The lady's gaze bore on him, surely, she means no harm as it would be imprudent for a guest to be too inquisitive about their guest. But to the composer, he simply cannot bear being pried upon. Those steady dark eyes feel like they are piercing through years of desolation and recent months of guilty pleasure he's been drowning in, even his sunken eyes and scraggly frame easily gave him away. Well, who is he not to be awakened and ashamed of himself in such situation? The lady appears too calm and serene, standing in contrast to the churning guilt in his stomach.

Wouldn't want to frighten and leave a bad impression on a newcomer just because you smoke, would you, Frédéric?

It took him a while to pull himself together and divert his attention to what Mendelssohn has been suggesting. 

"May I present to you, master Đặng, a physician from Tonkin. It is this person with his astounding apothecary medication that has spared me from terrible migraines."

Chopin's mind is elsewhere but this weary situation, as he would rather let himself drenched in October rain than seeing new people - the senior man in blue robe whom Mendelssohn is referring to. Nevertheless, basic protocols precede him, just a nod of acknowledgement is enough. Mendelssohn ought to pull a smile despite his seething exasperation for the brooding Pole.

"Without a doubt, I trust that his treatment is capable of caring for your condition, Frédéric."

Resorting to traditional medication, he said? His friend has always been too considerate for Chopin's liking when the German couldn't even bring himself to utter the word "opioid addiction" as it is. And our composer must have a word to preserve his dignity, he gives a wary glance at the foreign man.

"He treated your migraine, you said." Chopin raises a brow, "I can see life coming back to your voice compared to months in prior." 

"Oh, hush. Even my dear sister Fanny, who once suffered from the same ailment as I, reserves praise for their work. Eastern medicine made its name from China to France."

"Do you always confide your health in the hands of foreigners this easily, Felix?"

His tone is hushed enough only audible to both of them. Chopin doesn't mean to utter a word of discouragement with a raised brow at the moment, especially not in front of Mendelssohn, but in some way his friend's persistent precaution is starting to feel cumbersome. They're treating him like glass again.

"...Please, you needn't have to go an extra mile for me."

Sighed the frail man, now with nowhere to turn his gaze to as Mendelssohn persists. It isn't like he is shy from the idea of being cured - how blissful it would be if there is some way to clear out the excruciating ache in his lungs as well - but perhaps it is the pride and fear of becoming a burden again that gnaws at his heart, years of living and keeping pace with Sand had taught him so. Amidst the unhandy silence, Chopin wishes for lightheadedness or another surge of coughing fit to sweep him off his feet and to escape this torturing social position, he can at least blame his lungs for a sudden withdrawal.

.

"Pardon me, messieurs. Shall I recommend my apprentice in this doing? I reckon that her capability is far more suitted to manage monsieur Chopin's predicament here."

The Tokinese physician spoke up as he gestures to the young lady next to him, the one in red, a candidate to do the work in her mentor's place. And before Chopin could reply, Mendelssohn looked delighted more than ever to seize an opportunity to help improve his friend's miserable state.

"Why, we are always open to encourage young talents whose expertise outstands. I'm sure that her reputation precedes her. Your word, madamoiselle?"

Mendelssohn turns to the lady, whereas Chopin doesn't dare to meet those eyes as she speaks.

"You flatter me, monsieur . What I have learnt and accumulated all these years was necessary to carry on social life and my own apprenticeship."

"That being said, you assuredly are well informed about the First China war and... its relevant societal factors?"

"I suppose that one can say so."

"Then perhaps you can look after emaciated patients of Paris, I mean, as in the differences in culture and customs? You know what the West is like."

(Felix did not have to add this line, he knows exactly who he is referring to)

At that point, Chopin would like to pretend that he hadn't just been verbally sneered at; albeit the lady has probably been evaluating with judgements, in her head, how she should fix his gauntness and bring colors back on his porcelain skin. 

"Certainly. A doctor and an apothecary's work is to make sure the illness is cured and the patient properly cared for, regardless of their status and frames of mind."

It seems like there has been an agreement between the German and the new guests. Look at how her and the Mendelssohn's conversing appear more natural than ever, and how fast uneasiness is sneaking up Frédéric's spine the more he listens. She is not speaking out of turn, if anything, it further proves that she has the right attitude to manage his bad temper. Then what is it? What is it about this exchange, for the purpose of bettering his well-being that makes him look like an outcast to an agreement of which he is presumably the subject?

Their words aren't far from being blurred to his ears now. 

"Would it be convenient for you two to start by... say, two days?" 

Mendelssohn meekly suggests, to which the lady glances up and murmurs something in her mother tongue to her mentor, who would give a nod of approval.

"It will be our pleasure."

.

The last flicker of silk swept across glazed floor, vanished through the salon crowd. Only then did Chopin realize the senior and the young maiden had left the place, and he'd been watching the fluttering red gradually vanish through the salon crowd like a flame being snuffed out of his sight. He barely has time to react when a hand clamps onto his arm.

"Frédéric. A word with me." 

Mendelssohn murmurs as he tugs his companion to a quieter alcove behind a velvet curtain where the chatter of the soirée blurs to a distant hum. Chopin grudgingly follows, his dragging steps don't show much compliance. Being pulled around like a clueless lost child is absolutely not helping his already frayed nerves.

"Felix, what is it now?" He rubs his brows, "Please do tell it isn't about the arrangement you just made." 

"Unfortunately, that is exactly what I want to confront you with."

Mendelssohn murmurs, his reluctant frown betrays effort to remain calm.

"You knew very well what that kind of arrangement was about. We talked about this. You compromised to let us help."

"Help without my consult? You did not tell there would be a substitution of the person taking charge."

"Well— neither did I ever acknowledge that he would recommend his apprentice." The German breathes out in exasperation, "But there is higher probability, the physician himself confided in his student and expected us to recognize that. Frédéric, who are we to doubt the professionals?"

The Polish pianist looks away in indignation, for he is no match in counterarguing when his very patient friend has presented rational judgements. And so he reacts with what he does best. Retreat.

"Did I not tell you it would be best to leave me well enough alone?"

"I—" Another exhale escapes Mendelssohn, now he truly admires his own tolerance for this stubborn person, "You see, one cannot simply survive on his own without interpersonal connections."

"I am well aware. But—"

"Well aware of what, of your own self-isolation? Every time we try to help, you always act like a ghost being forced into sunlight."

Mendelssohn pinches the bridge of his nose. His patience is so far on the brink of collapsing.

"If we give you space, you spiral. If we intervene, you would shrink as though we snatched away your free will. And if we were to know that apprentice would take charge beforehand instead of her mentor, you would have fled the room."

Chopin stops in his tracks as the other man continues.

"What else do you expect us to do, Frédéric? Watch you drown yourself in opium because you are too proud to ask for a rope?" 

Ah. Now that word being spoken out loud - or Mendelssohn's honest admonishing - baffles him, it certainly hits a raw nerve. 

"You could have just consulted me-"

"We did not and could not consult you."

Mendelssohn fires back, his concern sharp as a reprimand. 

"This is no longer a matter of self-interest whether you want to be treated or not. It is about your life, your work and relationships. Gone is your reputation when words about you in opioid meddling spreaded."

Chopin should have felt so undeterred upon being exposed so bluntly and recoiled to the burrow of his apartment room. But frankly, at this moment, he only feels heat rise up to his face - shame, indignation, guilt, all tangled. He bites out. 

"Still, two days of due is still too haste of an appointment! Are you out of your mind? I am short on time—"

"No amount of time is ever enough for you to marinate in hesitation." 

Mendelssohn cuts him off once more, stern as a parent's reminding.

"We had let you be and watched you suffer in indulgement. Do you really wish to let your existence demolished by a few whiffs any sooner, like the careless cavalier men you used to frown upon?"

Chopin looks away. Like a cornered man finally fighting back with his last piece of pride, he bristles.

"This... This is hardly fair—" 

"It is perfectly fair. You only find it cruel because it interrupts your routined shortcoming." 

Mendelssohn steps back, his tone is calmer now.

"Frédéric, I wish I could allow you to speak out any inconvenience that disturb you, as we usually did. However, it is best that we proceed without question at the moment."

The Polish man had long since held his tongue, as he has little reasoning to counter this resolute argument and no more ounce of confidence to face his friend. Betrayal would be a childish word to describe this, yet it feels exactly like that, to have others turned their backs on him for the sake of his well-being without his knowing.  

What shall he do in the next two days before the appointment? Composing another brooding mazurka? Writing a complaint? The countesses and baronesses he knows wouldn't bother to write back unless they'd cared for their pets or dresses first. Now that he remembers, Paris isn't a place of genuine regards.

"Two days is the earliest she could take you. And frankly, you should be grateful she agreed at all."

Mendelssohn tugs at his gloves and coat. He would've usually offered Chopin a lift at late night, but perhaps it is best that they both stay out of each other's sight after this evening.

"I expect you to arrive on time, we shall discuss further appointments. Up until then," Mendelssohn turns to him at the end of the alcove, taking in the helpless look of the other composer, "Do not fret over the apprentice. I believe there's more to her scrutiny than meets the eye,"

He adds, now heading to the door, "—something such as dedication."

Chopin finally lifts his head. Mendelssohn was right to have every reason to bring up that woman. But how does he tell it is the very cause of his apprehension? How can he say his soon-to-be caretaker frightens him?

Chopin can't bring himself to tolerate anymore of Mendelssohn's lecture.

"Very well. I will consider."

His sigh is now that of resignation just to end this as quickly as possible.

"Au revoir, Frédéric."

"Bonne soirée, Felix."

He stares into the night outside the window. There's a long silence after the German's departure and Frédéric is slumped against a nearby lounge, in his mind echoed the earlier confrontation and Mendelssohn's desperate counseling. He needed that, although it was intolerably harsh.

Then, inevitably, the memory hits him like a gust of cold wind. No distracted thoughts could compare to the chilling impression he'd had on the apprentice in red robes, or to be more precise, her eyes.

Those calm dark brown eyes that are far too steady and too knowing, the kind that looked at him so much as look through him, through his lies and straight into the drawer in his chamber where he hides the laudanum, into the cracks he patched with excuses and into the rot he pretends is dust.

She stripped his façade bare just with a gaze, and he flinches ever more so at the thought of her catching sight of him in delirium.

Frédéric now considers putting his vials at the bottom drawer.