The Shadow of Great Britain

Louis left decisively, without unnecessary pleasantries. Perhaps he knew that lingering at Arthur’s house at this critical juncture would cause unnecessary trouble for his old superior, or perhaps it was difficult to conceal his disappointment towards Arthur.

He simply put his hat back on, stood up, nodded to Arthur, as if confirming an already well-known fact — that this conversation could no longer extend in any ’personal feelings’ direction.

The dining room returned to silence.

Sunlight still lingered on the tablecloth, illuminating the edge of the silver tray; the steam from the tea had mostly dissipated, and a piece of the muffin was missing, leaving crumbs neatly gathered at the edge of the plate.

Arthur stood by the window holding a teacup; he did not immediately sit down, but rather watched his younger brother Louis get into the carriage and drive away.

He raised the slightly cooled cup of tea, took a sip, and placed the cup back on the table.

The taste of the tea was still the same; it’s just that with the temperature gone, the weak bitterness of the tea leaves seemed particularly honest.

"You didn’t even bother to see him to the door."

The sound didn’t come from the doorway, nor from outside the window.

The voice was very close, close enough to seem like it emerged from right behind his shoulder, carrying a bit of exaggerated regret, a bit of overly familiar intimacy.

"Truly heartbreaking, Arthur."

The Red Devil was somehow already sitting across the dining table.

He was still wearing that absurd clown costume, the colors almost blindingly bright, with his legs casually draped over the table, shoe-tip gently swaying, looking like a character who’d slipped out of a farce.

"Your younger brother, returning alone to London." The Red Devil deliberately dragged out his tone: "His mother just buried, close friends abandoning him, even wanting to see a compatriot from France is treated as the ambition of a conspirator. He finally summoned the courage to knock on your door, yet you couldn’t even spare a map for him."

Agares shook his head lightly, as if lamenting for someone: "Heartless!"

"From ancient times, too much passion leaves only sorrow; sweet dreams often awaken easily. Is it really that hard to escape holding a flower..." Arthur pulled out a chair and sat down, leisurely smoothing his cuffs: "It’s a pity for the drifting willow fluff."

Agares was stunned for a moment, then exaggeratedly clapped his hands, the Red Devil dragged out the note, laughter piling up at the corners of his mouth: "Oh! I didn’t know before that a York Pigman like yourself had such research into Chinese poetry."

The Red Devil slid off the chair, walked slowly around the dining table: "Moreover, to be fair... it’s written really well. The structure flows fully, emotions are perfectly restrained; neither overly sentimental nor excessively detached."

He stopped beside Arthur, leaned down, his tone carried false-sincere praise: "This poem could definitely be published. Change the name, use a pseudonym, whether it’s called ’Scotland Yard Recluse’ or ’Westminster Hermit,’ both seem fitting to me. Don’t the London middle class love this exotic flavor? Especially things they don’t truly understand but can’t help pretending to."

Arthur didn’t look at him: "You’re chatty today."

𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

"That’s because you’re especially intriguing today." Agares straightened up, the Red Devil delivered an impassioned speech: "Where has the fighter gone who once braved danger for the French Royalists and Young Italy, who fought a lifetime for the liberation of Chechnya? Back then, the great Sir Arthur Hastings didn’t mind blocking blows for friends, passing messages, and even helping them plan escape routes. How come in London, after entering White Hall and changing titles, you wouldn’t even do a small favor?"

Arthur was not angered; he reopened the newspaper: "You forget one thing. The fact that Louis could leave this place intact today was already due to me reaching out. If the Home Office knew a member of the Bonaparte family was trying to probe the itinerary of foreign envoys, his subsequent life in Britain would likely be spent being tracked and recorded. But I let him go, let this matter stay at the breakfast table, not in the filing cabinet. If you insist on calling this heartless, then so be it."

"Sounds upright! But, unfortunately, Arthur..." Agares stopped behind Arthur, his voice lowered: "Some people don’t need you to consider so many consequences for them. They only remember whether you reached out when they needed it most."

"Of course, that’s their freedom; Britain is a free country, anyone can enjoy their freedom." Arthur didn’t even bother to look up: "But others’ freedom isn’t my obligation; my obligation is to prevent their freedom from going too far."

The Red Devil stared at the back of his neck for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled softly: "Looks like you really have changed."

"What else?" Arthur took a sip of tea: "Those who’ve been shot always learn from their experiences. Oh, yes, on this note, Agares, I must thank you. After all, not everyone gets the chance for reform after being shot."

Agares’s smile slightly froze, then became even more radiant.

"Oh, no, no, no..." he slowly wagged his finger: "On this point you’re mistaken, Arthur."

The Red Devil walked forward two steps, leaning on the edge of the dining table, looking down at him: "Whom you should truly thank has never been me. Whom you should thank is the fact you were born in Britain. Imagine, if instead of eating a bullet on the streets of London in 1832, you stood on the guillotine in Paris in 1793..."