Beneath the Truth/Chapter 1

Japanese: https://ncode.syosetu.com/n6185ha/2/

Chinese: https://wangyidiwurenge.lofter.com/post/1fce5dfa\_1cc47dbbd

The novelist pulled the bedroom door open with brute force.

"He's here? So soon?!" Hurriedly, he dashed downstairs, bumping against the stair railing in the process and stumbling all the way down, coming to a sudden halt before the front-door.

——In the doorway stood a full-body mirror. When did the landlady place it there?

The savvy landlord’s wife saw at a glance that the novelist barely had time to care for himself. Fearing that he was preparing to visit a nobleman’s mansion in a hurry, she put a full-length mirror in the aisle serving as a reminder for him to straighten up before departing.

"Shouldn't be too shabby." The novelist raised his chin to himself in the mirror, confirming that his sloppy moustache was indeed shaved. He had woken up early in the morning and taken a bath as soon as possible. Cleaning his face, a god-like radiance shone upon it; refreshing, comfortable. He squeezed into the visibly smaller formalwear again, straightened the folds of his collar-leaf and finally overturned his suitcase of manuscripts, took a deep breath and opened the door with a turn of a lock.

The long-lost fresh air and clamor of human voices rushed in like a tide as the novelist subconsciously raised his hand to block the sting of the harsh sunlight shining through his pupils. Being accustomed to write indoors had forced him to sacrifice most of his time outside. Countless working days were exhausted under a dimly lit kerosene lamp, and so his eyes' sensitivity to light had been affected.

Until after the sun's harsh glare and the oppression of his eardrums gradually dissipated, the scene of the street came into view. Crisp horseshoes pattered across the path, wheels tumbled across the muddied ground. The carriage's pitch-black body was the first to enter the novelist's line of sight, an elegant and luxurious Berlin horse-carriage appearing in front of him shortly afterwards. Engraved with the family crest of the noble Mélodis family, was the black carriage-body.

How would an ordinary person have the opportunity to approach such an upper-class carriage?

The four-wheeled, four-seater Berlin carriage is one of the most private and solid carriages to exist. The two rows of benches, seated atop each other, allow passengers to lie down and sleep. A special place for servants to stand behind had also been implemented in its design. The Mélodis family specially uses these carriages to invite distinguished guests; with ulterior motives.

Instinctively, out of his desire to collect inspiration, the novelist couldn't help but take a look. However, those curious glances he took startled him.

It was quite apparent it was his first time seeing the family crest, but yet it seemed familiar. Upon re-evaluation, his family surname is also- No, the Mélodis family is indeed very famous locally, but... This sense of familiarity flooded the novelist's mind, and finally he secretly made a decision. The word Mélodis, to him, was something much more than what he had only "heard"...

"Mélodis..." The novelist spelled silently while searching for vague memories.

"Are you the guest Earl Mélodis invited? Quick, aboard the carriage."

The coachman's sudden inquiry disrupted the novelist's recollection.

"Ah, of course, of course, okay!" He subconsciously withdrew his gaze and nodded repeatedly, carefully opening the polished black car door and awkwardly boarded into the carriage with interior wrapped in red velvet. He looked around once again, afraid of soiling such an intricate car.

It was the fireworks festival that day and the street was crowded with people.

Along the way, the coachman boasted how professional his driving skills were and chose to take a detour instead. The novelist occasionally responded perfunctorily to one or two of his boasts, and then did no longer. When the coachman plunged the carriage into a larger crowd, the novelist glanced at his pocket watch and gave up thinking.

"I hope his grace would forgive me for arriving late ...Huh? What is this?"

The novelist had taken out the invitation letter to confirm the time he had agreed with the earl again. He was already past the agreed timeframe. Putting the letter back into the envelope, he suddenly found that there too was a business card within. Perhaps the letter's paper was too thick as he had not noticed it before.

"Orpheus... Detective Agency?"

Why did the earl send him this? The novelist was puzzled. Perhaps it was slipped in by mistake, or... The novelist guessed wildly, carelessly stuffing the little piece of paper into his suitcase.

Accompanied by the constant chatter of the horseman all the way, the carriage arrived at its destination—D.M's residence, Mélodis Manor.

When he stepped out of the cab, there was no time to admire the exterior magnificence of the manor. The novelist eagerly followed the maid through the garden to the entrance hall, but was informed by the butler that the earl was conversing with another guest.

The novelist listened. He opened his mouth but didn't know what to say, swallowing the words hanging in his throat. Cold sweat formed on his face, and he felt uncomfortable with his awkward smile.

"It is already beyond the agreed time and unavoidable for the count to be angry. I am afraid that he is reluctant to discuss ceremonies with a person who has exceeded the appointment..."

Subsequently, the novelist was invited to the exhibition hall in the east wing as to rest. After thanking the butler politely, the novelist walked to the exhibition hall under his guidance. Upon pushing open the door, he froze in place.

He lowered his breath and lightened his footsteps, only to slowly release from the tense expression of exceeding the contract. Fearing that he did not respect these collections honored by time, he swallowed his saliva, attempting every mean to eliminate his sense discomfort. This strange sense of subtlety quickly caught the novelist’s heart; as if he were a chef from the countryside witnessing the palace kitchen with his own eyes, or a poor student, unable to afford books, coming face-to-face with a huge library for the first time.

A man who relies on stale bread to survive was accidentally invited, a man who watched a feast full of delicacies and sweetmeats appear in his field of vision. What he saw... Perhaps, it was the feeling of being a novelist now.

The exhibition hall was full of rooms, and products of utmost excellence were on display.

As not to mention, those rare collections are ones of which the ordinary could not involve themselves with, and merely the interior furnishings were enough to widen the eyes of visitors. The novelist did not have the expertise to tell the names of the artifacts; He could, however, still tell that the heaps of grace and elegance, the incense of flowers and trees were extremely romantic.

"If I were to bring out one of the collections here, I could probably make a poor family worry-free for most of their lives."

"His grace is truly trusting of his guests..." the novelist murmured to himself, rubbing the soles of his shoes on the carpet outside the door carefully. After carefully checking for anything lodged underneath his soles, he dared to step in.

"The exhibition hall is usually locked," the butler's voice sounded behind the novelist - he saw him with a tray on one hand and steadily stepped inside, and another petite maid followed at the end with a snack platter.

"We do not regularly entertain, but the earl has ordered it as that you are a special guest.

Knowing that the butler heard him speaking to himself, the novelist's face flushed. And then when he heard the butler's words of how the earl regarded him seriously, his anxiety of being late was immediately wiped out. The novelist, half apprehensive and half ecstatic, sitting rigidly: "No, no, no, his grace is too kind! May I ask for your name?"

"I am very sorry for the sudden interruption. I'm the housekeeper here. Just call me Rogers." The old housekeeper smiled gently, pouring tea for the novelist and politely said, "If necessary, the manor can take care of your coat and suitcase for you."

The novelist removed his coat. After all, the temperature has risen in recent days, and this one-size suit really upset him. But as for the suitcase...

Hesitating, he held the suitcase tightly.

He had been coaxed by the outside world to "exhaust his talents" and felt down for a long time; in recent years, no publishing house had been willing to cooperate with him again, and he had just finally been appreciated by the famous nobles in the city. This full box of manuscripts was his last chance and more important than anything else.

As if seeing through the novelist’s concerns, the butler said: “The cloakroom dedicated to guests is taken care of by maid Daisy. It is located opposite the exhibition hall and you can see it when you open the door. Even if there is an accident, mister can be the first to know."

Upon hearing the butler mentioning her name, the girl quietly presenting dessert nodded shyly to the novelist, and quickly avoided his gaze.

"Okay, I will trouble you then." The novelist also made many excuses. Daisy took the coat and suitcase.

The elderly butler served black tea and continued to introduce the manor to the novelist. "The exhibition hall is filled with the Earl's antiques he has collected in recent years. In order to express apology for not being able to discuss with you for the time being, at the earl's order, you can enjoy it at will."

"Ahem!" Upon hearing this, the novelist almost burned his tongue with the tea and waved his hand hurriedly, "No, no, the Earl has no reason to be sorry at all! Quite clearly, it was I who exceeded the appointed time first!"

As he spoke, the novelist could not help but sigh inside. Count Mélodis truly lived up to his name, a gentleman praised even in the alleyways of snub little markets. As for the novelist, on the other hand, merely a lowly city-dweller. Yet, he stabilized his temperament. The noble; how many are capable of such a position?

The butler briefly introduced the collection of antiques to the novelist.

If the value of artwork can be seen at a glance, then decoration will be different. His professional writer habits kicked in and the novelist could not help the curiosity his heart. Ultimately, he couldn't help asking about the furniture in the estate. First, to open his eyes, second, as inspiration to write. And so, he learned about——

A French gilded wooden table, a Yaobian Tianmu lamp from the East, a Baccarat-brand crystal table, a Safi court carpet...

After the previous congestion, the collections in this exhibition hall caused the novelist to question his life.

Lastly, the butler informed the novelist that a firework performance would commence at eight-o'-clock the very night, and told him in a thorough manner that as there were few servants in the manor, he could use the call bell to summon the two maids at any time if he had any needs. The one he had just met was Daisy, and the maid who led him into the manor was Ruth.

The butler finished the explanation, and was about to head back; but suddenly, he found that this guest was staring at the painting in front of him almost ecstatically, and following the guest's sight - sure enough, it was the painting of the Muse.

The novelist noticed that the plaque under the frame in front of him only read the name of the painting, "Muse", but did not indicate the name of the artist, and asked curiously, "Sorry to disturb you once again, Mr. Rogers, but may I ask if there is anything special about this painting? Perhaps it's because I'm ignorant, but I feel that, when compared with the others, this painting doesn't seem to be particularly brilliant, nor does it seem to be the work of a famous artist..."

As if it was already known that guests would ask such questions, the old housekeeper replied without thinking, but his answer was specious.

"My master often said, 'The world often only knows the price of the collection, but not the value of the collection'. Maybe this painting is the same. Maybe in the eyes of the earl, it has a value that we don't know. In this case, no one else needs to speculate."

"Ah... True." The novelist plastered a smile on his face .

What the butler originally meant to say was of course much more arrogant than this; but in any case, it is enough to give a guest an answer that will not prompt any more questions. With this in mind, the butler saluted again and exited the room.

With the novelist alone, the exhibition hall returned to silence.

Each room, full of dazzling light and open to visits, no one else around; the novelist could not tell whether if all this is a test set by the earl. But as soon as he thought of his full box of manuscripts, a weight seemed to drop in the novelist's heart - his savior of dawn is upstairs, waiting for him to quietly open the door to wealth and fame. For him now, one hundred collections of famed paintings could never compare with his suitcase filled with hope.

The passing of time is not torture, but because of the hope in the novelist's heart: "Maybe the next moment I can see the earl, and maybe the next next moment my work will be seen by more people". As a result, he became increasingly agitated.

He walked to the window, wanting to borrow the cool breeze to calm his excitement.

From the exhibition hall, he could indeed see the garden on the east side, but the double-paned windows and the fence blocking his view were most unsightly. Even if the inner glass layer could be opened, the outer layer could not be pushed.

"Probably because they were afraid of people turning the window and stealing from the estate, so they installed this kind of window and locked the outer layer," he thought to himself.

He could only take a nap on the sofa next to the potted viburnum plant nearby.

The softness of the first-class sofa cushions made a tired novelist feel drowsy, and soon he fell asleep. A brief escape from the busyness of rushing to the papers late at night, lying down on the sofa. It seems that it had been a long time since he had a good rest like today.

After a long time, hustle and bustle loomed outside the estate. Consciousness spun around in his light slumber, There was a faint hustle and bustle outside the estate, gradually becoming clear——

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Stop talking idly and put out the fire! What do we do if fire burns the guest's possessions?!"

Fire?

Someone is putting out a fire...

Putting out a fire?!

The novelist's eyes fluttered open in an instant, springing up to his feet faster than a carp could jump, traced the sound back to its source, and opened the door of the room, fully awake.

The air was filled with a peculiar burning smell, becoming stronger and stronger, reaching the nose of the novelist.

He saw two figures in the cloakroom, fluttering and stepping on the sparks on the ground in a panic. Smelling a scorching smell in the air, seeing black smoke from the things that had been stepped on repeatedly.

The novelist's brain exploded, and he rushed in and searched;

"Manuscripts, manuscripts... My manuscripts!"

"Mi- mister?" The two maids were startled by the novelist's sudden crazed madness.

The novelist turned his head, and the frightened Daisy shivered, and pointed in a direction carefully: "Your suitcase and jacket are over there. They haven't burnt. Don't worry."

The novelist looked in the direction she was pointing, and his belongings were indeed stored a little further away. He dashed forward to open the box and flipped through it quickly. After confirming that the manuscripts were intact, he sighed. "It's okay, it's okay..."

The novelist calmed down and looked intently at the place where the "fire" had occurred. Fortunately, only the tablecloths and parts of carpets were burned. The damage caused was not particularly serious. Thanks to the timely handling of the two maids, the flames did not continue to grow. But the two girls were a little embarrassed, especially Daisy, whose skirt was blackened by the fire.

The novelist wiped off the cold sweat from his forehead, apologized to his irrationality, and asked with concern: "Have you two never—"

"What happened?" Cutting the novelist's sentence short, a young man's voice pierced in and intercepted the conversation.

The owner of the voice, a clean-cut and beautiful young man, was probably also attracted by the commotion caused by the fire.

At first, the young man had a brisk tone, but when he saw the situation and the injured maids clearly, his face suddenly changed.

"Are you okay?" He hurried to the maid Ruth, pale, and walked around her to check again and again, but he didn't dare to touch her rashly. "Are there any burns? Does it hurt? Please go ahead and care for the injuries. Do you need me to accompany you to apply medicine?"

A small fire instantly messed up this noble young man's stature, and anyone could see his ulterior motives in his caring look.

The novelist laughed, and just about to shake his head and sigh in his heart, he glanced at Daisy and lowered her eyes silently. She slowly retracted the half-step that she had taken subconsciously, and even hid quietly behind him.

Suddenly, the novelist realized something, and could not help but reconsider the young man - clothed in a suit and leather shoes, a talented person. Upon closer inspection, the attire on his body seemed to be an old design, and the fabric was washed and dried repeatedly, already losing its original vividness..

This man's outer appearance is a façade, the novelist thought. After all, the same type of people can always be easily seen through.

Looking for a gap between the young man's coldness and warmth, the novelist interrupted and introduced himself. The young man seemed to have just seen him, and shook hands quickly in response. "Hello, I am a guest of Count Mélodis, just like you. My name is Jonathan and I am a playwright."

"Huh? Jonathan, a playwright?" The novelist interrupted, "Ah, sorry, please continue."

And this young playwright, who seems to have experienced countless similar reactions long ago, is no stranger to the astonishment of others after saying his name and profession. He calmly continued to say: "The Earl and I just now were discussing the script with me upstairs. Now that the discussion is over, the count suddenly has something urgent to deal with, so I asked me to tell you that after the fireworks show, I will talk to you about the novel."

"I understand, thank you." The novelist said.

"This works for now." The playwright said goodbye, leaving with the maid Ruth.

The novelist watched the two disappear from his sight, and then looked back at Daisy who had been trying to suppress her own presence during the conversation, and sighed: "Your injury is not lighter than Ruth, so go and deal with it."

Daisy's head was hanging low, making it difficult to see the expression on her face. She seemed to be trying to adjust her emotions. After a long silence, she smiled timidly and said, "It doesn't matter, I'll clean it up first. "

The novelist glanced at the black marks on Daisy's skirt, and could not help but snatched the rag from her hand: "Leave it to me here. You can go first. It is not good for other guests to see it."

Indeed, this appearance would only humiliate the earl, so Daisy saluted and thanked the novelist, then walked away quickly; "I'll be back soon."

The novelist whispered to himself; "The love between aristocrats... It seems to be the genre that the masses love to read recently. No, I would rather starve to death than write about such vulgar themes!" He seems to be cheering up for his future at the same time. Such vulgar subjects will decay the knowledge contained in his brain. Once he comes into contact with it, he may even become decayed. When the novelist took up his sleeve-cuffs and was about to clean the fire scene, he heard a slight noise behind him, as if something had fallen on the ground.

"Daisy?" He stuck his head out, but found that the corridor was empty, no one was visible, only the floor-to-ceiling windows of the open-air balcony on the east side were not closed, and only the sound of wind entered.

The insignificant episode, the novelist turned around and continued to tidy up, but it didn't last long before he was hurriedly stopped. It was not Daisy who was waiting, but the old butler.

The old butler apologized repeatedly. "How could I ever let a guest clean? Please go and get some rest, leave it to me here."

When leaving the cloakroom, the novelist deliberately clutched his treasured suitcase to his chest and held it tightly along the way.

Once bitten by a snake, despite how it differs from a serpent, one will be cowardly enough to fear a rope-string.

When the novelist returned to the house, he saw that the door of the exhibition hall was closed at some point.

*(Next: Chapter 2.)*