Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 95 Tomorrow is the Ball

At 64 Lafitte Street, in Lionel's new apartment, the gaslight cast a long shadow of him.

Lionel was sitting at his desk with a worried look on his face. It wasn't that he couldn't write anything new, but because he had to attend Baroness Alexievna's masquerade ball the next day.

On the desk in front of him lay a gold-embossed invitation, without even a salutation, simply inviting the holder to the Baroness's masquerade ball, themed "Night of Truth."

He might have refused if it had been held by someone else; but it was different if the person who invited him was Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev.

Turgenev was also quite frank, admitting that he was too old to participate in such social activities for young people.

However, the Baroness promised that if he could attend and bring several promising young men from Paris, she would provide some necessary assistance to the Russian progressives in exile in Paris.

Besides, there's Baroness Alexievna—she donated 30 francs to the Sorbonne herself!
Besides helping Turgenev out, Lionel was also curious about what kind of enchanting... generous lady, a masquerade ball was clearly an occasion where one could enter and leave at will.

However, attending a costume party is quite expensive—because you have to spend a lot of money on costumes to avoid being ridiculed for being old-fashioned or unoriginal.

This money is almost a one-time expense; no one would wear clothes from a masquerade ball every day, and they can't be worn to the next masquerade ball either.

Lionel doesn't lack money right now, but he feels a little heartbroken.

The payment for "Letter from an Unknown Woman" in Modern Life had just been settled—Monsieur Charpentier generously paid the highest rate, even adding a bonus of 2000 francs.

"My Uncle Jules" has been written and sent to Le Petit Parisien, and it should be published in the next couple of days. The payment should be no less than 300 francs.

Gabriel's 1500 franc draft was fully cashed a couple of days ago, and with some previous savings, he will soon have around 5000 francs in cash on hand.

Yes, that's exactly Mr. Greenheit's annual salary...

Pshaw, pshaw, pshaw... Lionel quickly banished this unfortunate neighbor from his mind.

“Makeup…the theme is ‘Night of Truth’…” Lionel muttered to himself, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table.

Wearing a mask? That would be tantamount to humiliating oneself, betraying Turgenev's recommendation, and possibly even angering the warm and wealthy Baroness.

“The truth…identity…” He murmured these words, and a bold and clever plan quickly took shape in his mind.

It doesn't need expensive silk or velvet, nor does it need elaborate embroidery or jewel-encrusted masks; it only needs a touch of... literary cunning.

Lionel went to his bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out an old set of clothes that he hadn't worn in a long time.

Looking at the coats everywhere—the ones with fraying, frayed seams, and worn-out elbows—and the trousers that were wrinkled beyond recognition, Lionel felt a surge of emotion.

This outfit has been carefully washed and no longer smells like "Area 11," but it's still not presentable.

However, this was not a big problem at masquerade balls—in 19th-century Europe, people dressed up as anything, from mummies to trees, and even polar bears from Siberia.

Isn't his entire being his "truth"? A poor boy from the Alpine countryside.

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.

Under the same night sky, in an office of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Paris Police Headquarters, the only light in the entire unit was on, and Inspector Claude was adjusting his sash in front of a full-length mirror.

The man in the mirror was around forty years old, lean and wiry, with eyes as sharp as a hawk's. He was dressed in an 18th-century French general's uniform. Inspector Claude had even shaved off his beard, leaving only a thick sideburn—he was preparing to portray Jean-Maximin Lamarck, a famous general under Emperor Napoleon.

This is the "truth" he chose—a decisive, brave, and fair soldier.

The clothes were rented for 5 francs a day with a 20 franc deposit. They had a faint smell of mothballs and old wooden boxes.

On his table lay a rough map of the estate and a gold-embossed invitation—probably received by most of the respectable people in Paris.

However, very few people would choose to go, and he got a ticket without any effort.

Inspector Claude recalled what "Noah the Rat" had said to him in the café in the Second District earlier that day:

"It was him! My esteemed sir! It was he who bought all the information about Baroness Alexievna a few weeks ago!"

"That pretty face, even with that ridiculous fake mustache, how could it escape my eyes? The most important thing for 'Rat' is his observation skills!"

"Ha, what's his name? You know, in our line of work, you don't ask people's names—and even if you did, would he tell the truth?"

……

Claude took a deep breath and looked at the swindler's portrait several more times—from the Alps police station, the Marseille police station, the Lyon police station…

He needed to make sure he remembered every detail so that he could find the person's trail beneath the mask.

"Enjoy your last waltz." Inspector Claude changed back into his civilian clothes, put on his hat, left the police station, and turned to disappear into the deepening Parisian night.

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.

Under the same night sky, in the home of Sheriff Lefebvre of the "Morality Division," he was agonizing over a glittering Venetian mask that was almost bursting open.

The mask, inlaid with cheap colored glass "gems" and ostrich feathers dyed a gaudy purple, was completely out of place with his bloated, bloodshot face.

"Damn it! How do I put this on?" he gasped, his thick fingers clumsily fiddling with the mask's straps.

He eventually gave up, placing the mask crookedly on his shiny bald head, looking like a fat peacock trying to spread its tail feathers but failing.

His rented "aristocratic" suit was a disaster—the deep purple velvet fabric clung to his massive body, and the gold thread embroidery was twisted and deformed at his belly, as if it would burst at any moment.

He pulled the snow-white lace scarf loose, making it look like a bib.

He didn't care if he ruined the clothes, since he got them from the madam of "Caesar's Summer Palace," which were originally intended for guests to dress up as nobles from two hundred years ago.

The nobility, however, is the truth of Lefebvre's choice—the only difference between him and Director Gigo is that he didn't marry a daughter from a noble family.

Otherwise, he would have been the one giving orders that day!
“That idiot Gigo!” he muttered. “He’s never left his office. He just glued the opened envelope back together exactly as it was. What thug or conman on the streets of Paris wouldn’t do that?”
The arrest in broad daylight… all the credit for this is mine! You, a mere nobody, won't get a share!

Then he looked at a hastily drawn but distinctive portrait on the table: "Lionel Sorel... 'Honest Man'... Heh heh, now that you're in my hands, let's see if you're still so obedient!"

(End of this chapter)