Chapter 25
The Radical Party headquarters looked like it had once been a noble’s villa—small, but built like a fortress. Though it bore the appearance of a compact castle, the interior was stark and plain. The bare stone walls were devoid of paintings, a lingering trace from the time the building had served as a chapel.
“This place used to be a dormitory for sisters, apparently,” a janitor said as he moved methodically from room to room, cleaning as he went.
“Is that room still in use?” Josée asked, glancing toward one of the doors.
“Ah, yes. It’s used as lodging for representatives, or to house party members visiting from the provinces.”
As she walked through the halls of the headquarters, Josée took mental notes, steadily memorizing the layout.
The guest room had a single window, with a bed pushed up beneath it. A fireplace sat to one side, and the only other furnishings were a modest desk and a single chair. No paintings, no mirrors. Just stone walls—cold and undecorated.
There were hooks in the ceiling where a chandelier once hung, and two more hooks high on the wall where a rope had been strung, likely used for drying laundry. There was no closet—jackets and other garments would have to be hung on that line.
“This definitely feels like a 'man’s room,’ doesn’t it?” Josée muttered.
“Ah, right. Since there aren’t any female representatives, this place was never designed with women in mind—no mirrors, no washstands, no built-in cabinets,” came the reply.
Josée walked slowly into the room and looked out the window. Beyond the glass stretched a garden—not a flower in sight, just trees swaying in the wind.
“I suppose that’s to be expected, given the intended residents…” she murmured.
As if in response to her voice, a loud *thud* rattled the windowpane.
“……!?”
“Rain. It’s getting heavier,” the janitor noted.
“Let’s hope it stops before we have to leave.”
But the rain showed no signs of letting up.
---
The unofficial welcome gathering for Josée took place under the drumming of the downpour.
At the long table sat five people, with Representative Clovis at the head. Josée took a seat beside Serge. Servants brought out the meal, and after a brief prayer over the food, Clovis turned to Josée.
“Now then, Dame Josée, would you introduce yourself?”
Josée offered a polite smile, carefully composed.
“I’m Josée, owner of the brothel *Lirondelle*. At Representative Serge’s invitation, I’ve decided to join the Radical Party.”
She left out the real reason—that she’d joined to avoid becoming a target of the very same party.
Enzo leaned back with a mocking grin.
“Hey now, Serge. Don’t tell me you got sweet on her after that incident and decided to become her patron? Mixing business with personal feelings—that’s a problem.”
Josée stifled a sigh. *Really? Still with this?*
But Serge responded coolly.
“And what if I did?”
The room fell into an awkward silence. Someone cleared their throat. Josée blinked, startled by his bluntness, but Serge remained unfazed.
“You brought your personal feelings into the party too, didn’t you? *‘If a woman takes a seat, it’ll be disgraceful.’* Since the spy incident, I’ve admired her courage. Sure, that’s a personal feeling—but mine supports the future of this party and helps it grow. Yours? They’re petty, self-serving, and add nothing.”
Enzo faltered, taken aback. Clovis, on the other hand, smiled.
Serge pressed on.
“Spreading baseless rumors, trying to sabotage new members—behavior like that only drives away talent. Sooner or later, this country will have female representatives. Other nations are already moving forward. It’s only a matter of time, Representative Enzo.”
Josée felt a spark of exhilaration. She wanted to applaud. For all his laid-back demeanor, Serge was still a politician—a professional when it came to verbal duels.
But then came a cold voice.
“What a waste of time.”
It was Pascal.
“She’s just a courtesan. Even if women gain the vote, do you really think anyone’s going to cast their ballot for a brothel madam? I don’t. Women tear each other down, and men won’t take her seriously.”
He said it with such casual contempt, Josée could hardly believe it.
“Oh?” she replied, her tone sharp. “Maybe courtesans *will* get votes.”
“……A negligible amount.”
“Maybe their clients will vote for them.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“And how would you know? Are there any studies? Or are you just assuming? Do you have examples from countries with women’s suffrage where courtesans *didn’t* get elected?”
Pascal hesitated. In truth, Josée had done her reading—foreign newspapers told a different story.
She smirked.
“In Gertner, a high-class courtesan already won an election. It was in the papers last year... You didn’t know that, Lord Pascal?”
As the aperitifs were served, Josée downed hers in one gulp, her throat dry from the exchange.
Maurice kept his silence, clearly wary. Clovis, meanwhile, watched her with a satisfied smile.
The storm raged outside, the sound of rain hammering the roof echoing through the dim room.
Josée glanced upward, uneasy. If they left now, the roads would be flooded and treacherous.
She wasn’t the only one with that thought—everyone at the table seemed to glance up at the rumbling ceiling.
Maurice spoke first.
“......Lord Clovis, the rain is quite severe—”
“Indeed,” Clovis agreed. “At this rate, it might be best for everyone to stay the night.”
Josée shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Staying the night, in a building full of men, didn’t exactly sit well with her.
As if sensing her hesitation, Serge leaned close and whispered, “You should stay too. It’ll be dangerous out there in this downpour.”
“Maybe...” she murmured, frowning.
Serge added gently, “Take the room next to mine. If you need anything, just call—I’ll come right away.”
Josée weighed her options. The storm outside was unforgiving, and traveling now would be foolish. Still, the idea of spending the night here, in this all-male stronghold, made her skin prickle.
“Hmm... then I’ll stay tonight.”
“Understood. I’ll ask the janitor to prepare a room for you.”