Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 106 The Storyteller in the Parisian Tavern
Inspector Claude was somewhat puzzled as to why Lionel was so disappointed: "Although these bonds cannot be returned to your family right now, they are, after all, 'Panama Canal Bonds'!"

"A 6% annual interest rate, compounded annually—it's a sure thing. My wife even bought one; a ten-year term with an even higher interest rate..."

Lionel clutched his forehead in anguish: "Isn't there any way to get this bastard tried in one go in a Paris court?"

Inspector Claude shrugged: "He didn't swindle a single penny in Paris, so he can only be convicted of 'blasphemy and immorality.'"

The courts in Paris had no jurisdiction over the local courts, so his fraud case had to be tried in every place where he had committed the fraud: Marseille, the Alps, Lyon, Burgundy…

The stolen goods can only be returned after all the local courts have reached a final verdict.

Inspector Claude then explained the French court hierarchy system—

In France, the courts are divided into three levels: the court of first instance, the court of appeal, and the Supreme Court.

The court of first instance is responsible for the initial trial of most civil and criminal cases, and is established independently in each region; the court of appellate is responsible for hearing appeals from lower courts.

France is divided into several appeal districts, each covering several departments. For example, Bouches-du-Rhône, where Marseille is located, is under the jurisdiction of the Court of Appeal in Aix-en-Provence.

The Supreme Court, headquartered in Paris, is the highest unified judicial body in the country. It does not directly hear cases but only judges whether lower courts have correctly applied the law.

Lionel's head was spinning from hearing all those place names, so he asked directly, "How long will it take?"

Inspector Claude thought for a moment: "If he doesn't appeal, it'll probably be a year and a half to two years; if he appeals, maybe three years? I'm not sure."

Don't worry, the bonds won't be lost! The longer you hold them, the more valuable they become; time is your friend!

Lionel just wanted to yell at Claude right now: "You stupid groundhog, God, I want to kick your ass!"

But at least for now, he has no way to change this fact and can only pray that when the bonds are repaid, they won't be worthless pieces of paper.

He's starting to feel a little bad about the 200 francs he spent a few days ago...

It was already evening when he left the Paris police station. Instead of going home, Lionel took a carriage to "Papa Le Maire," a small, bustling tavern in the Saint-Antoine district filled with smoke and noise.

He wasn't trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol, but rather he was traveling incognito.

These small taverns usually had "newspaper readers," who were often part-time. They could get a drink in exchange for reading a few articles. Many literate working people relied on reading newspapers to satisfy their craving for alcohol.

This can be considered a "live broadcast" in a tavern before the invention of radio and television.

The environment at "Old Man Lemaître" was rather ordinary, with sawdust on the floor, long wooden tables and benches worn smooth and shiny; the air was thick with the smells of cheap tobacco, sour wine, onion soup and sweat.

The main customers here are off-duty workers, vendors, apprentices and craftsmen, as well as poor students.

Lionel ordered a beer and a plate of fried bacon, and sat in a corner, eating and drinking while observing—

In the center of the tavern, under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, an old shoemaker acted as a "newspaper reader," surrounded by a crowd of people, even the bartender behind the counter was craning his neck.

"Read it, Lao Rang! Keep reading!" a young apprentice urged, forgetting to put down his beer mug. "What happened to that poor woman later?"

The old shoemaker cleared his throat, pointed to the densely packed small print on the newspaper, and read aloud in a loud voice:

"...The doctor's face was ashen, like a freshly painted wall! Sweat mixed with blood streamed down her face, and she cried out to Luc Boudon as if she had lost her soul—'Your wife...May God take her in, she did her best...she...'"

Lionel frowned. This was clearly not his original text. He could never have written such a vulgar metaphor as "his face was as pale as a freshly painted wall."

But clearly, this tone pleased the audience; they craned their necks and strained their ears, and the tavern fell silent, save for the old shoemaker's resounding voice. "Luc Boudon was struck dumb, he shoved the woman aside and rushed into the room… Damn it! His young wife, Claire, was lying there stiffly on the bed, covered in blood! She was dead!…"

The old shoemaker's voice lowered as he read this, tinged with a hint of melancholy.

"And then? Tell me about the child!" a burly worker interrupted anxiously.

"Wait!" The old shoemaker pushed up his glasses. "I'm thirsty after reading for so long..."

The worker who urged him to hurry up immediately threw a few copper coins at the bartender: "Give this old bastard a beer!"

After drinking beer, the old shoemaker's face became rosy again, so he continued reading: "...Luc Boudon's eyes, as if he had seen a ghost, slowly moved to the 'thing' the doctor was holding... That was not a newborn baby."

He was clearly a shrunken old man! His head was covered with sparse white hair, his face was wrinkled like a walnut shell, and he had those disgusting age spots! His eyelids drooped down to just slits, and his eyes were as cloudy as muddy soup!
His nose was flat, his gums were sunken, and his few small yellow teeth looked like they were about to fall out!
The baby's little hands and feet were so dry and calloused, like chicken claws, the skin hanging loosely on the bones! And the baby was crying, not a loud wailing, but a dry, coughing howl like a broken bellows—it was chilling to hear!

Lionel: "..." All his painstaking efforts in choosing words and phrases were wasted in the old shoemaker's mouth.

But the people clearly prefer the old shoemaker's interpretation—

"Whoa!" A collective gasp and incredulous exclamation filled the tavern.

"Born an old man? This is even more outrageous than the rumors that circulated in the commune back then!" A blacksmith clicked his tongue, his face full of disbelief.

“It must have been the devil!” a devout believer said, making the sign of the cross.

"Poor woman, she gave birth to such a monster and lost her life!"

"And what about the father? Was he terrified?" someone pressed.

The old shoemaker took a sip of beer from his glass to moisten his throat:

"...Luc Boudon let out a strange 'uh' and uttered two words: 'Monster!' He jumped back in fright, his spine slamming against the wall with a 'thud'! His eyes were bloodshot; he was probably scared out of his wits..."

The doctor desperately pleaded with him, 'No! For God's sake! He's alive! He's got a man! Mr. Budon, you can't…'

"...In the midst of this commotion, chaos erupted in the street! Glass shattered, and people were shouting at the top of their lungs, 'Hang the nobles! Burn down their kennels!'..."

The audience in the tavern nodded in agreement and began to chatter amongst themselves:
"That's right! It was so chaotic back then! The Bastille had just collapsed, and people would rush up to anything they didn't like!"

"This father is heartless, but...sigh..."

"Where did you throw it? Read it, you old rascal!"

"The workhouse! The Sapetrel workhouse next to Chateauplatz!..."

……

Lionel left before the conversation ended, leaving 1 franc for the wine so the old shoemaker could drink whatever he wanted that night.

Although he didn't yet know the sales figures for this issue of Le Parisien, he was already certain that the response to Benjamin Buton's Curious Cases would be good.

If the story itself lacks appeal, it cannot arouse the enthusiasm of these old shoemakers, "newspaper readers," for adaptation. Everything that happened in "Old Man Lemaître" tavern today gave him boundless confidence.

(End of this chapter)