Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 198 (Bonus Chapter for 1000 Votes) The Choir Premieres!
Christmas Eve, 1879.

The streets of Paris were enveloped in a festive, almost extravagant liveliness.

The gas lamps shone brighter than usual, illuminating the dazzling array of goods in the shop windows:

From the exquisite porcelain produced in Sèvres to the luxurious silks imported from Lyon, from the wines of Bordeaux to the sparkling wines of the Champagne region, everything attracts the attention of passersby.

The air was filled with the mixed aromas of roast goose, chestnuts, cinnamon, and mulled wine, along with the expensive perfumes worn by ladies and the smoke from cigars emanating from gentlemen.

The carriage rumbled through the streets, its bells ringing crisply. The coachman, dressed in uniform, exhaled white breath as he struggled to clear a path through the bustling crowd.

The La Perose restaurant, located on Rue de la Paix, is one of the most prestigious restaurants in Paris.

Its long history, elegant decor, and impeccable service attract diners who seek true quality.

Lionel Sorel sat at a table by the window, gazing at the bustling crowds outside.

He was waiting for Sophie Deneuve.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

A clear and calm voice sounded beside him.

Lionel looked up, immediately stood up, and pulled out a chair for Sophie: "Not at all, I just arrived too."

Sophie Deneuve was clearly dressed up for the night.

She wore a dark blue wool dress, simple yet elegant in style, with delicate lace embellishing the neckline and cuffs, which made her fair skin appear even more radiant.

Her long hair was styled into a fashionable yet dignified bun, revealing her beautifully shaped neck.

Lionel sincerely complimented, "You look beautiful, Sophie."

Sophie smiled and said, "Thank you, Leon."

The waiter appeared silently and began serving the two the pre-ordered set meals.

Sophie is a dish of pan-fried halibut with white wine sauce, and the appetizer is asparagus soup.

Lionel was the restaurant's signature dish—beef stew in red wine. He also ordered a nice bottle of Bordeaux red wine.

As they ate and chatted, Sophie suddenly said, "I've been following all the reports about 'The Choir,' and recently... there's been quite a stir."

Lionel shook his head: "Yes, it's unexpectedly lively. Hopefully, the show itself won't disappoint."

Sophie's tone was very certain: "I believe it won't happen. You can always do what you want to do."

These words warmed Lionel's heart. He put down his knife and fork, leaning forward slightly: "Sophie, tomorrow night is the premiere of 'The Choir.' I hope you can come with me."

I have a great box seat, and I hope you can be there to share the moment.

Sophie remained silent for a few seconds, her expression complex.

Then, she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lionel: "Leon, thank you for the invitation, I am very grateful. But... I'm afraid I cannot accept it."

Lionel was stunned; this answer was completely unexpected: "Why? Is there something else planned for tomorrow night?"

Sophie interrupted him: "No, there are no other plans. I just feel that the occasion, the world, tomorrow night, shouldn't belong to me."

She paused, as if choosing her words carefully: "That will be your night, Léon. The Comédie-Française, the Richelieu Hall, a packed house, all the big shots of Paris..."

"Madame Rothschild, the Earl of Rohan, they'll all be here, won't they? I'll feel...out of place there."

Lionel quickly retorted, "How could that be? You behaved very well at the ball last time, no one..."

Sophie interrupted him again, her tone still calm: "That's different, Leon. The ball is a one-off social performance; I can wear borrowed jewelry and a disguise to get by."

But tomorrow will be a continuous, public scrutiny, with reporters everywhere, and I don't want that kind of gaze, Leon.

I don't want you to be distracted by my presence, or... to feel uncomfortable in any way.

Tomorrow's newspapers will be full of reports about it all. I don't want to be the subject of that gossip, and I don't want you to be part of it either.

Lionel stared at her, speechless for a moment.

Sophie's voice softened: "I would prefer to buy a copy of Le Figaro or Le Repubblica the day after tomorrow morning and quietly read the news about your great success."

That feels more real and more comfortable to me. I'll be happy for you, Leon, genuinely happy. But that happiness happens in my world, not yours.

A profound sense of loss gripped Lionel, but he also understood her choice. In an era where women were generally expected to be subservient to men, Sophie Deneuve stubbornly refused to let admiration consume her.

He was silent for a moment, then slowly said, "I understand, Sophie. I respect your decision, and thank you for your honesty."

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief, a hint of apology flashing in her eyes: "Thank you for your understanding, Leon."

At that moment, the waiter brought out the dessert.

A beautifully crafted Christmas cake, with its sweet aroma, temporarily dispelled the somber atmosphere on the table.

------

December 26, 1879, evening.

The Richelieu Street, where the Comédie-Française is located, was already packed with people and vehicles.

Despite the cold weather, with breath turning to frost, it did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of Parisians and celebrities from all walks of life to watch the premiere of "The Choir".

A large crowd gathered at the theater entrance, with elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies exchanging greetings and laughter. One after another, ornately decorated four-wheeled carriages stopped at the theater entrance to drop off the most important guests of the evening.

Every time a carriage carrying an important person arrived, it would cause a stir and whispers among the crowd.

"Look! It's the Rothschilds' carriage!" someone exclaimed.

A luxurious carriage with a prominent family crest painted on its side came to a smooth stop, and a servant quickly stepped forward to open the door.

The first to alight was Alphonse de Rothschild, who, with a serious expression and impeccable attire, gracefully extended his hand to help his beautiful and charming wife.

Mrs. Rothschild was absolutely radiant tonight.

She wore a dark green velvet evening gown with a wide skirt, intricately decorated with black lace and shimmering sequins. Around her neck was a dazzling sapphire necklace, and her blonde hair was styled in an updo with sparkling diamond hair clips.

Before long, another carriage decorated with an ancient tribal emblem caught attention.

"It's the Earl of Rohan's family!"

Albert de Rohan was the first to jump off the carriage. He was dressed in a sharp suit, his hair was neatly combed, and his face was beaming with pride and excitement.

He unusually ignored the stares around him and turned around to carefully help his mother, Countess Rohan, out of the car.

The last person to get off the carriage was Count Rohan himself.

As the Deputy Minister of Public Education and the Arts, he appeared to be in high spirits tonight, constantly nodding to the crowds who recognized him.

Then, another luxurious carriage with an exotic style came to a stop.

The car door opened, and a shrewd middle-aged gentleman stepped out, then turned and took the arm of an extremely beautiful young woman.

Someone asked curiously, "Who is that? His face is unfamiliar."

A well-informed source whispered: "It's the Zweigs from Vienna. Moritz Zweig and his wife Ida Zweig."

"Tsk tsk, I heard her family is from Bretau, a true golden swan."

The successive appearances of important figures continuously pushed the atmosphere to a climax.

Critics, writers, artists, politicians, financiers... almost all the leading figures in Parisian social and artistic circles gathered together.

The climax finally arrived.

An inconspicuous black carriage decorated with religious symbols, escorted by several solemn-looking attendants, quietly drove to the theater entrance.

The previously noisy crowd suddenly fell silent, and everyone subconsciously held their breath, focusing their attention on the carriage.

The coachman opened the carriage door, and the first person to step out was a high-ranking clergyman dressed in black robes with a solemn expression—Monsignor Valette.

After he got out of the car, he stood respectfully to one side.

Then, an elderly man wearing a red sash and a small red hat slowly walked down.

An uncontrollable gasp and commotion erupted from the crowd!
"My God! It's the Archbishop! Archbishop Gibb has come in person!"

Archbishop Louis-Antoine-Augustan Gibbon of the Paris Diocese actually came to the Comédie-Française to watch the premiere of a new play!

This is extremely rare in Paris.

The archbishop, with a calm expression and his usual dignified bearing, slowly entered the theater surrounded by the crowd.

Wherever he went, people spontaneously made way for him, and many devout Catholics even made the sign of the cross on their chests.

The crowd began to surge towards the ticket gates like a tidal wave...

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

At this moment, the atmosphere backstage at the theater was extremely tense.

Lionel Sorel stood behind the curtain, peering through a small gap at the gradually filling, glittering theater outside.

The interior of Richelieu Hall features a typical Italian theater layout, with horseshoe-shaped seating divided into stalls, balconies, and tiered boxes.

He saw Madame Rothschild and her husband sitting in the best box facing the stage, the Counts of Rohan and their family sitting in another box not far away, and the beautiful Madame Zweig...

Of course, we also saw that the regular seats were all full.

The scene was even grander and more solemn than he had anticipated.

Just then, the gaslights in the theater began to dim, signaling that the performance was about to begin.

The clamor of voices gradually subsided like the receding tide, eventually giving way to a quiet filled with anticipation.

All eyes were focused on the deep red velvet curtain embroidered with gold thread.

The stage manager gave the final instructions, and the actors took their positions.

Lionel Sorel took one last look at the audience seats below, a mix of darkness and starlight, before slowly retreating into the shadows backstage.

On the cold night of December 26, 1879, the curtain of the Richelieu Hall of the Comédie-Française slowly rose, drawing the attention of Paris and all of Europe.

The premiere of "The Choir" has officially begun.

(End of this chapter)