The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1320: Chapter 179: The Mysterious Guest

The difference between men and women is that the older women get, the more passionate they become about women’s affairs. Conversely, the older men get, the more they withdraw from men’s affairs.

——Chekhov”s “Notes”

The wind howled fiercely through the city, the blizzard like a spread of white carpet, covering the entire small town.

The world outside the window had been swallowed by the cold wind and snow, the air was biting, and snowflakes danced in the wind, as if freezing all life.

The streets left only traces almost submerged by ice and snow, occasionally a few footsteps could be heard, but they quickly disappeared into the endless expanse of white.

Though it was still noon, the blizzard weather darkened the sky so much that even the distant lights were hidden by the thick curtain of snow, plunging the whole world into a silent stillness.

The walls around the small inn had long become moldy due to dampness, and the air was filled with the stale smell of mold mixed with oil smoke. The thick carpet on the floor clung tightly to the ground, as if the carpet had grown naturally from the earth.

On the stove, there were only a few weak coals, barely maintaining a faint warmth, insufficient to ward off the biting cold seeping in through the cracks from outside.

Arthur sat at the dining table, an oil lamp with a dim flame on the table surface, perhaps aged, with the inner wall of the lamp blackened by soot.

Such appetite-devoid lighting paired with a simple Russian-style dinner, let alone eating, just one look could make someone feel nauseated.

Pickled cucumbers, rock-hard rye bread, and a slightly greasy plate of stewed beef.

Arthur picked up the bread and fiddled with it in his hands; its rock-hard texture almost made him think he picked up a piece of coal.

But after all, the Sir came from hardship, and he naturally had his own way to deal with such a dinner.

Taking out the small knife given by Garibaldi, he sawed the bread into small pieces as if cutting wood, then put the small pieces into his mouth to moisten with saliva before chewing vigorously using all his might.

How to describe the taste of this bread?

You must not savor it delicately as if it were a gourmet meal.

The texture of the bread was not only hard; even when crushed, one could still feel the chunks between one’s teeth. A lick with the tongue across the teeth could also sweep away a few pieces of untreated bran. The bread was sour and bitter, and swallowing it not only scratched the throat but also left a moldy aroma in the belly upon a long inhale.

However, fortunately, there was still a portion of stewed beef to suppress the rebelling stomach, though it only managed to curb the odd taste.

This stewed beef was far inferior to the Provence stew at a Parisian restaurant, not only was the flavor bland and uninspired, with only salt for seasoning, but the greasy broth had partially frozen in the cold weather, with congealed yellowish oil flowers floating on the surface.

Shoving all these things into his mouth at once, Arthur felt only an unpleasant residue accumulate.

But what could he do?

The revelry of London, the indulgence of Paris, the self-indulgence of Gottingen, those were the treatments befitting Sir Arthur Hastings, a British gentleman of the upper class.

Whereas black bread, beef soup, and pickles were more fitting for Arthur Agaresovich Hestingov, a petty civil servant of the Russian Empire, in the fourteenth civil rank.

Five days and nights of hardship made Arthur’s face even paler, and the remaining 200 rubles seemed ready to evaporate in an instant. Oh, perhaps that’s not quite right, for even the meager 200 rubles, after paying for the lodging and travel fare to Druiysk, only 110 rubles were left.

And from then on, he’d have to rely on this 110 rubles until ‘Shabinsky’ Shubinsky came to rescue him, this ‘British Jade Unicorn.’

If worse came to worst and Shubinsky didn’t show, Arthur would have to find a way to extract himself from this godforsaken place on his own.

These days, City Hall, the post office, the police station, all the governmental institutions he could go to, he had almost visited them all. However, never mind meeting the mayor or the police chief and other notables, he couldn’t even break through the first line of defense set by the gatekeepers. In Druiysk, meeting an official was as difficult as searching for light in the dark. And if he couldn’t meet with officials, he was stuck, unable to accomplish anything.

These frustrating circumstances strung together, forming an unbreakable knot.

If things went on like this, Arthur might have to seriously consider Agares’ unreliable suggestion—to stake out a highway and ask passing heroes for some travel funds.

After all, he was a Fiore-style master swordsman, and this kind of work he should quickly get the hang of.

If only he had learned a thing or two from Victor back in Paris.

The old fellow was not just a Parisian sleuth—though Victor only admitted to having followed some French pirates during the Napoleonic Wars to rob British merchant ships—Arthur felt that this old fox probably engaged in quite a few land-based robberies in his reckless youth.

But then again, robbery was not quite dignified for Sir Arthur Hastings.

But on the other hand, if it was the bandit Arthur Agaresovich Hestingov doing the robbing, what did it have to do with the Sir?

Alas…

Indeed, even heroes can be brought low by money troubles, and a little kindness can stir a chivalrous spirit.