Shattered Glass Slipper Shards Chapter 40
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“That is what I want to ask. Who are you?”
“I am Arina. I help my father deliver water here. You are a maid working in this mansion, aren’t you?”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because the young ladies don’t wake up at this hour. They are sleepyheads, so they wake up late and go to sleep early. Therefore, a diligent older sister like you cannot possibly be a noble young lady.”
“That is a very interesting thought. Well, have you finished delivering the water?”
“Yes. Today I even received a small piece of bread. It’s a reward for me. Since you work in this mansion, you must have eaten this white bread often, right? I haven’t eaten it many times. But there is nothing in the world as delicious as this white bread. Don’t you think so too?”
“Oh, yes. I think so too. When I first ate white bread, I marveled, wondering if there could be anything this delicious in the world.”
The child nodded, smiling sweetly. It was a laugh as fresh as the flower she was holding.
“That’s right. I was like that too.”
“But you were looking at the flowers here.”
“Yes. The flowers here are very pretty. If I could, I would want to see them every day.”
“Don’t you deliver water every day? Then you could keep seeing them?”
“Yes, but my father doesn’t know that I come in here. He would probably get very angry if he knew.”
“Why?”
The child brought her index finger to her mouth as if about to share something important, then whispered a small ‘Shh.’ Her voice was much lower.
“The young mistress of this house, they say she is very fierce and scary. She hits the maids indiscriminately, and she screams every day, acting wickedly like a witch.”
“I see.”
“A witch is someone who eats children like me. So, someone who acts wickedly like a witch must be so bad. That’s why I shouldn’t be here.”
“What if I were that wicked young lady?”
The child’s eyes widened as if she had heard something unbelievable. She shook her head vigorously, denying my words as if they were absurd.
“That’s impossible. That scary young lady couldn’t possibly be pretty like you. She must be very fat and ill-tempered, umm, and yes. Her teeth must stick out like a witch’s, too? Compared to that, you look like a fairy.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Like a princess from a fairy tale book.”
“Even a princess can be ill-tempered and wicked. More importantly, what would you do if I ran to the mistress and repeated what you said?”
“That couldn’t happen.”
The child declared with a voice full of certainty, almost shouting. I found the child’s behavior, looking at me so positively when we had just met, quite amusing and strange, so I asked again.
“Why do you think so?”
“Because you listen to me. You don’t yell at me for being dirty, and you listen carefully to what I say. Most of all, your eyes are very sad right now.”
“Do I look like that to you?”
“Yes. I look like that after I cry. You look like that too. You know, my father said that there are no bad people among those who know how to cry sadly.”
I murmured in a weak voice.
“No bad people? Is that really true? Could that be possible?”
“Of course. Crying happens when you are hurt or when you have done something wrong. Bad people don’t ask for forgiveness. Asking for forgiveness is something good people do.”
The child added in a whisper.
“But Bill, who lives next door to me, doesn’t ask me for forgiveness even when he does something wrong. So, he is a bad child.”
“What wrong did he do?”
“He lifted up my skirt and teased me a lot. He called me ugly. And he kissed my cheek even though I said no. I really hate it. I’m never playing with him again.”
A smile naturally surfaced at the child’s cute complaint. I stroked the child’s cheek and asked in a gentle voice.
“You really won’t play with him? Really?”
At my question, the child closed her eyes for a moment, pretending to think. Then, hesitating with a hesitant look, she quietly opened her mouth.
“……I’ll play with him after I sleep ten nights.”
I bent my knees and squatted down. I met the child’s eyes and said in a playful tone.
“Why? Didn’t you just say you wouldn’t play with him?”
“But I’ll be lonely. Being lonely is sad. If I’m sad, my heart hurts, and if my heart hurts, I get sick. They say that if your heart hurts, even medicine can’t cure it.”
The child’s eyes shone with extreme innocence as she said that. It was purity close to spotless white.
Perhaps because of that? I unintentionally blurted out my true feelings as if confessing to the child.
“Can a wicked person who bullies others also have a heart that hurts?”
“Bill is a wicked child, but he cries like me. He comes later to apologize, and, umm…… does your heart hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I hesitated at the child’s question. Strangely, uttering these words felt like a sin. I felt like a self-deprecating laugh would escape.
Good heavens, I was asking advice from a child who was half my age……. It was pathetic.
Just then, the child reached out and stroked the back of my hand. Then, she squinted her eyes like a crescent moon and exclaimed cheerfully.
“Pain, go away, zap! If you don’t go away, I’ll hit you hard!”
Afterward, she laughed cheerfully and said to me.
“You would look even prettier when you smile. Because you look like a fairy.”
I couldn’t give any answer. Something felt like it was surging up from deep within my chest. That heat seemed to swallow me whole like a typhoon.
So, I just stared at the child like an idiot, biting my lip. If I didn’t, I felt like I would start sobbing out loud. This continued until I heard the voice of an unfamiliar man, whom I presumed to be the child’s father.
“Older sister, can we meet again next time?”
“……Yes, someday we might be able to.”
“Then see you next time. I think I might get scolded by Dad if I stay here. Goodbye. You have to smile next time, okay?”
The child practically ran out of the garden in one stride. I watched her go blankly and rubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. Nothing came off, but I felt as if something invisible had been wiped clean, and my heart welled up again. My eyes were growing hot.
I raised my hand again and rubbed my cheek. This time, I felt moisture. The tears I had been desperately holding back so no one would notice were now flowing.
But I felt no shame or embarrassment at all. That’s why I wiped them with the back of my hand instead of a handkerchief. I wanted them to soak into my blood and race toward my heart.
The dawn passed, and the sun began to rise. I returned to my room, holding every single tear within my chest without letting a single drop fall to the floor.
And I waited for Marie to come wake me up. Poor Marie entered my room a little later than usual.
“Hello? Did I wake up early, or did you come in late?”
The voice carried on the morning air was quite sharp. I managed a smile by pulling up the corners of my mouth at Marie’s appearance, her face pale with shock at my words. It felt like I had been locked in the room forever.
To carry out any endeavor, one needs an ‘impetus.’ Only then can one make excuses if they fail, and even if they succeed, they can consider it natural and humble themselves. People call this modesty.
But this only applies to people like me. For someone in the position of Madame de Lavalier, an impetus for maintaining social standing is needed more than modesty.
What is needed is something appropriate that can simultaneously boost her pride and allow her to lead the situation according to her own will.
Unfortunately, in this mansion, I was the only one capable of providing such an impetus. I bore the responsibility of providing a suitable reason to uphold Lavalliere’s dignity and to apologize for my mother’s rudeness.
So, enduring the stares of those around me, I paced in front of Lavalliere’s door for several days. Until her fortress, which seemed as solid as an iron wall, was breached. It took exactly three days.
Lavalliere greeted me with a very cold expression and spoke in a chilling tone, as if making an excuse.
“How audacious of you. You are not the one who should be standing outside my door……. If your mother had half your wisdom, I would not be this angry.”
“Love is inherently blind, so it sometimes causes trouble for those around us. Mother was simply thinking of me. If there is fault, it lies in my own shortcomings.”
“Hmph. There is no need to take her side. I never expected anything in the first place……. But this is the end now.”
From Madame’s words, I realized she would be leaving the mansion soon. Since she was staying with the Bischwartz Family for the purpose of viewing the exposition, there was no need to spend any more time here.
My education was merely a small diversion for Lavalliere to use her tedious time meaningfully. It was clear that she held the attitude that even if her honor suffered a small stain because of me, it was an issue of my character, not hers.
It seemed she felt she had fulfilled her duty to the Bishvarts Family just by erasing the defiance visible in my eyes.
“If you do not follow in your mother’s footsteps, you might become a rather presentable young lady. But you need to know the word ‘pity.’”
“Are you referring to the act of feeling sorry for subordinates and treating them generously?”
“No, pity for oneself. I truly cannot understand why you attribute your mother’s fault to your own shortcomings. That is your mother’s problem, not yours, isn’t it? That is because you lack the capacity to feel sorry for yourself.”
“The capacity to feel sorry for myself……”
My relationship with Madame was not close or intimate enough to exchange letters, so it was clear that it would end the moment she left this mansion, unless I caused trouble or we met in society.
Perhaps that is why she was giving me this final lesson. This was likely the greatest favor Lavalliere could offer.
“People in society are so full of pity for others that they fail to reflect upon themselves. They do not know how to love themselves. That is a very painful thing. So, do not put on an incomprehensible modesty. Do not lower yourself too much. That only results in others looking down on you.”
In truth, perhaps no one in the entire world pitied themselves as much as I did. I was someone who didn’t care about the affairs around me as long as it was for my own happiness.
However, there was a vast difference between the pity she spoke of and the pity I pursued. Lavalliere told me to love myself, but I pitied myself while constantly doubting and feeling anxious about my current self. Because I continuously project my past self, I view my present self as pitiful, but I cannot be certain if that is genuine compassion or a misunderstanding.
This kind of pity only amounts to cheap sympathy or mournful self-love. So, must I prevent others from pitying me first until I can be sufficiently confirmed?
