The Saint Denis sunlight, a dazzling, golden torrent, beat down upon the balcony, soaking into their very bones, coaxing a sigh of almost decadent comfort from Dutch and Hosea. Below, John and Charles, having dutifully informed Dutch of their intentions, had already vanished into the boisterous maw of a local tavern.
This grand city of Saint Denis had only been grazed twice by their presence, never properly explored, and the thought of remaining cooped up in a dilapidated mansion, no matter how "historically charming," was clearly anathema to their restless souls.
Only Dutch and Hosea remained, each a silhouette in an armchair on the second-floor balcony, lazily basking in the sun like two particularly dangerous, well-fed lizards.
"So, Dutch," Hosea suddenly broke the opulent silence, his voice a low, almost reluctant rumble, tinged with a distinct note of uncertainty and a slight, nagging apprehension. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing his chin with a hesitant gesture. "Are we truly going to attend this so-called 'high-end banquet' tonight? You know… the one with the actual mayor and Saint Denis Senators?"
Hosea's life, particularly his early years, had been a tapestry woven from con artistry, gang life, and outright criminality. Despite their current, rather improbable, career change, neither Hosea nor Arthur, nor even the more pragmatic John and Charles, could, in such a short span, fundamentally alter their ingrained self-perception.
Even though they now commanded an almost absurdly high status in Valentine, even though they were practically swapping jokes and whiskey with the local sheriff, and even cultivated genuinely pleasant relationships with Ms. Dorothea and other influential ladies, they still, at their core, considered themselves a ragtag band of notorious, wanted criminals. Not, crucially, successful members of Saint Denis's glistening high society.
Thus, the revelation that they were not merely attending a high-society gathering tonight, but one that would feature the actual mayor and Saint Denis Senators, sent a cold shiver of dread down Hosea's spine.
They were, in his mind, just wolves in particularly ill-fitting human skin, riddled with flaws, so much so that even before the "human skin" began to rot, one could still catch the undeniable whiff of the predator beneath. How, in the name of all that was sane, could they dare approach the hunters without any reservations whatsoever?
Dutch, observing his old friend's visible disquiet, understood the currents of worry churning within him.
Dutch pondered for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing Hosea's worried face, before finally speaking, his tone a carefully modulated balm of comfort and subtle condescension:
"Don't worry, Hosea. It's true, we are wanted criminals. But tell me, do those esteemed Senators possess nary a single blemish upon their pristine souls? Hah!" Dutch scoffed, a wry twist to his lips. "In other words, Hosea, any large family's ascent to prominence inevitably wades through oceans of darkness, and their crimes may very well far exceed our own; it's just that they've all been meticulously 'washed' by now, polished cleaner than a Sunday sermon."
Dutch leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. "Leaving aside other things, wasn't Mr. Bronte, that delightful scoundrel we once encountered, a complete villain? Even to this very day, Saint Denis's prostitution, its illicit moonshine, its opium dens, and even the abhorrent human trafficking… all still monopolized by him! The man commits crimes openly, right under their noses! And what about us, Hosea? We've merely changed professions, started selling clothes, a completely legitimate business, with only a few delightful past blemishes! Those so-called Senators, the mayor, and their various official cronies… they can sit and break bread with gang members like Bronte; is it truly conceivable they can't tolerate us, a group of mere, charming wanted criminals?"
Dutch's "comfort" did little to assuage Hosea's deep-seated anxieties. He shook his head vigorously, a troubled frown etching lines deeper into his brow. "No, Dutch, we are fundamentally different from them. We have no tangled webs of mutual interest, no meticulously 'washed' identities. If they so desired, they could, at any given moment, leverage their legitimate positions to mobilize the entire army and utterly crush us. Perhaps the only reason they haven't acted yet is because our identities, by some miracle, haven't been fully exposed! Otherwise, I don't believe for a single second that anyone could resist the monumental temptation of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Besides," Hosea added, his voice tinged with bitter cynicism, "they would gain a sterling reputation for it, wouldn't they? 'Cleaned up the city!'"
"Hahahaha, Hosea, Hosea, you're still such a timid old fool, my friend!" Dutch burst into genuine, booming laughter, a sound that bounced off the ornate railings of the balcony.
Dutch watched Hosea's puzzled, almost offended gaze, then reached out and dramatically offered him a cigarette, his eyebrows raised in mock exasperation. He then lit his own cigar with a flourish. "Hosea, you truly don't have to worry about this. Believe it or not, after our very first… unpleasantness with Mr. Bronte, and certainly after our initial 'charming' conversation with Ms. Dorothea, the entirety of the Van der Linde Gang's information was already neatly placed on these people's desks! Even if, by some divine oversight, it wasn't there at that precise moment, after we dared to ask Ms. Dorothea to purchase a hundred sewing machines, and after our last… enthusiastic recruitment drive, our every detail would have inevitably found its way to the desks of these high-society members!"
Hosea's jaw practically slackened in disbelief as Dutch spoke. He suddenly sat bolt upright, his face a mask of profound astonishment. "No! That shouldn't be possible! If they already knew our true identities, how could they possibly tolerate us waltzing into Saint Denis, much less invite us to this… this high-society banquet? No, no, Dutch, what you're saying is far too absurd; it's definitively impossible!"
"And why, pray tell, is it impossible, Hosea?" Dutch countered, a smirk playing on his lips, a touch of arrogant amusement in his eyes. "Do you genuinely believe these high-society individuals are all utterly incompetent dolts? Even our humble Van der Linde Gang understands the necessity of scouting a target's information before a robbery, does it not? So why, then, would these so-called high-society individuals not understand every single ripple in the pond around them? In fact," Dutch leaned back, a knowing, almost conspiratorial glint in his eye, "these high-society elites pay more attention to surrounding news than a vulture to a fresh corpse, precisely so they can be one step, sometimes ten steps, ahead in everything!"
Dutch found Hosea's lingering naivety a little, well, adorable. The Van der Linde Gang in the original tale was indeed a bit… charming in its self-delusion, especially Dutch himself, who would swagger through cities, robbing banks and trains daily, always self-righteously convinced he was utterly hidden.
This, sadly, was precisely why the Van der Linde Gang was destined for a perpetual state of decline. As a gang leader, the original Dutch truly lacked a genuinely astute mind and any semblance of strategic foresight.
But now, as Dutch spoke, Hosea suddenly realized, with a jolt that sent a tremor through his aging bones, that he had indeed been trapped in a fundamental misconception. That's right, why had he ever imagined those in the upper echelons of society to be so dull, so oblivious?
In fact, the single biggest reason for the monumental success of those Senators and capitalists was their unparalleled access to information, allowing them to invest and seize benefits long before anyone else even knew there were benefits. So, the two distinct waves of commotion that their Van der Linde Gang had stirred up in recent days could not, by any logical extension, have gone unnoticed by the upper echelons of Saint Denis.
"Ah!" Hosea gasped, a sudden, sharp intake of breath. He wasn't a foolish man, and after being swiftly enlightened by Dutch, the pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. He looked at Dutch, who had dropped this bombshell of information with all the urgency of a man discussing the weather. Hosea quickly leaned forward, his voice hushed.
"Dutch, oh, Dutch, so we have indeed been targeted now? Oh, I understand what you mean. If they already know our identities and haven't acted, then they must have some other purpose! Otherwise, I don't think anyone could possibly give up the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and the collective bounty on our entire Van der Linde Gang!"
"Yes, Hosea, you finally, finally understand," Dutch said, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He raised his cigar to his lips, taking a long, contemplative drag, watching the smoke unfurl into the humid air. "Why did Ms. Alice repeatedly emphasize that her father had long wanted to see me? Probably, the main, sole purpose is to talk to me. And then, to extract something from me, or rather, from us. These damn Senators never care about anything beyond cold, hard profit. So tonight's banquet, my old friend, is actually a carefully curated trap, a banquet specifically for us. All the upper-class figures of Saint Denis will decide their subsequent attitude towards us after this banquet. Whether to kill the golden goose that has suddenly started laying surprisingly stylish eggs, or to cooperate, it all depends on our negotiations tonight."
Dutch gazed distantly at the elegant and exquisitely maintained villas stretching into the Saint Denis haze, slowly raising his cigar to inhale a final wisp of its fragrant smoke. Then, with a playful wink and a cynical chuckle, he added: "Of course, there's always the hilarious possibility that these upper-class figures in Saint Denis really do have no brains whatsoever!"
"Hahaha, Dutch," Hosea finally breathed a genuine sigh of relief, the tension draining from his shoulders. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound mingling with Dutch's own, a shared moment of dark, absurd humor. "Stop making fun of me, you old bastard!"