Chapter 8
Count Klever remained silent for quite some time even after leaving Monbel Manor.
Two attendants were riding in the carriage with him, but they didn't open their mouths either.
They were skilled at reading their master's mood and had noticed that Count Klever was deep in thought.
No one wanted to speak unnecessarily and risk being scolded.
The count gazed at the hilly road passing outside the window.
Monbel Manor was growing farther and farther away.
An old, quiet manor that was soon to be seized.
Normally, he had intended to inspect the list of collateral there today, enjoy Elysia de Monbel's final show of bravado, and return.
Yet the aroma of venison still lingered in his mouth.
It was ridiculous.
He had gone to collect a debt, only to find himself thinking of the food before the debt.
‘You have tasted ruin.’
Count Klever mulled over what Elysia had said.
It was a bold expression for a young noble lady.
In truth, rather than bold, it was closer to the final bluff available to someone driven into a corner.
But that bluff suited her strangely well.
Monbel's goat's milk, woodland mushrooms, river fish, venison, honey, and cheese.
None were extraordinary ingredients, but after eating them in sequence, he truly felt as if he had passed through the last remnants of a noble house.
The strangest thing was that he hadn't found it unpleasant.
Count Klever considered himself a gourmand.
He often attended famous banquets in the capital and had experienced several feasts said to have been prepared by the imperial chef.
He had eaten dishes made by stuffing a game animal's heart with spices and roasting it, as well as veal sprinkled with flower salt said to come only from the southern desert.
But the meal he had eaten at Monbel today was different from those.
It hadn't been splendid; if anything, it had been shabby.
And yet there had been intent behind that shabbiness.
The shabbiness of a poor household makes people uncomfortable, but deliberate shabbiness makes them think.
The moment a guest begins wondering whether the empty space on a plate is there because of a lack of money or because the chef deliberately left it, he is already caught.
Count Klever slowly tapped his knee with one finger.
“Interesting.”
One attendant asked cautiously,
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“Monbel's chef.”
The count gave a short laugh.
“He seemed like a madman.”
That night, Count Klever attended a social gathering hosted by the Marquis of Reinfeld on the outskirts of the capital.
It wasn't a highly formal gathering, but that was precisely why news spread so well there.
At formal banquets, nobles maintained appearances, and at imperial feasts, they guarded their tongues.
But at private social gatherings like this, after a few rounds of drinks and with music playing at just the right volume, people's weaknesses and rumors passed between them most smoothly.
Count Klever knew such gatherings well.
Rumors are won by the person who lets them slip, not the person who shouts them.
He deliberately didn't bring up Monbel first.
Instead, he took a sip of wine and gave a light laugh when someone made a joke about fallen noble families.
“I visited Monbel today.”
At those words, the surrounding nobles turned their eyes toward him.
“Monbel? You mean that house belonging to Elysia de Monbel?”
“They were still holding out?”
“I went to see whether they were holding out or collapsing.”
Count Klever said that and set down his glass.
He said only enough to make the other party want to ask more.
As expected, a certain count asked with a laugh,
“So, how was it? Did she cling to you, crying and begging?”
“That would have been boring.”
“Then?”
“I was served a meal.”
Laughter erupted around them.
“You were served a meal by someone you went to collect a debt from? Miss Monbel has some nerve.”
“Looks like she put on a last banquet.”
Count Klever laughed at that.
“Something like that.”
The nobles' laughter faded slightly.
They noticed that Count Klever's way of playing along with the joke was different from usual.
He wasn't a man who cruelly mocked other people's downfall, but neither was he one to wallow in sentiment.
Yet there was a strange lingering note in his voice now.
“Was it good?”
Someone asked.
Count Klever didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the wine in his glass for a moment, then said in a very matter-of-fact tone,
“It was.”
The answer was brief.
Which made it sound all the louder.
Duke Kalden, who had been sitting off to one side of the gathering, turned his head.
He was nearing fifty, but his physique was still sturdy, and he had been famous since his youth for his fondness for women, hunting, and fine food.
In particular, rumors followed him that he enjoyed taking fallen noble ladies in under the guise of patronage.
Elysia de Monbel was also on his list of interests.
Once Monbel collapsed completely, he intended to pay off a suitable portion of her debt and keep her at his side.
She was pretty, young, of a not-too-shabby bloodline, and above all, she would have nowhere to run.
To the duke, such a plan wasn't particularly cruel.
In his world, it was common for wealthy nobles to take in people from fallen houses; they simply didn't usually talk about how filthy that form of charity could be.
That Duke Kalden asked with an intrigued expression,
“Klever, if you thought it good enough to say so, it must have been quite decent.”
“It exceeded my expectations.”
“Did Monbel have a chef like that?”
“It did.”
“Hmm.”
The duke slowly rubbed his chin.
“I was thinking of taking that young lady in once Monbel collapsed. She's quite pretty, isn't she? There's a certain pleasure in taming a woman who's been driven into a corner.”
A few nobles around them chuckled under their breath, but Count Klever didn't smile.
He merely set down his glass.
Duke Kalden seemed even more interested at the count's reaction.
“But after hearing you, I find myself changing my mind a little.”
“In what way?”
“There are times when I prefer delicious food to a pretty woman.”
The duke said that with a laugh.
“Bring a woman home, and she cries, needs comforting, gets jealous, and costs money. At least delicious food doesn't cry on the plate.”
Laughter erupted around them again.
It was a vulgar thing to say. But the nobles present were accustomed to that vulgarity.
They wrapped themselves in perfume, lace, and etiquette, but inside, they were people calculating how to consume someone else's downfall.
This time, however, the direction of their calculations shifted slightly.
The strange meal that had come from her manor had become a more interesting commodity than the fallen noble lady Elysia de Monbel.
A countess covered the corner of her mouth with her fan and asked,
“What sort of food was it? Surely Monbel can't afford to set a banquet like that right now.”
“It wasn't splendid.”
Count Klever said,
“Goat's-milk cheese, mushroom soup, freshwater fish, venison, honey, and cheese. Judging by the ingredients alone, it was the sort of meal one might receive at a country estate after a hunt.”
“And?”
“But every dish came with a story. Monbel's pastures, the forest behind the manor, the river below, the fire and honey that remained. It may sound silly, but it didn't seem silly after you ate it.”
He paused for a moment, then added,
“And the food itself was good.”
That one remark was decisive.
The story might have been mere packaging.
It might have been the bluff of a fallen house, or a young noble lady's final desperate struggle.
But the moment Count Klever said the food itself was good, the expressions of the nobles changed.
Count Klever wasn't a man with a loose tongue.
It was rare for him to praise someone's food at a gathering like this.
And if it was a meal from a fallen noble house he'd visited to collect a debt, rarer still.
If a man like that went out of his way to admit it was good while otherwise saying little, there had to be something there.
“How much?”
Duke Kalden asked.
Count Klever lifted his glass, took a sip of wine, and answered.
“150 gold.”
The surroundings fell silent for a moment.
Then someone laughed.
“For a single meal?”
“That's right.”
“Surely you didn't pay that?”
Count Klever said calmly,
“I did.”
Silence descended again.
This time, it was different from before.
The nobles looked at one another. The same calculation was turning over in all their minds.
150 gold was an absurd price.
But if Count Klever had paid it and wasn't hiding that fact here, the story changed.
Saying you had eaten an expensive meal was a boast.
But acting as if you hadn't regretted paying for a ridiculously expensive meal was an even greater boast.
Duke Kalden gave a low laugh.
“Interesting. Monbel has started selling its own downfall.”
“You could look at it that way.”
“What did you say the chef's name was?”
“Kyle Pratt.”
“Kyle Pratt.”
The duke repeated the name once.
“I'll remember it.”
As soon as he finished, the surrounding nobles gradually took on similar expressions.
Some shone with curiosity, some with jealousy, some with pure appetite, and some with the look of people who had found a story they could experience before everyone else in high society.
A young viscount said,
“I suppose I should send word to Monbel.”
The countess folded her fan.
“So should I. I don't care for the phrase ‘eating a downfall,’ but if the meal was that strange, I'd like to see for myself.”
Another noble laughed.
“150 gold. At that price, I'd rather buy a horse, but you can buy a horse every year. If you're late, you can't buy a rumor like this.”
Duke Kalden drank his wine with a satisfied expression.
“I can take in a pretty noble lady anytime, but if someone else takes the delicious chef first, it's over. I should visit Monbel myself.”
Hearing that, Count Klever gave a short inward laugh.
The rumor had already left the table.
From now on, the nobles' vanity would add flesh to it of its own accord.
How extraordinary the food from Monbel had been, why Count Klever had paid 150 gold, whether Elysia de Monbel had really put her downfall on the table, and what kind of madman the chef named Kyle Pratt was.
People wouldn't believe it until they tasted it themselves.
But because they didn't believe it, they would become even more curious.
That was high society.
Count Klever set down his empty glass and gazed at the night outside.
By now, the people at Monbel Manor were probably washing dishes.
The people in that old manor might still be staring blankly at the three gold coins.
They didn't know.
Starting tonight, Monbel's downfall hadn't ended; it had become a commodity.
And that commodity would sell for more than expected.