Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 396 "Who am I?"

Vikram Singh was visibly taken aback by the sudden question, seemingly not expecting it.

He immediately became somewhat enraged and repeated in a stronger tone, "Me! Vikram Singh! You want to duel me!"

Lionel remained unfazed and continued to press, "Who is this 'I' you're talking about?"

He then grew even angrier: "Lionel Sorel! What do you mean? Are you trying to run away?"

Lionel shook his head, a cryptic smile playing on his lips, but his voice remained calm: "No, I mean, do you really know who 'I' am?"

Vikram Singh felt his reason being challenged: "Of course I know that! You're Lionel Sorel, that French writer who writes articles slandering us Indians and the British Empire!"

Lionel interrupted him, his gaze calmly fixed on the other man: "No, you don't know. 'Who are you?'—Vikram Singh?"

It's just a name, a code. Anyone can be called Vikram Singh, I can be, any Indian on the street can be.

But what happens after you remove that code name? Who are you?

Vikram Singh was completely dumbfounded. He opened his mouth, feeling like his mind was a little slow to process what was happening.

The question sounded simple, but it unexpectedly touched on a level he had never thought about deeply before.

Almost instinctively, he repeated his earlier declaration of identity: "I am the son of Sir Raja Singh, the hereditary Thakur of Jaipur, and a loyal servant of Her Majesty the Queen!"

These titles seem to be an indestructible suit of armor, capable of withstanding any form of questioning.

Lionel readily complied and immediately steered the conversation to the heart of the matter: "Alright, then you say you'll duel me for 'the honor of the British Empire and the dignity of the Indians'."

"Then may I ask, of these titles you just mentioned—'son of a knight,' 'Tarkur,' 'servant'—which one can legitimately represent the 'British Empire'?"

Vikram Singh was stunned, as if he had been nailed to the spot by the question.

His lips moved a few times, but he couldn't make a sound immediately.

Representing the British Empire? He never considered his position from that perspective.

His father was a knight, an honor bestowed by the Queen, which he was proud of, but could this honor be equated with the power to represent the Empire?
He hesitated for a moment before speaking, "My father is a knight, a title bestowed upon him personally by Her Majesty the Queen... This in itself is a testament to imperial honor!"

Lionel immediately pressed on: "A knighthood bestowed by Her Majesty the Queen? That's excellent. Then may I ask, based on this bestowal—"

Can your father, or you yourself, participate in British elections and vote to elect the country's leaders? Or be elected as leaders?
Or could this identity allow one to enter the Westminster Parliament, become a Member of Parliament, and participate in the drafting of the country's laws?

Vikram Singh was struck dumb, his face turning deathly pale: "This..."

Of course he knew the answer.

Elections? These are rights of British citizens, not of these colonial nobles.

They were bestowed with honors, invited to banquets, and hailed as "pillars of imperial loyalty," but were never allowed to set foot in the inner circle of the empire.

His mouth was open, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something, and he couldn't utter a single word.

His Indian companions behind him fell into a deathly silence. Their previous fervent indignation had been doused with cold water, leaving only silent shock and bewilderment.

Seeing the other person speechless, Lionel shrugged lightly: "You see, they don't even have the most basic civil rights!"

How can you claim to represent the 'British Empire' in this duel? Where is your legitimacy as a representative?

Vikram Singh's face turned from white to red, clearly feeling ashamed and indignant at Lionel's questioning.

He struggled, trying to grasp at another straw: "Then...I represent the dignity of Indians! Is that alright?" Lionel immediately picked up the conversation, continuing to ask: "Indians? At this moment, in 1881, is there a country in this world called 'India'?"

This not only froze Vikram Singh in place, but also caused an uproar among all the young Indian elites behind him!

Their faces showed extreme anger, and some people were so excited that they wanted to step forward to argue, but found that they could not find any words to refute the fact.

There is no India? There is only British India, a jewel in the Queen's crown, a large area on the map of imperial colonies.

The scene was filled with chaotic whispers and suppressed anger, but no one stepped forward to offer an answer.

Amid the commotion, Lionel simply chuckled softly: "Since there isn't currently a country in this world called 'India'—"

Then I ask you, where are the 'Indians' you're talking about? How can you represent a non-existent group? Your qualifications to represent them are equally nonexistent.

Vikram Singh felt a wave of dizziness wash over him; the two cornerstones upon which he stood—representing the empire and representing India—were so fragile.

The immense humiliation from the crushing defeat nearly drove him to madness, and he shouted uncontrollably, "Then I speak for myself! Vikram Singh himself!"
You have insulted my personal honor! Is that enough? I challenge you to a duel for myself!

Despite the near-roaring declaration, Lionel remained calm and shrugged: "So, we're back to the very first question—"

Who is this "I" you're referring to? And who am I to duel with?

……

A long, suffocating silence followed.

Vikram Singh stood there, stunned, like a statue whose soul had been taken away.

The flush on his face gradually faded, leaving only an empty, pale look.

He glanced at the lone glove at Lionel's feet, then at the ever-calm French writer...

Finally, he bent down with difficulty, picked up the glove, and clutched it tightly in his palm.

He didn't look at Lionel again, nor did he say anything more. He simply turned around silently, staggered past his companions, and walked towards the other end of the street.

The other young Indians looked at each other, their faces a mixture of anger, humiliation, confusion, and bewilderment, but then they lowered their heads and followed dejectedly.

Soon, they disappeared into the twilight and fog of the London streets.

The tense atmosphere quietly came to an end.

The reporters who had been waiting for a long time immediately seized the opportunity and quickly surrounded them.

They surrounded Lionel and bombarded him with a barrage of questions.

"Mr. Sorel! Do you believe that India's elite class is completely incapable of representing their own people?"

"Mr. Sorel, does your questioning of Mr. Singh just now represent your fundamental rejection of all colonial policies?"

"Now that you're in exile in London, what are your plans for dealing with the lawsuit in Paris? Will you return to stand trial?"

"The Sign of Four serialization is coming to an end. What will the next Sherlock Holmes story be about?"

Just then, a sharp whistle rang out, and several policemen came running from the street corner.

(Two chapters tonight, I'm too tired and my brain is too numb. I owe you all one chapter, and there's also a bonus chapter for the patron. I'll finish everything tomorrow.)

(End of this chapter)