The Shadow of Great Britain

Dear Bertani:

Hand my memoirs to the Great Dumas, and ask him to take them to London, to be forwarded to Sir Arthur Hastings. God bless Italy, these manuscripts must never fall into the hands of the traitor Louis Bonaparte.

——Giuseppe Garibaldi

Rome, Republic or Death!

——Giuseppe Garibaldi

On the eve of the French Second Empire starting the siege of Rome, April 30, 1849.

As dusk falls in Paris, streetlights gradually come on, illuminating the streets of this bustling city.

Inside the carriage, Arthur Hastings and Clara sat on the plush velvet seats, the picturesque scenery outside the window passing by.

Clara was dressed today in a light blue silk gown, adorned with an exquisite feathered hat, and carrying an ivory-colored lace fan.

Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and expectancy, even though every girl dreams of a day when she can wear such a glamorous gown, accompanied by a perfect gentleman seemingly walked out of a classic oil painting.

This gentleman possesses the noble morality found only in Bible stories, adhering to the chivalric spirit like a hero of a medieval novel, symbolized by the glittering Knight Medal of Honor, the elegant pure black cane, and the Sword of Honor at his waist indicating his strength to protect his beloved.

Clara glanced at Arthur with a soft smile, everything seemed too perfect, so perfect that even if you knew it was fake, you still couldn't help but want to indulge in this illusory world, never waking again.

Arthur wore a properly fitted black tailcoat, the chain of his pocket watch sparkle under the glare of the carriage lights. His elbow rested on the window sill, and his slightly reddened eyes took in the scenery along the Seine River, with a subtle upward curve of his lips that seemed to ask gently: "Miss, do you need any assistance?"

Clara lightly gripped the handle of her fan, for every girl wants to be a princess, none can escape.

Though tonight's play had not yet begun, she was already the first to get into character.

"Sir Arthur Hastings?" Her tone was somewhat stiff, her voice pitched slightly high and sounded a bit tense.

Clara thought: "Good heavens! What a bizarre name he has chosen for himself, though it sounds very much like a British name, and indeed, like a British Knight."

Clara boldly continued to probe, although she knew clever Arthur would have memorized his identity script well in advance, yet she still wanted to take this opportunity to indulge in the role-play as an upper-class lady.

Clara softly inquired: "Your experiences in London must have been quite fascinating, right?"

"Indeed, they were." Arthur replied with a smile, his eyes reflecting a longing for past memories: "London is a place full of opportunities and challenges. Especially during my time working at Scotland Yard, each day was filled with the unknown and surprises."

Clara watched this lad lie with a steady calm, only thinking that this fellow truly is shameless; not long ago merely a rogue burdened with the debt of ten thousand francs, today impersonating a British Knight as if it were the natural thing.

Determined to see Arthur falter, Clara targeted matters not within the play's script to make things difficult for the lad: "I heard you were involved in quelling the riots in London last year, that must have been quite a perilous time, right?"

Arthur's eyes flickered, meeting Clara's gaze without flinching, aware of her intentions now: "Indeed, that period was rife with danger and tension. Riots broke out, social order hanging by a thread. Yet it was through such experiences that I learned how to remain calm amidst chaos and find solutions to the problems."

This sentence, to an onlooker, seemed to be Arthur genuinely responding to Clara's surface query, yet Clara realized this scholarly new fraudster was angered, subtly retorting that he was composed, unmoved by Clara's little ploy.

As Clara met those eagle-like sharp eyes, instinctively wanting to avert her gaze, she steadied herself and returned the gaze defiantly.

She thought: "This fresh-faced lad might indeed have some knack for acting, that gaze was identical to the kind the police give on the streets of Paris, cold as chains binding you."

Clara used her fan to cover her mouth to mask her awkwardness: "I truly wish I had the chance to experience these thrilling events myself. However, as a lady, my life seems forever confined within social gatherings and family events."

"It's merely bragging, isn't it?" Clara's eyes formed crescents as she thought: "I can do that too. Parisians are born with this skill, whether they're a girl or a boy."

"Mark my words, being restricted to social gatherings and family events is also a rare blessing." Arthur adjusted the Knight's Medal on his chest: "It's still better than lying in a coffin."

Clara nearly burst out laughing at this remark: "Sir, that's a bit much."

"Indeed, I completely agree." Arthur smoothed his hair: "But unfortunately, those who fired the shots did not listen to me at the time."

As Arthur finished speaking, a loud bang was heard, and the carriage suddenly shook violently.

Immediately ahead, came the driver's typical French opening salutation and a noisy commotion.