The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 978: 49: The Riddle of the Tarot

Chapter 978: Chapter 49: The Riddle of the Tarot

“God bless, today I was only startled, not hurt in any way.”

Miss DelaSalle playfully blinked her enchanting blue-gray eyes: “The carriage crashed into the gate and exploded instantly. Several guards at the front were injured, and some ladies dancing had their skirts blown up by the blast. But since I was standing further away, I wasn’t greatly affected. My dear old father, even though over fifty, is still as strong as when he was twenty. He carried me on his shoulder and fled from the fire scene.”

Arthur brushed his rain-dampened hair and replied: “It is truly wonderful to hear that you’re okay. Your father is indeed a brave hero. In such circumstances, most people would be frozen with fear, yet he remembered to pick up his daughter and run.”

“Of course,” Miss DelaSalle replied with some pride: “My father served during the Great Revolution, though before his retirement, he was only ever a Major in the artillery.”

Suddenly realizing the inappropriateness of her words, Miss DelaSalle blushed and said: “Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not suggesting my father would flee from the battlefield. He was a very courageous officer, who fought street battles with real arms and weapons.”

Arthur smiled warmly and replied: “Certainly, I heard the Duke of Wellington say before that the French army was always his greatest adversary.”

“The Duke of Wellington?” Miss DelaSalle’s eyes widened slightly, the gentle rain and breeze seemed to make her eyelashes tremble: “Are you a friend of the Duke of Wellington, the celebrated Marshal during the Peninsular War and the Battle of Waterloo, your former Prime Minister?”

Arthur shook his head with a smile: “How could I possibly regard such an esteemed figure as a friend? I merely had to protect him for some time, and thus had occasional opportunities to chat with him. I prefer to define our relationship as that of a leader and a retainer. Sometimes, he even calls me ‘little brother.’

Miss DelaSalle became engrossed, subconsciously tightening her grip on her lace gloves.

Arthur’s words seemed to have a magical power, his dark pupils paired with the cold moonlight emitted a faint red glow that was utterly mesmerizing.

“Miss DelaSalle?” Arthur asked: “Are you feeling unwell? If so, I can get off here, and you can head home to rest.”

“Ah…”

Miss DelaSalle seemed to awaken from a dream, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, somewhat avoiding meeting Arthur’s gaze: “No, it’s just that I find your stories quite fascinating. You seem to know so many people. You’ve served the Duke of Wellington, and Chopin, Liszt, Jean Alarco, Hugo, Mr. Dumas, all seem to revolve around you. You’re like the moon, surrounded by shining stars.”

Upon hearing her recite a string of names, Arthur’s previously relaxed demeanor immediately tensed again.

As a spy, an old man of Scotland Yard, he adhered to a set of personal double standards.

Arthur enjoyed monitoring others but disliked being monitored himself.

He loved knowing others’ secrets but was constantly wary of others discovering his own.

Because he possessed many things he couldn’t disclose, each one of which could be fatal.

At the thought of potentially being laid bare by others, an inexplicable fear always rose within Arthur.

As someone who had died once, he did not fear death, but he feared losing.

Thus, he was extremely particular about maintaining a relatively safe social distance from others.

Perhaps it’s because he’s lived in Britain for too long, thus inheriting some of the English’s cold temper.

Or perhaps it’s due to his past experiences, the pains endured, the wounds suffered, and the walls hit.

Whether he was the people’s enemy in “The Times,” the living legend of Scotland Yard, Mr. Faraday’s enthusiastic assistant, Charles Wheatstone’s Asshole, Louis Bonaparte’s officer and advisor, a good big brother to Tom and Tony, the counter-revolutionary head adored and hated by Alexander Dumas, or Darwin and Eld’s problematic friend.

These were all parts of his true self, yet also masks concealing his true nature.

Just as Fiona said: in this world, no one is more unhappy than him.

And this was precisely the cause of his unhappiness.

Arthur glanced at the moonlight outside the window, the pure white crescent moon, the dark clouds only enhanced its soft and hazy beauty.

What a strange thing indeed!

His friends scattered around the world, in London, in York, in Paris, in the provinces, in South America, can all enjoy this same gentle moonlight.

“Am I the moon?” Arthur softly asked himself.

Miss DelaSalle nodded without hesitation: “Aren’t you? Perhaps one day, you might even become the sun.”

“The sun?” Arthur leaned against the window, propping his head thoughtfully with a smile: “The moonlight is already bright enough for me.”

Miss DelaSalle looked puzzled; she didn’t understand why this seemingly promising young nobleman would say such dispiriting words.

“Do you… not wish to become the sun? Here in Paris, everyone constantly strives to rise higher so that others can see them at a glance, and they even hope when they rise, not a single cloud spoils the view.”