Honestly, even as she thought it absurd, a faint smile flitted across Katarina's face. It was a shallow intoxication she did not wish to show Amelie, so she deliberately widened her eyes.
“How would the likes of you know Charlotte Garel? You've never even seen a performance at the theater.”
“Well, I saw it in this morning's newsletter, that famous young Duke Olivier Dampierre—...”
Ah. Seeing Katarina's expression stiffen, Amelie quickly clamped her mouth shut.
Perhaps it was because she wasn't feeling well. She had uncharacteristically let useless words slip from her mouth.
“Amelie, do you know who he is...!”
As if intent on enlightening her ignorant maid, Katarina spat out, her words edged with venom.
“His Grace Duke Olivier Dampierre does not become involved with vulgar actresses. At best, they would share a single night.”
Amelie deeply regretted uttering that name and hung her head. She had tried to lift her mistress's spirits, but had only succeeded in needlessly upsetting her.
What was so great about Olivier Dampierre?
To her, it held no more special meaning than a speck of eye crust; it was merely a noun, no different from the name of a wildflower blooming by the roadside.
However, for noble young ladies like Katarina, the weight of that name was entirely different.
It was true that Olivier Dampierre was a dreamlike man to them as well, but he was at least someone whose fingertips they might brush.
He was an idol existing in the same world as them; if they put their family names forward, they might at least exchange glances at society balls.
Clinging to that sliver of possibility, young ladies like Katarina craved that name to the point of madness.
Thus, even the same scandal was to maids merely an amusing bit of gossip, while to noble young ladies of the same age, it appeared as a lurid melodrama dizzying enough to make one's eyes spin.
“Amelie, do you still not know how grand the party I host is? Even his friends—the young Count Monso and the young Marquis Armand—are showing interest. Perhaps he himself will stop by the upcoming banquet, even if only for a moment.”
Amelie's mind grew hazy and distant once more. It was obvious how sensitive Katarina would become, and secondly, how raucous that party would be. How filthily the drunken young noblemen would paw and squabble over her...
Her already nauseous stomach felt as though it were turning even more violently.
Katarina had always wished to shed the image of being 'provincial' and 'from the backwaters,' and had poured blood, sweat, and tears into making her presence known in Ejon high society, but she had failed time and again.
Then, starting last year, the method that gradually took hold was hosting grand society parties in her vast mansion.
These lavish social gatherings were meticulously designed to target young nobles of her own age, but Katarina hoped that the parties she hosted would be more raucous and licentious than any other gathering in Ejon.
In the end, it was only after hosting several shockingly outrageous and lewd parties, too appalling to witness with open eyes, that the name 'Katarina Biche' finally began to exert influence bit by bit within society.
“Then, shall we go with this dress?”
“Y-yes, my lady.”
Katarina was absorbed in her reflection in the mirror, adjusting her breasts to lift them and turning her body this way and that to carefully observe the shape of her hips.
Standing beside her with hands clasped, Amelie's face was now flushed enough to be plainly visible.
“By the way, Amelie?”
“Yes, my lady.”
It was then that Katarina, glancing at Amelie as she exhaled shallow breaths, twisted the corner of her mouth up wickedly.
“Still, don't you think it's far too plain? It seems somewhat lacking in ornamentation. Perhaps I should try on just one more.”
“...Ah.”
The flustered Amelie bowed her head.
She had truly believed it was over now...
“Come, Amelie. Tell me. What if, on the contrary, I try on an enormous dress with plenty of ornamentation this time?”
“...”
Why must my lady be so cruel? Suppressing the sudden surge of nausea, Amelie strained with all her might to endure, yet tears threatened to spill against her will. Her whole body burned with fever, and her insides boiled hotly.
I'm a person too. Even a maid used and discarded like a foot-rag has pride she wishes to keep, and days so painful and arduous she feels she might die—yet knowing this, why does she trample and torment me so...?
“Oh my, are you crying?”
Katarina's voice rose sharply at once.
“No, my lady. I'm sorry.”
Amelie quickly scrubbed at the corners of her eyes and corrected her posture. Though she felt as though she might topple over at any moment, she somehow held on.
“If you burst into tears just because your mistress gave you a bit of work, what will people think of me? Are you doing this on purpose?”
“I'm sorry, my lady. I'm sorry...”
“If you understand, then hurry and fetch the dress.”
Amelie forced her body, heavy as a lump of iron, to move and crossed the room.
“Uh...”
No sooner had the floor seemed to tilt sideways than the world flipped upside down.
* * *
Madame Maxine remained in Amelie's room for a long time. She wrung out a wet towel with her own hands and placed it on Amelie's forehead, then massaged her hands and feet until the fever subsided.
She felt endlessly sorry that she had been unable to put a stop to the torment despite knowing of it all along. It was not her fault, yet whenever this child made a resigned face, as if she knew her place well, Madame Maxine's heart sank with a heavy thud.
“You don't have to look at me like that.”
Finding the worry-laden gaze burdensome, Amelie forced a smile. Madame Maxine let out a heavy sigh, her hand gently brushing across Amelie's forehead.
“Amelie. Endure a little longer even if it's difficult. Still, the conditions here are better than at other households, are they not? I've told you time and again—there is no better position than this. You know that, don't you?”
“Yes, Madame.”
Amelie put on a brave smile.
“The wages aren't delayed, and it's a wealthy mansion so the treatment is generous... and, as you always say, there are no profligate young masters.”
“Yes, that is important. I worry because you are too beautiful.”
Clicking her tongue sorrowfully as she looked down at Amelie's flushed, fever-reddened cheeks, Madame Maxine's thoughts naturally drifted. She had to use today's incident as an excuse to pull Amelie out of Katarina's party.
Katarina Biche's debauched parties were growing more dangerously reckless by the day, and the brazen leers that unrestrained noble men cast at Amelie Garnier had long been a source of anxiety.
How anxious she had been every time she saw those noble men casting sinister sidelong glances at Amelie Garnier...!
Had Amelie been their own household's maid, they would have devoured her long ago. It was only their fear of being ruined in society for touching another house's maid that made them feign decency. They were always watching like hawks for an opportunity.
Maxine let out a faint sigh. Having spent more than half her life as a head maid, she had personally selected, nurtured, and instructed hundreds of maids in their duties.
Yet in equal measure, there had been many names that vanished fleetingly.
So many young girls had been lured away by a few sweet words as if entranced, only to be drawn into the young master's bed. The excuses were varied—they would be sent to school, they would be married—each a different pretense to bring them down.
Those utterly conscienceless wretches would force themselves upon young maids. They were treated worse than courtesans. In filthy barns or behind some tree, the men would lift their skirts again and again; later they would thrust money at them, threaten them, and use them to sate their lusts as casually as relieving themselves.
They were gentlemen only amongst their own kind; when dragging off a maid, they were beasts. Maxine was simply nauseated by noble men.
And what came next?
The young master would depart for boarding school, a military academy, or a tour of some distant country, while the maid left behind would die from a pregnancy she could no longer hide, or be beaten by the mistress and cast out into the streets.
The men took no responsibility, and the maids died.
It was not a metaphor—they truly 'died.' For the news that came later was only ever one of two things: she had died of illness, or she was selling her body on the streets...
She hoped such a fate would not befall Amelie.
“Don't worry, Madame. I'll work here with you for a long time. Until we become grandmothers together.”
“Oh, you imp.”
She could be endearingly cute when she knew you were worrying about her. Unable to fully withdraw her pitying gaze, Madame Maxine finally stroked Amelie's face and stood.
Madame Maxine, who had just reached the doorway, turned back and spoke.
“By the way, Amelie. I heard a letter came for you. Denise brought it and left it earlier.”
“A letter?”
Only then did Amelie notice the small envelope on the table beside her bed. She tilted her head in question and reached for the letter.
She had no one who would send her a letter; who could it be from...?
As Amelie examined the front of the envelope and saw the sender stamped as 'Ejon Central Court,' her body went rigid.
It couldn't be. Could things get any worse?
An ominous premonition came flooding in.