Delmar Memoirs, Folio 7

The high society of Paris was like a piece of rotting fruit—sweetly fermented, the kind of thing that made one's head spin just by smelling it. But this was an era where even rotten fruit could be sold if it was covered in gold leaf. Long live the Belle Époque. In a corner of a lavish mansion along the Seine, where the fireplace crackled and the evening party glittered with silk dresses and the gold buttons of military uniforms, a marriage was officially announced.

Eve Delmar. A man who crawled up from the slums of Roubaix in the north. The lips of the noble ladies whispering his name moved as if licking honey. That man is taking a bride—and the daughter of a fallen aristocrat, no less. Is it for money, or for taste? Either way, it's amusing, they said.

In the center of the hall, where the eyes of the guests gathered. A tall, black-haired man was about to take a woman's hand with his gloved one. A well-tailored frock coat, polished leather shoes, the appearance of a flawless gentleman. The smile on his handsome face was gentle, as if he had stepped out of a hagiographic painting, but deep in his dark eyes, something thick and viscous, utterly unsuited for a saint, lay stagnant.

The man named Eve Delmar. In his field of vision now, the bride stands.

Catching the light of the chandeliers in the hall, a dress that would have once been called silk shone with a cheap luster. The tailoring wasn't bad, the fabric was high quality, but the aura of the person wearing it was undeniably dead. The scent of downfall had soaked in and wouldn't leave, no matter how much perfume was applied.

Guest. Tonight, the members of high society were murmuring that name as if licking it with lecherous eyes. The daughter of that house, the one who was drowning in debt, the one who was as good as sold by her parents. Whisper, whisper. Hiding their mouths with silk gloves, the noblewomen laughed. With that peculiar smile that blended pity and mockery.