Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 189 Let's name this child Stephen!
Just as Lionel was in a predicament, the light and lively melody of Johann Strauss Jr.'s "Tritsch-Tratsch Polka" suddenly rang out under the ballroom's dome.

This cheerful dance music instantly dispelled the lingering atmosphere of the previous waltz.

Its leaping notes, like a group of elves in shimmering dancing shoes, urge people to immerse themselves in more vibrant joy.

A look of surprise flashed in Mrs. Ida Zweig's eyes, and a faint blush rose on her cheeks: "Mr. Sorel, this is one of my favorite polkas."

Would you have the honor of joining me for a dance?

Her invitation was direct and bold, while Moritz Zweig, standing beside her, displayed gentlemanly consideration, smiling and nodding slightly: "Ah, wonderful polka!"
Just then, I saw an old business friend approaching. Excuse me, my dear; enjoy the dance, Mr. Sorel.

He smiled politely at Lionel, then, holding his wine glass, casually blended into the group of people chatting nearby.

Lionel paused slightly, but maintained his polite smile.

Polka happens to be a dance, and to refuse a lady who has just sincerely praised your work was extremely rude in the 19th century.

He could only bow slightly: "It is my honor, Mrs. Zweig," while extending his arm.

Ida Zweig's slender fingers gently rested on his arm as they stepped onto the dance floor together.

The polka had a brisk rhythm and relatively simple steps. Lionel was careful not to step on his partner's expensive skirt.

Ida Zweig's steps were light and precise, and her skirt would bloom like a flower as she twirled.

After a light spin, she leaned closer, her tone ambiguous, her warm breath brushing against Lionel's nose and mouth: "Mr. Sorel, your novel... especially that 'letter'..."

It kept me awake for several nights. I kept wondering, what kind of sensitive and profound mind could so accurately capture and depict such a...heart-wrenching yet silent passion?

Lionel felt his legs starting to stiffen.

He steadied himself, his gaze politely falling on her hair: "Madam, you flatter me. I was merely trying to understand and present a certain possibility of human emotion."

It's fortunate that this work resonates with you.

Ida Zweig chuckled: "Is it merely a possibility? But what I read is reality. It is the burning desire, almost bursting forth, hidden behind every word."

Just like... just like right now...

Her voice lowered even further: "...It's like I can feel the heartbeat in your words, passing through the paper and reaching my fingertips."

Lionel felt as if the temperature in the ballroom had suddenly risen.

He continued spinning, his tone steady: "The power of words lies in their ability to inspire the reader's own imagination and emotional experience, madam."

The burning sensation you feel may well be a projection of your own rich and delicate emotions. This is precisely the highest praise an author can hope for—

But his duty was ultimately only to light the match, not to become the flame itself.

Ida Zweig keenly caught the subtle refusal in his words, and instead of being displeased, she chuckled again.

Her words were bold and cunning: "Oh, dear Lionel—please allow me to call you that, you don't need to be so nervous, nor do you need to rush to arm yourself with those beautiful literary theories."

Please rest assured, I am not one of those reckless young girls who would put myself or you in an embarrassing situation because of a momentary passion.

She slightly adjusted her dance steps, bringing herself back to a more polite distance from him, as if that brief moment of closeness was merely an accidental occurrence born of the rhythm.

She said in a relaxed and joking tone, "Look, I just gave birth to a healthy son for Moritz this year, our Alfred."

He is the future hope of the Zweig family, and his father's proud heir.

When she mentioned her son, a soft maternal glow swept across her face, but it quickly returned to a mature charm: "So, you understand? According to our... well, custom? Or rather, tacit understanding?"
I now have a certain degree of freedom. Moritz won't interfere too much in my...social life.

Lionel was momentarily speechless. He certainly understood the unspoken, open marriage relationships among upper-class European couples in the 19th century.

After fulfilling their primary responsibility of "giving birth to an heir," women often gain more space to seek emotional comfort or sensory stimulation.

He just hadn't expected that Mrs. Zweig would be so direct in bringing this up to him.

As the dance drew to a close, the rhythm grew increasingly lively and rapid. She took advantage of a spin to get closer to Lionel: "He's a lovely boy, Alfred."

But I often think, if I could have another child… I hope he would not only inherit the family fortune, but also possess… well, like your handsome and upright figure, and the captivating talent you display in your writing—how perfect that would be.”

Lionel stumbled, almost hitting the wrong beat, and his cheeks flushed uncontrollably.

The lady's boldness and directness were beyond his imagination.

He steadied himself and forced himself to calm down.

Just as the music was about to stop, he took a deep breath and said sincerely, "Madam, you flatter me too much. But I believe that with your and Mr. Zweig's excellent bloodline, each of your children will surely possess unparalleled talents."

Your future child, boy or girl, is destined to become an extraordinary person. If he or she becomes a writer, their name may indeed be etched in literary history.

As the last note of "Chatterbox Polka" fell crisply, the dance came to an end. People on the dance floor greeted each other, punctuated by cheerful laughter and conversation.

Ida Zweig's fingers did not immediately slip off Lionel's arm.

She tiptoed slightly, gently pressed her index finger to her soft lips, and then lightly touched his lips as well.

She then quickly stepped back, regaining her dignified lady-like demeanor: "Aunt Adele is truly enviable; to discover a genius like you in Paris."

However, Lionel, Paris is not the whole world—Vienna also yearns to nurture a true artistic soul.

Lionel's mind went blank for a moment, and he instinctively asked, "Aunt Adele?"

Ida Zweig smiled and said, "Eleonore Adelaide de Rothschild, don't you know that 'Adele' is her nickname?"

Before I got married, my surname was Bretauer, so by kinship I should call her Aunt. So you see, we are not strangers.

Since you already have her in Paris, I'll provide you with the same... support and convenience in Vienna!

Bretauer? Rothschild? These two European banking dynasties are related?
Before he could even formulate a polite refusal, Ida Zweig had already cut off his chance.

She gave a graceful nod, as if she were simply concluding a casual social dance: "Well then, see you next time, dear Lionel."

I hope you have a pleasant time in Vienna—oh, by the way, what should that child's name be?

"child?"

"The one you're talking about who will leave their mark on literary history."

"...Stephen, it's good to call him Stephen."

"Okay, then let's call him Stephen—Stephen Zweig, it sounds nice."

After saying that, she gracefully turned around and quickly joined in the lively conversation of the other guests.

Just then, an excited voice rang out beside Lionel: "My God! Lionel! I can't believe my eyes!"

Maupassant, who had somehow gotten close, stared wide-eyed at the direction Ida had gone: "That's Mrs. Zweig! One of the richest and most beautiful ladies in Vienna!"

What did I see? She invited you to dance! She was practically pressed against you! She even…!

He gestured excitedly to the fingertip kiss, seemingly unable to believe it: "What magic did you cast on her? Tell me! You've got the luckiest guy ever!"

Oh, this is so unfair! Why do these good things always seem to happen to you!

Lionel loosened his tie: "I think I'll go back and rest first... You guys have fun."

Maupassant was stunned: "The ball has only just begun..."

Lionel didn't want to stay a moment longer: "What's the schedule for tomorrow?"

Maupassant thought for a moment: "It seems like it's a visit to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, and I might even give a speech..."

Lionel: "...Why the Academy of Fine Arts?"

Maupassant shrugged: "Who knows..."

(End of this chapter)