled to trust her, but she could only focus on that one incident. The guilt was crushing her.

She couldn’t even lift her head.

“I despise you terribly, Isabelle. You’re the one who’s cruel.”

“Arnaud, I…”

“Why did you do it? Why did you leave me? How could you go to him… to Henri?”

He spoke these words with deadly sincerity. Stripped of formality, his speech was raw and honest – proof that he had given in to his emotions.

The more he accused her, the more she had to swallow the words she wanted to say.

‘No, you’re wrong. I never chose Henri. He threatened me. Everything I said in Calvador was a lie. He’s forcing me…’

“You’re drunk, Arnaud.”

How could she tell him the truth now?

Marie was just outside the door. The steward was also one of Henri’s men. The moment Isabelle opened her mouth, her husband would be dragged straight to Chamfera.

The merciless king would execute him in the cruellest way imaginable.

So, once again, Isabelle decided to bear the pain herself.

Turning her head, she saw the attendants holding candlesticks. Although their eyes were respectfully lowered, their ears were undoubtedly open. Confronted with this scene, Isabelle swallowed the truth that had almost escaped her lips.

“This is no fun – no interest at all… Everything bores me. It would have been better if I’d died back then.”

Looking down bitterly at the woman who couldn’t say a word, Arnaud abruptly released his grip and staggered away.

‘Why has he grown so thin?’

Beneath his thin tunic, the bones of his spine protruded sharply. He had always been thin, but this was serious. The vivid marks on his neck – clear signs of abuse – made it impossible for her to hate him freely. Isabelle exhaled sharply, as if she were about to vomit.

“Monsieur!”

Just then, one of the maids jumped out and blocked Arnaud’s staggering path. She appeared to be one of the girls lined up in the corner of the room.

” E-excuse me…”

After only a moment’s hesitation, the maid began to undo several buttons on her dress, boldly looking between Arnaud and her now exposed br*ast.

At this brazen act, the other maids’ mouths fell open in shock. But her astonishing behaviour didn’t stop there.

“Hey! What are you doing…!”

“Agnes! Good heavens!”

Not content with undressing, the maid grabbed Arnaud’s face and boldly pressed her lips to his.

The room erupted in muffled gasps. Some of the other maids even stepped forward, trying helplessly to restrain her.

But Agnes ignored them and pulled Arnaud tightly to her by the scruff of his neck.

“Oh, Arnaud…”

But the most shocking thing was Arnaud’s reaction.

Even though a mere maid had dared to call Monsieur by his name, Arnaud showed no sign of pushing her away.

“Duke-Your Grace-Mmph!”

Dropping the bottle of brandy he was holding, Arnaud pushed her forcibly towards the bed.

It was the second time Isabelle had seen her first love kisses with another woman.

Isabelle stood frozen, her lips slightly parted, as Arnaud tore open the maid’s blouse, as if ripping it apart.

She no longer felt the slightest shock or emptiness. She simply didn’t know how to interpret what she was seeing.

But Camille, the other woman, watched Arnaud and Agnes with complete indifference.

Even when the two of them almost fell onto the bed where she was sitting – even though one of them was Arnaud Alexandre de Jalbert, the man Camille supposedly adored beyond all reason – she simply chewed idly on her cigar and casually moved aside, suggesting that she had witnessed scenes like this countless times before.

Perhaps it wasn’t new to her after all.

Isabelle turned to Camille in disbelief.

“Another noisy night.”

Camille muttered, sighing softly as she took a robe from a servant and approached Isabelle. She hadn’t forgotten to pick up an open bottle of brandy on the way.

“This cognac is quite good. Would you like a sip?”

Camille offered casually, holding the bottle out to her.

Unlike usual, Camille’s curls were now loosely scattered, encircling her shoulders like a bouquet of roses. Isabelle desperately wanted to believe there were thorns hidden beneath them.

“Did you set this up?”

“Excuse me?”

“The women – did you arrange this?”

Fighting back tears, Isabelle asked again. Camille just took the cigar from her lips and laughed mockingly.

“Is that what you want to believe?”

“I just don’t understand… Arnaud, or you, Saint-Mang… why you’re doing this.”

“Why? It’s all because of you, Madame.”

She spoke with such conviction that anyone listening could have taken it as an undeniable fact.

Isabelle’s eyebrows knitted.

Camille, Arnaud, the maids – none of them gave Isabelle any answers she could understand.

“Explain exactly how this is my fault, Camille. Make it clear enough for me to understand!”

“Then perhaps Madame should first explain why she became the King’s mistress. Clear enough for Arnaud and me to understand.”

At Camille’s words, Isabelle instinctively glanced at Marie, who had silently approached behind Camille.

Marie’s expression was gentle, but her eyes flashed sharply – an unmistakable warning.

“Just try saying it. Her Majesty the Queen is watching you closely and I’m ready to report at any moment.”

Her tongue refused to move properly. Her mouth felt numb, as if she had been chewing Anmadre leaves. She hated Arnaud bitterly, but she didn’t want him to die.

“That’s… that’s…”

“You see? You can’t even say it.”

Camille’s mockery seemed endless. She dropped the cigar, now half burnt, and extinguished it under her foot. Then she took a rolled leaf from one of the servants and casually lit it again.

Her head felt like it was going to split open as she wondered what exactly was inside that rolled leaf.

“I swear on my heart.”

“…”

“Have you ever jumped out of a window to escape a night with the king?”

Camille’s face was hidden by the thick smoke. On second thought, it was Isabelle’s worsening headache that blurred Camille’s image.

“Have you ever hidden in a wardrobe? Or swapped clothes with a maid?”

“I… I…”

At Camille’s words, memories that Isabelle had desperately buried began to resurface, one by one.

She had done all those things herself – but for different reasons.

She remembered climbing over windowsills, desperate to escape Louise’s relentless summons and cruel taunts, only to be caught by the servants. She had once hidden behind a wardrobe that had been moved, and had even secretly taken a maid’s clothes in an attempt to escape.

“I… I…”

Of course, none of those attempts had succeeded. Each time she’d been caught immediately.

And instead of punishing her directly, Louise had always punished the maids instead.

Some of the maids had even died, unable to withstand the whipping. Isabelle had not been able to sleep naturally since then – only fainting had brought her relief.

She covered her ears tightly.

She could still hear the screams of the maids as they were dragged away. The thick smoke finally brought her to her knees.

“No… it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, really… it wasn’t me…”

As Isabelle sank to the floor, shaking her head desperately, Camille bent down to meet her gaze.

“Even if you deny it, madam, it doesn’t change the fact that it was your decision.”

“No, no… it wasn’t me…”

“To become his mistress, to turn your back on Arnaud, to leave your own country – all of that was your choice. Who else could you blame?”

Isabelle could have easily denied those accusations, but she found herself unable to do so. Camille’s words were ringing increasingly true, as if she had once truly loved Henri.

“Yes, it was your choice. To endure the humiliation, to rationalise your actions… all of it.”

“You could’ve chosen death instead. You could’ve fought honourably. But you chose otherwise, Élisabeth.”

“That’s why it’s all your fault, Eli.”

Isabelle had begun to convince herself, her sense of self crumbling away.

“Yes… it’s all my fault… all my fault…”

“You’re right. If only you had been wiser, madam, none of this would have happened.”

“If only I had been braver… Arnaud wouldn’t have turned out like this.”

“Exactly.”

As Isabelle murmured in rapture, Camille threw out a name as carelessly as throwing firewood into a blazing fireplace.

“In the end, it was all Princess Élisabeth’s will.”

‘Elisabeth.’

The moment Isabelle heard that name, she felt as if everything inside her had vanished at once. The feeling spread quickly, like flames engulfing a tree.

In the end, Isabelle collapsed without so much as a whimper.

Camille stared silently at Isabelle’s fallen form before slowly turning her gaze to the bed.

“M-Monsieur?”

“……”

Arnaud, like Isabelle, had already lost consciousness.

Author’s note:

1. Maîtresse-en-titre: The official mistress or acknowledged lover of a king.