6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (15)
6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (15)
The judge declared Hall 1 of the Rose Windmill Cabaret a temporary courtroom.
The stage that had been a performance venue moments ago transformed into a court in the blink of an eye.
But the people stepping onto it were doing much the same thing as those who had stepped onto it before.
Each person had a part to play, and each played their role.
The difference was that this time, even the performers had no idea how the final act would end.
The plaintiff, the defendant, the court clerk, and the witnesses took their places.
The guests became the courtroom audience.
They ringed the stage in a circle. Depending on their opinions of the case, they positioned themselves on the plaintiff's side, the defendant's side, or somewhere in between.
The old judge in his robes emerged from the rear of the stage.
Sweeping his gaze over the assembly as he always did, he started toward his seat—then stopped short.
Waiting for him was a chair festooned with jewels and floral arrangements.
The very chair Yvonne had occupied while playing the queen on this stage.
The decoration was so ostentatious that it would be awkward for an old judge to sit in.
With a sour glare, he looked toward the theater staff.
The man had served as a judge for over twenty years.
He could read the mockery in their faces without the slightest effort.
The people of the Rose Windmill had expressed their antipathy toward the trial in their own fashion.
Had this trial truly been for the victims, he might have understood.
As far as they were concerned, however, it was purely a show staged for the political scheming of those in power.
It was only natural that theater folk would resent it.
The judge noted that one of the people glaring at him was his old drinking companion Yug Maroine, and that stung.
So they think I'm in league with those people.
Judging by the faces of the spectators seated on the defendant's side, most of them shared that view.
The judicial robes, the gavel, even the court clerk had all materialized as if arranged in advance—it was no wonder they drew that conclusion.
But that wasn't the truth.
He was none too pleased about being exploited for this sort of chicanery either.
What could he do about it, though?
The plaintiff's side had made inquiries concerning the trial, and as the presiding judge, he had simply answered them honestly.
The date and venue had been set at this time, they had argued, to facilitate securing the suspect and witnesses. The Rouge police station had formally requested that notification of the trial be withheld to prevent the suspect from fleeing.
Both the argument and the evidence behind it had been persuasive.
So what choice did he have?
He could only say yes.
The judge took his seat, struggling to ignore the scorn-laced stares from those around him.
The star of today's stage climbed into the defendant's chair.
A young man handsome enough to be an actor himself.
Whether he grasped the gravity of his situation or not, he wore a relaxed smile.
He seemed to think he was innocent, so why would anything go wrong?
The judge clicked his tongue inwardly.
How could he be so utterly oblivious?
Even the judge, who kept his distance from politics, could see the aim of this affair.
Apart from the deputy commander of the mounted police, no one here was truly interested in catching the real culprit.
He didn't know the exact backroom details, but the objective plainly seemed to be sullying a rival noble's honor for gain.
By the time the young man received his not-guilty verdict, the reputation of the noble who had sponsored him would already be in ruins.
And in the course of that process, the young man himself would lose every opportunity he had worked so hard to obtain.
What in the world did he have to smile about?
What a simple fool.
The judge first examined the defendant's eligibility for trial.
That is, he verified whether the conditions for a summary trial under the Ordinance on Gypsies and Vagabonds were satisfied.
"What is your name?"
"Frank Wonderstein."
"Do you possess any officially verifiable identification?"
"I do not."
"Have you ever acquired status in a foreign country—permanent residency, temporary resident standing, protected refugee designation, or any equivalent that could substitute for identification?"
"I have not."
"Do you know your place of origin?"
"I do not."
"Anything known regarding your parents?"
"Nothing."
An unidentified orphan vagabond.
Baron Dosville, appearing as the plaintiff, burst into laughter and clapped his hands.
"Good heavens! I suspected as much, and here we have a genuine vagabond! Is there even any need for a trial?"
He turned to the audience and gave an exaggerated shrug.
From the side in front of him, raucous laughter erupted. From the side behind him, a murmur of discomfort rippled out.
The term "vagabond" as used in the Ordinance on Gypsies and Vagabonds did not literally refer to ordinary travelers or wandering acrobats.
Article 1 of the ordinance defined the term with precision.
An unregistered person of no fixed residence and unverified identity.
In this era, unregistered persons—including Gypsies—were treated with even greater contempt than those who performed menial labor.
Charlotia, in particular, where agriculture was the mainstay, had a deeply entrenched class system and a strong sense of local identity. Outsiders were shunned there more fiercely than in other nations.
Rootless garbage.
That was how the locals perceived the unregistered.
Some territories went so far as to arrest such people, brand them, and turn them into slaves.
Mockery poured from the audience on the plaintiff's side.
"Ha, just what you'd expect from the leader of the Monster Circus Troupe. A man in his own element, isn't he?"
"Pretty face, though. Some well-traveled whore's bastard, maybe?"
"Probably lived a similar life himself as a child, heh heh."
Even when the jibes crossed the line, the spectators on the defendant's side offered no retort.
They, too, could not hide their discomfort with Wonderstein's status.
"How in the world did the Viscountess get tangled up with someone like that?"
"Look at the way he's dressed and the way he carries himself. Comes naturally, doesn't it? You don't suppose he lied about being some noble's illegitimate son?"
"This is exactly why you get burned if you date a man based on looks alone."
Remarks that would be hard to speak aloud came from all directions.
An ordinary person would have been too ashamed to lift their head.
Yet Wonderstein, standing at the center of the maelstrom, remained composed.
He endured the abuse in silence, wearing a quiet, unruffled smile.
Like a man long accustomed to hearing such things.
Like someone for whom insults were simply part of daily life.
Anais felt tears threaten to well up.
She had the sensation of prying into a personal history that should have stayed buried.
She had long suspected something was off.
Whenever talk turned to his hometown or origins, he would deftly steer the conversation elsewhere.
He must have his reasons.
She had resolved never to be the first to ask.
Whenever ugly thoughts surfaced, she had forced them down.
It can't be.
It must not be.
Just look at the way he appears, the way he carries himself.
Surely he comes from a fallen noble house or once served as an attendant to some aristocrat.
When Baron Dosville had invoked the law with his talk of vagabonds, she had not immediately grasped what he was driving at.
She had studied law herself, but mainly in matters of commerce and trade.
She was not well-versed in statutes concerning the treatment of Gypsies.
But through the back-and-forth with the judge, through Baron Dosville's declaration, she finally realized what he meant.
Wonderstein was an unregistered person—a status lower than that of a serf.
People without a country or a hometown—born on the road to prostitutes, clowns, beggars, wanderers, or thieves, then raised wandering and rootless.
“Gypsy” referred to an ethnicity, so unregistered people were not technically called Gypsies, but in practice they were little different.
Unregistered persons.
The sinister suspicion that had once briefly flickered through her mind.
It had now been laid bare as fact.
And in the worst possible way—openly declared before a crowd.
Anais clenched her trembling hands.
What should I do?
Even if I save the Troupe Leader, what comes after?
Will the board quietly let me assemble a defense team?
No—they said summary execution.
Can I even save him here and now?
Her thoughts tangled.
Her breath grew short.
Just as the tears were about to spill from her eyes, Marquis Mustang whispered low behind her.
"Conceal your agitation."
His voice was calm.
"If you react like that, you will accomplish nothing but to confirm that you share some connection with that man. A summary execution cannot be handed down in a summary trial unless there is absolutely irrefutable physical evidence and testimony. The baron's words are bluff. All of it is a ploy to shake you. If this proceeds to a formal trial, an acquittal can be secured with certainty. Their goal is not the trial itself. It is to damage our honor."
Anais barely managed to still her trembling body.
Summary execution.
Unregistered person.
That one-two blow had cost her composure.
Marquis Mustang was right.
The trial was only a pretext.
Their aim was to tarnish her reputation and jeopardize her standing within the company.
If she showed herself losing sound judgment now, her influence and voice would weaken—and saving Wonderstein would become far more difficult.
She steadied her breathing.
"Thank you, Marquis Mustang."
"Think nothing of it."
His brisk manner stirred a small curiosity in Anais.
"Are you quite all right with this, my lord?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have been entangled in an affair unbefitting your station..."
"My station?"
Marquis Mustang gave a derisive snort.
He tilted his chin toward the Rose Windmill dancers behind him.
"I am a man who has been called a pimp living among whores more times than I can count."
"Ah."
He was the owner of the cabaret.
Wonderstein's status was unlikely to make him turn his back, at least.
Relieved, Anais turned her eyes back to the judge.
Baron Dosville looked rather disappointed that she had so swiftly recovered her poise.
Despicable man.
At that moment, Wonderstein looked her way.
Anais could read the chagrin in his smile.
He must be ashamed.
His secret had been exposed in front of everyone—and in front of her.
She wanted to smile back at him.
To go to him and comfort him.
To say that it didn't matter to her.
That she was still on his side.
But there were too many eyes watching her.
Right now, she had to act.
Anais turned away with a cold expression, ignoring his smile.
As if to say: I gave you money, nothing more. There is no personal tie between us.
As if the whole situation irritated her and she was sick of it.
"The Viscountess seems rather angry as well."
"Who wouldn't be? Going by appearances alone, I'd have been fooled too."
"What an ordeal for her."
Sympathetic murmurs for her rippled among the defendant's supporters.
It seemed the misunderstanding that they were lovers would trouble her no further.
She caught sight of Baron Dosville's disappointment.
Hmph.
As if I'd let you rattle me.
A smirk nearly slipped out of Anais.
Then her gaze fell on Wonderstein again.
Ah.
She swallowed a groan.
The look in Wonderstein's eyes as he watched her.
It was bitter, as if carrying an inconsolable sorrow.