Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 276 Mrs. Rothschild's Deduction
In September, the summer heat in Paris was finally driven away by a few drizzling autumn rains.

Social life in Paris is picking up again, with opera houses and comedy theaters updating their autumn programs and parties becoming more frequent.

An autumn salon was held as scheduled at the residence of the Marquise de la Vernoy, located on Rue de la Forbac in the Saint-Germain district.

The Marquise de La Vernoy was nearly fifty years old when her husband died in Sedan, leaving her an inheritance of tens of millions of francs and several profitable estates.

Her salon is known for its avant-garde topics and is almost a symbol of whether a woman has entered the top Parisian social circles.

Tonight's salon was no exception; under the crystal chandelier, it was filled with elegant ladies and graceful figures.

Soft laughter mingled with the clinking of porcelain, and the air was filled with the luxurious aromas of cigars, perfumes, and fine pastries.

As usual, Madame Eleonore de Rothschild arrived late, but her arrival always drew admiring glances.

Especially in the past year or so, this banker's wife has gained another title in addition to her family background, wealth, and beauty: the most knowledgeable woman about literature in Paris.

She was wearing a deep royal blue velvet dress tonight, with lace trim at the neckline and an emerald necklace around her neck.

As usual, she greeted acquaintances with a languid smile, her demeanor both composed and subtly aloof.

But Mrs. Rothschild soon encountered a figure who surprised her—Sophia, the daughter of Baroness Alexievna.

This Russian noblewoman, dressed in a bright red taffeta gown, looked like a moving flame.

The wide skirt was embroidered with intricate patterns in gold thread, making it exceptionally flamboyant and eye-catching.

When she arrived, Sofia was mingling with several wealthy men eager to enter high society and some young nobles, her French still fluent and almost perfect.

Since her mother became a laughing stock because of that ridiculous masquerade ball, her efforts to break into Paris's top social circles have been repeatedly thwarted.

Madame Rothschild is widely recognized as one of the key figures who ostracized the Shcherbatov family.

Normally, these two people wouldn't be invited to a salon at the same time, but today seems to be an exception.

Madame Rothschild glanced at the Marquise de Ravelnoy, only to see the other woman looking at her with a smile, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.

Sophia also saw Madame Rothschild, but did not go up to greet her, remaining engrossed in her own social interactions.

Mrs. Rothschild, of course, did not approach her directly. Instead, she found a corner to sit down and savored a glass of wine.

At first, the atmosphere in the salon was relatively harmonious; however, the balance was broken when the topic inevitably turned to "A Study in Scarlet".

Sofia spoke first: "My dear gentlemen and ladies, do you really believe in this... this kind of speculation that borders on witchcraft?"

She raised her chin, her gaze sweeping over the crowd, pausing briefly on Mrs. Rothschild: "How can you deduce where someone has been from a speck of dust on their cuff?"

Judging someone's profession by the marks on their palm? That's utter nonsense, a trick street magicians use to fool fools!

The living room fell silent for a moment.

Seeing that no one spoke, Sophia continued with her own opinion: "Mr. Sorel has figured out the British's ways, both for the sake of sensationalism and for the sake of the pound!"
He fabricated this seemingly profound and unfathomable system simply to make his pockets fuller.

Several pairs of eyes immediately turned to Mrs. Rothschild, as almost everyone knew that she was Lionel Sorel's original and only patron.

She slowly put down the cup in her hand, the smile on her lips still present, as if she had heard an insignificant joke.

She didn't look at Sophia, but almost spoke to herself: "I think Mr. Holmes's 'deductive method' is an extremely practical kind of wisdom. It teaches us not to be deceived by glamorous appearances, but to pay more attention to trivial details, which reveal the truest essence."

Sophia's voice was laced with sarcasm: "Details? Essence? Mrs. Rothschild, it's as if you've actually learned something from this nonsense!"
Could you perhaps perform some kind of 'deduction' like the detective in the book?

Mrs. Rothschild smiled slightly: "Oh? Miss Shcherbatova seems to think I'm exaggerating?"

Actually, this doesn't require extraordinary talent, just a little attention to detail.

She looked Sophia up and down, her gaze sweeping over Sophia's bright red dress, her meticulously styled hair, and her jeweled ears and neck.

After a short while, she continued, "For example, I have observed some interesting details in you, Miss Shcherbatova."

The salon fell silent instantly; everyone held their breath. Sophia instinctively took a half-step back.

Madame Rothschild slowly rose to her feet: "Miss Shcherbatova, your right lace glove has a tiny tear. This mistake could never have happened before you left the house, could it?"

Sofia instinctively wanted to hide her right hand behind her back, but then she suppressed the impulse and looked up at the other person.

Mrs. Rothschild paused: "And look at the right hem of your skirt, near your ankle, there are some scattered brown spots."

The color is somewhat similar to the dress, but upon closer inspection, it doesn't look like mud, nor like red wine or coffee. It does resemble dried blood more than that.

Sofia's voice trembled slightly: "Nonsense!"

Mrs. Rothschild remained unmoved, her tone still calm: "This is a mistake that a young lady like you would not make before going out."

So I assume that you had just severely punished a servant shortly before coming to this salon, is that right?
The gloves were torn by the rough handle of the whip; the stains on the hem of the skirt were the blood of some unfortunate servant.

I don't know what mistake he made, but he must have been kneeling on the ground taking the whipping—am I right?

Deathly silence.

Everyone stared at Madame Rothschild in disbelief. Even Sophia forgot how to retort, her face pale and her lips trembling slightly.

Madame Rothschild concluded, "In France, a servant who makes a minor mistake is simply reprimanded."

Although they were of low status, they were not serfs without human rights who could be whipped and killed at will.

Miss Shcherbatova, your French is more fluent and pure than that of most French people, but still, well, you are Russian.

This is the second time Sofia has been publicly humiliated like this!

New and old grudges, combined with shame and indignation, instantly broke down Sophia's dam of reason.

Her chest heaved violently, and her beautiful blue eyes burned with a frenzied rage; she could no longer maintain any composure.

She was trembling with anger: "You...you..."

Under the astonished gazes of everyone, Sophia suddenly raised her right hand and ripped off the delicate lace glove!

Then, with all her might, she threw the glove hard at Mrs. Rothschild's still calm and expressionless face!
The soft glove traced an arc in the air and floated lightly onto the carpet at Mrs. Rothschild's feet.

But to everyone present, this seemingly casual throw was like a thunderbolt!
Someone exclaimed in shock: "A duel!"

(End of this chapter)