Chapter 7
The Count's Secret Maid - Chapter 7
Translation: godsn
Though I was wrestling with him because I feared being kicked out if I didn't do anything, I honestly thought I wouldn't escape punishment if caught. In my mind, it was a life-or-death act. But why? Puzzled, as I followed her, Isabella's voice flowed out.
"Paula, do you know that quite a number of servants have passed through this place?"
"Ah, yes. I've heard bits and pieces."
"Given the circumstances, we tried to be more meticulous than usual in screening candidates and bringing them in carefully. But every person we brought in that way couldn't properly serve the master. In fact, the master's condition only worsened. Still, we had to keep finding people, but even that became difficult as strange rumors started circulating covertly. That's part of why we brought in you, Paula—untrained as you are—and entrusted you with this task."
Then Isabella stopped walking and turned around. I halted my steps too, still clutching my nose with the apron, and faced her. My eyes blinked rapidly through the slightly parted fringe of my bangs.
"We can't keep replacing people every time, so it was time to change methods."
"Then...?"
"As long as the master isn't physically harmed, how you serve him is entirely up to you."
That was close to tacit permission for my actions. Honestly, I hadn't expected them to turn a blind eye. Just how bizarre were the rumors circulating?
Anyway, it was good news for me. I had absolutely no intention of harming his body. If anything, I wanted to make him healthier. But that process was far from easy.
The moment someone else laid hands on him, he would panic, push them away, and throw things while shouting at them to get out. He smashed and hurled everything within reach until not a single piece of furniture or floor remained intact. And when he ran out of things to throw, he would either scream at the top of his lungs or, unable to control his temper, claw at his own neck and chest until his skin nearly tore—leaving me drenched in sweat from restraining him.
At this point, it was a question of who would wear out first.
And when night fell, moans seeped through the thin walls. The sound of resistance, choked with pain. Being a light sleeper, even that faint noise would wake me. Listening to those fragile sounds, as if they might vanish any moment, I'd find myself staring blankly into the darkness, wide awake. The stolen sleep wouldn't return easily.
He was fighting.
Against death.
Thinking of it that way, I felt a strange kinship.
Thin and stretched, just one more day. That was how I wanted to live. Some might wish to close their eyes even one day sooner in this hellish existence, but not me.
I wanted to live. There had been times when I desperately longed for death, but now I wanted to live. Even if it was a life like hell, choosing death felt like surrender. I didn't care if people pointed at my strange appearance or called me filthy. I wanted to survive, even if it meant bowing my head and bending my back.
People called creatures like me tenacious bastards. I didn't mind being called that.
Even if I'd only caught the eye of an old gentleman passing by and ended up as a maid in a prestigious count's household. Even if the master I served was blind and had a temper more maddening than anyone could imagine.
When I entered Vincent's room, objects flew at me as a matter of course. A cup whizzed past my right side, shattered against the door with a crash. A clock flew past my left, hit the wall, and tumbled to the floor. Not to be outdone, a pillow struck my face head-on before dropping. The impact sent the silver tray in my hands tipping forward. It was only to be expected that the dessert piled on top would go tumbling down.
Watching him vent his entire temper yet again with complete indifference, I pondered what to do. Advance or retreat. First, I bent down to wipe up the dessert smashed on the floor. Immediately, another pillow came flying and hit me square in the face.
The moment the pillow dropped, I made up my mind. I had to say something.
So as I straightened up, I heard a stifled groan. Vincent had curled into himself. The venom from moments ago had completely vanished.
No—his condition was abnormal.
"Master!"
Vincent was clutching his chest, gasping for breath.
Seeing his deathly pale face, I immediately rummaged through my apron pocket. I pulled out a small device and placed it in his mouth. When I pressed the protruding part on top, he began breathing—with great difficulty, but breathing nonetheless.
Since starting as his attendant, I'd encountered many bewildering situations. One of them was these sudden episodes where he couldn't breathe.
The first time this happened, I'd been so startled that I'd sprinted to the Main Building to fetch Isabella. After explaining Vincent's condition, she immediately summoned the physician. Turned out there was a dedicated physician living here just for the master.
The physician examined Vincent—who was clutching his chest in agony—and took immediate action. Just like now, he inserted a small device into Vincent's mouth. After pressing the protruding part firmly to help him breathe, Vincent soon regained stability.
When I asked the departing physician what it was, he said it was a breathing device. " I'll prepare one for you. Always keep it on hand." This palm-sized device had saved his life.
According to the physician, Vincent's blindness kept his nerves constantly on edge, accumulating fatigue. Combined with irregular meals and no outdoor excursions, his body had grown severely weakened—making him more susceptible to illness.
To overcome this, he needed regular meals, sunlight exposure, and light exercise. Yet Vincent remained holed up in his room. If only he'd at least take his medicine properly—but he stubbornly refused even that.
Like a man determined to die.
What's so bad about being blind? But imagining myself unable to see terrified me. How horrifying to live utterly dependent on sound alone in perpetual darkness.
Sure, you could grope around relying on touch, still smell things, retain your sense of taste. But none of that could overcome the terror of invisibility. Moreover, he'd nearly died. His fear must exceed anything I could imagine.
Still, don't die.
Not out of sympathy. I just didn't want to clean up my master's corpse.
But I knew. Every night, I heard him struggling to survive.
Now that he was breathing on his own, I removed the breathing device from his mouth. Storing it back in my pocket, I checked his condition as he lay on the bed. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, his bloodless face looked exhausted. Still, his breathing was steadier than before.
When I moved to wipe his sweat, he sharply slapped my hand away. Though his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, his deeply furrowed brow radiated displeasure.
"Don't touch me."
"Since you're speaking, you must be feeling better."
"I'd feel even better without you here."
That mouth of his, honestly.
"Seems you enjoy suffering."
"Get out."
"How about some food?"
I'd brought breakfast instead of dessert. As always—watery white rice porridge. Approaching him with a bowl in one hand and spoon in the other, I resolved not to let my grim determination show on my face.
"G-get—koff—ugh!"
"There, there."
I deftly caught his face as he tried to dodge my touch and spooned the rice porridge into his mouth. Part of me wanted to pin his jaw open with my fingers, but I held back—last time I'd tried that, his teeth had nearly taken them clean off.
I would've preferred to feed him calmly, but his resistance was so fierce that before I knew it, I was tipping the bowl straight into his mouth. Porridge that missed its mark spilled out, staining the sheets. His face and nape were smeared with it—a complete mess.
"N-no, ugh—kgh!"
"Just a little more."
"L-let—let g... Let go!"
Unable to endure any longer, he kicked me square in the stomach. Focused solely on feeding him, I couldn't brace myself against the sudden force and toppled backward. We must've been wrestling near the edge of the bed, because I fell straight to the floor.
"Ugh..."
It hurt! Clutching the back of my throbbing head, I groaned. My vision blurred. The bowl that had fallen beside me spun in place before finally coming to a stop.
Porridge had splattered from the floor all the way up to the bed, leaving a milky trail. His clothes were streaked with it too. Yet, he only yanked the sheets over himself, smearing the porridge clinging to his cheeks onto the fabric in thick droplets.
How am I supposed to clean him up now? I sighed at the thought of the struggle ahead.
"You're insane."
"The sheets are filthy. So are your clothes. You should change into fresh ones."
I picked up the empty bowl and searched for the spoon, but it had vanished somewhere in the chaos. Giving up, I fetched a clean set of sheets and sleepwear. Given his foul temper, I'd learned it was better to handle everything at once rather than in stages, so I'd prepared them together.
"Don't touch me."
"If you change yourself, I won't have to."
After a brief hesitation, I held out the fresh sleepwear. He pressed himself against the wall, eyeing me warily. I fluttered the clothes temptingly, but when he refused to take them, I climbed onto the bed to force the change—only for him to snatch them away at the last second.
Miraculously, he seemed willing to dress himself, so I quickly fetched a small basin of lukewarm water. Since he refused baths, I'd brought it to at least wipe him down with a damp cloth.
"Just a moment."
Afraid he'd change into the clean clothes while still filthy, I moved to stop him—only for him to slap my hand away sharply. The crack rang loud enough to echo. Vincent glared at me furiously, but I wasn't fazed. This, too, was familiar.
"If you change like that, you'll just get the new ones dirty. Wipe yourself down first."
I pressed the damp cloth into his hand. He hesitated, so I threatened to do it myself—only then did he start wiping his face.
But the cloth only swiped at all the wrong places. Even when I corrected him, he made half-hearted, performative motions.
Finally, I snatched the cloth back and cleaned the porridge-smeared areas myself. He recoiled instantly, but there was nowhere to run. Silently, I wiped his face, neck, and hair before stepping off the bed.
I still needed to change the sheets, so I glanced at him—but he showed no intention of moving. Testing the waters, I tugged sharply at the bedding. Even if he noticed my silent plea, he pretended not to, not even twitching.
What followed was a battle of wills—me trying to strip the sheets, him resisting with all his strength. Then, in an instant, the fabric came loose. Thanks to that, I went sprawling again, smacking the back of my head against the floor for the second time.