The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“What are the current circumstances?”

“Riots are erupting across Hyperion. Reports indicate the insurgents have seized prisons and armories.”

“An unfavorable development indeed.”

As Bertier delivered her report, the Crown Prince deftly redressed himself without any attendant’s assistance.

For a royal, accustomed to relying on servants’ ministrations, especially the Crown Prince who held the highest standing after the King and Queen, to attire himself signified that the situation was far from ordinary. Yet the Crown Prince himself remained utterly unperturbed.

When one has rolled in the mud with soldiers on the battlefield, one naturally learns to perform tasks without relying on others’ hands – had he been incapable of such self-sufficiency, the current Crown Prince, the illustrious hero Charles, would not exist.

“Have all the servants been dispatched?”

“Half had already fled long before we could even broach the subject, and we sent away as many of the remaining half as possible. The servants who insisted on serving the King and the royal family until the bitter end…”

“Leave them be. They must have steeled themselves for death. What of the royal guards?”

“See for yourself – I cannot profess that the outlook appears particularly auspicious.”

Aside from exceptional paragons like the chief chamberlain himself, it would be a luxury to expect much from servants who have never wielded a blade other than kitchen knives or dinner cutlery in their lives.

Of course, some might have cultivated skills like swordsmanship or marksmanship as personal pursuits, but the Crown Prince judged that abilities honed for duels or hunting would prove ineffectual in the crucible of live combat amidst traded gunfire and bloodshed.

The royal guards, ostensibly the elite of the elite among Orléans’ forces, had long since grown lax in their discipline.

Moreover, since most hailed from central nobility families, it would be unsurprising if they betrayed their posts or fled.

“Are elements of the gendarmerie stationed nearby as well?”

“They all await at the palace, poised to follow Your Highness’s directives.”

The only forces he could trust were the roughly 300 gendarmes.

“I find myself longing for Lannes. Were Lannes here, even with just 300 men, he could have safeguarded my life.”

Remembering the subordinate who surpassed all others in excellence and the close comrade who lost his life on the battlefield, the Crown Prince fell into contemplative silence.

“Even if Lannes were here, he wouldn’t have lingered in Hyperion as I have, would he?”

“…Indeed, that’s correct. Were he not serving as my adjutant and slightly more adept at political maneuverings, Lannes would have met the same exiled fates as Suchet, Masséna, Davout, or Bessières.”

The heroes who led the Grande Armée, the glorious army that planted flags of victory across the continent under the Crown Prince’s command, did not bask in glory befitting their achievements.

Despite accomplishing feats that merited all of Orléans’ adoration and grand victory celebrations in rapid succession, they had been driven to the frontier with mere formal medals dangling upon their chests. Pushed out by the pressure of the nobility.

The reason Berthier was able to remain in the capital was because his talent for commanding troops wasn’t as outstanding as his ability as a staff officer, and because he always fulfilled his role as Chief of Staff by the Crown Prince’s side, his military achievements themselves were not conspicuous.

If Lannes, the most capable among the Crown Prince’s many generals, had survived, he would surely have been driven out like the others.

“How does it appear? Have I donned it properly? I fear I may have forgotten how to wear this uniform.”

“You’ve attired yourself impeccably, Your Highness, without a single flaw.”

I still harbor fondness for this uniform.

Caressing the collar of the plain military garb that clung to his form like a second skin despite years of disuse, the Crown Prince mused.

The uniform that had shared in all the tribulations and agonies, victories and glories of the Crown Prince and the Orléans soldiers.

Thus, there existed no more fitting attire for the Crown Prince facing this imminent crisis anew than this unadorned military uniform.

“Has everyone assembled?”

Before proceeding to his father’s bedchambers, the Crown Prince instructed Bertier to muster the remaining royal guards and gendarmerie officers.

“Indeed, they’ve all gathered in the garden. Everyone awaits Your Highness’s directives.”

“Let us proceed.”

Too few compared to the enemy, soldiers likely ill-equipped for the task at hand.

Nevertheless, the Crown Prince strode purposefully towards where these men, now his sole lifeline, had assembled.

“Should we not flee now? In all honesty, whichever side emerges victorious, we…”

“Surely they wouldn’t dare harm His Highness or His Majesty? No matter the extent of discontent with the royal family… Ah..!!”

An atmosphere palpably unsettled and disorganized.

Perhaps a ragtag assemblage weaker than any army the Crown Prince had ever commanded.

“154 royal guards remain.”

“More than I had anticipated – I envisioned most would simply scatter and flee outright.”

But it mattered not. At least not to the Crown Prince.

For one who had managed to effect a safe retreat leading only wounded soldiers, handling able-bodied men posed no challenge whatsoever.

“Pierre Cambronne.”

“Yes! Your Highness!!”

The Crown Prince quietly regarded the guard at the forefront who answered with spirited countenance unlike the others, then turned his gaze aside.

“Georges de Fontaine.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Gaspard Burot.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

No grandiose exhortations imploring their steadfastness or vowing to lead them to triumph.

No dire threats discouraging any potential deserters whatsoever.

“Robert de Bournonville. Archange Pommereul. Arnaud Bertrand. Gilbert Motier de la Fayette…”

The Crown Prince simply proceeded to call out their names one by one, meeting each man’s eyes in turn as the commotion beyond the palace walls escalated and that insurrectionary conflagration drew ever nearer.

Continuing undeterred past the royal guards to finally address even the last gendarmerie officer present as well.

“…Nicolas Gamelin.”

And upon vocalizing that final name on his roll, the Crown Prince briefly shut his eyes before reopening them as he resolutely proclaimed:

“I shall commit every single one of your names unto my memory.”

A solemn vow – that Orléans’s Crown Prince would enshrine each of their identities into his eternal recollections without fail.

“Orléans will commit each of you unto her unending memory.”

Not a false promise merely to bolster morale, but a true pledge to remember their names and ensure that wealth and honor would follow for all.

“There are weapons in the warehouse adjacent to you. Soldiers – take up arms!”

Gesturing toward the neighboring storehouse containing those pre-positioned martial provisions, the Crown Prince declared.

“If you wish to tread the path of glory with me.”

The path he was about to embark upon. The thorny road where everything awaited.

“Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!!!”

A ferocious bellow erupting like some primordial beast’s earthshaking roar.

“””Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!! Long live the Crown Prince! Viva la Dauphin!!”””

First Pierre Cambronne leading the royal guards he had been the first to address by name, then all ranks joining that thunderous refrain reverberating throughout the palace halls.

“Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!!”

“””Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!! Long live Orléans! Viva la Orléans!!!”””

Long live Orléans indeed.

* * *

The Fontaine family’s villa in the suburbs was modest and unassuming compared to the wealth and prestige of the Fontaine lineage.

Of course, it was only humble in relation to the Fontaine family’s status; it still rivaled the abode of a prosperous farmer in size.

“Princess, is there anything that discomforts you..?”

For the estate currently housed a rather unexpected, if not exactly unwelcome, guest under its roof – Princess Sibylla herself.

“…”

“I hope you’re not ill at ease…”

Madame Fontaine wasn’t particularly pleased with this unannounced guest. To be more precise, it wasn’t so much displeasure as it was awkwardness and discomfort in dealing with the situation.

Who could unconditionally welcome an entirely bandage-swaddled figure under such unorthodox circumstances? If it hadn’t been a guest her husband had brought personally, and if that guest hadn’t been the Princess of this realm, Madame Fontaine might have expressed her displeasure more openly at such a visit.

“Then I shall take my leave…”

“…”

Whether the curse had worsened and she had lost her voice, or whether she simply disliked conversing with servants, Madame Fontaine departed the room almost in flight, leaving behind the Princess who only moved her head this way and that without uttering a word.

“I truly cannot fathom what she’s thinking… Oh, heavens above!!”

“…There’s no need for such alarm, Madame.”

And as soon as she emerged, she collided with the source of all this turmoil, namely, her husband, and found herself unceremoniously seated upon the floor.

“Pray, make some noise when you ambulate. You’re as vast as a mountain, yet your footfalls are as silent as a feline’s…!!”

There exists no greater troublemaker than this man.

Madame Fontaine, rising with the assistance of the chamberlain’s hand, cast a reproachful glare at her husband. The meaning behind that gaze would be clear to any observer.

“…My sincerest apologies. For acting thus without prior consultation. The situation was most urgent…”

“I’ve no desire to hear excuses. It’s not as if this is the first instance of your reckless behavior. I truly… I wonder what compelled me to wed such a man.”

Is this the reason other noble ladies had so vehemently cautioned against matrimony? Madame Fontaine suppressed her ire as she regarded her husband, who resembled a bull in both physique and temperament.

“I comprehend that the Princess’s presence here is discomfiting. The curse that’s consuming her body…”

“That’s not my meaning at all. Who claimed I was displeased with the Princess’s sojourn here?”

The object of Madame Fontaine’s ire was not the Princess. While the curse is indeed frightening, how could she harbor ill will toward the Princess who was afflicted solely for being of royal blood, without having committed any transgression?

“It’s merely… could you not have apprised me of this beforehand? As partners in matrimony, discussing such matters in advance.”

What incensed her was purely this bull-headed, single-minded man.

“…I was indeed short-sighted, Madame. I beseech your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness.”

“Haah… very well then. If not now, ensure you divulge the situation in its entirety later, understood?”

“Of course.”

Just as Madame Fontaine was about to retire to her chambers, heaving deep sighs:

“…What was that, I wonder?”

An uneasy sensation prompted her to inadvertently survey her surroundings.

“…Is it merely my imagination?”

A creeping feeling, as if sensing an unseen presence.