Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 98 Are you kidding me? Only eight years? (Seeking monthly votes)
"You are free, Mr. Sorel!"

The cell door slammed open, and Inspector Claude walked in.

Lionel was somewhat surprised, but quickly regained his composure and pointed to the cell next to him: "Where is he?"

Inspector Claude took a deep breath and reviewed Chief Gigo's explanation, then smiled and said, "He really is the conman who scammed your family and even impersonated you to deceive the Baroness."

Moreover, he is undoubtedly the author of that erotic novel, *The Decadent City*!

Lionel: "...?"

Isn't this the strategy I just came up with while sitting on the hard wooden bench? Did someone predict my prediction?
He was, of course, unaware of the complex office politics behind Director Gigo's haste in labeling him a fraud, but wisely refrained from asking further questions, instead offering a relieved smile: "Oh? That's quite unexpected... I didn't realize he was so talented..."

Inspector Claude breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing this: "Yes... otherwise why would I have thought of impersonating you? Let's go out."

As they passed the swindler's cell, Lionel stopped and asked Claude, "May I take a look at him?"

Claude nodded: "No problem." Then he opened the lookout window on the iron gate.

Lionel looked out the window and his gaze met that of the conman.

Upon seeing that Lionel was unharmed, the conman suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the iron bar on the lookout window: "It was you...it was you..."

Lionel took a step back to avoid being sprayed with spittle.

He looked the conman in the eyes: "You're a smart man, and a good actor, but..."

Before he could finish speaking, the conman chuckled maliciously: "Don't get cocky. Lionel Sorel, is that right? I remember now, ha, the Sorel family from La Raniere in the Alps, isn't that right? They have a son studying at university in Paris..."

Your sister's name is Ivana, right? She's an incredibly stupid woman..."

With a clang, the window was slammed shut again. Claude's face was full of contempt: "These kinds of liars are all the same, all they have is a stubborn mouth."

The swindler's voice was still clear through the iron gate: "Eight years! Eight years at most! I'll be out of Toulon Prison... You wait..."

Lionel's face immediately darkened: "Are you kidding me? Only eight years? Is he telling the truth?"

Claude shook his head: "God knows, I'm not a judge either. But most of these fraudsters are well-versed in the Penal Code, so he might have a point."

Lionel said with some regret, "That's too good for him..."

The conman laughed arrogantly in the detention room.

Claude then revealed a cruel smile: "Fraud only carries an eight-year sentence, but creating obscene works and blaspheming religion might be a different story..."

The swindler's laughter abruptly stopped, and his voice became panicked: "Blasphemy? You...you're framing me..."

Lionel then remembered that France was still, at least nominally, a theocratic state and the largest patron state of the Church, calling itself "the eldest daughter of the Church".

Blasphemy can sometimes carry a severe sentence, especially without powerful intermediaries.

Claude chuckled softly: "Based on past precedents, these people are usually considered to be possessed by a demon or mentally unstable. Their fate is probably a mental hospital."

Lionel shuddered—19th-century mental asylums were truly terrifying places; anyone who wasn't already insane would go mad if locked up there.

The conman stood frozen in the cell for a moment, then began pounding on the iron door, desperately shouting, "I don't want to go to a mental hospital! I want to go to prison! Let me go to prison! I'll go as long as I want..."

As the heavy iron gate of the detention center slammed shut, the swindler's screams became barely audible.

Lionel was somewhat worried: "What if he resolutely refuses to admit it?"

Inspector Claude smiled knowingly: "Don't worry, he will!" Lionel nodded; he had a lot of faith in 19th-century police officers in this regard.

He then turned his attention to the most crucial issue: "Our family was swindled out of 5000 francs..."

Inspector Claude patted him on the shoulder: "After the court verdict, the stolen money will be returned to you—provided he has any left over."

As they spoke, Lionel had already followed Inspector Claude to the large outer office of the Paris police station.

The place was unusually brightly lit and bustling with people, as lively as a market.

With Lionel's arrival, all eyes were on him; and Lionel saw those familiar figures:

Turgenev with his white hair and beard, Flaubert with his worried face, Zola with his anger but still maintaining his manners, Professor Taine with his gold-rimmed glasses, Daudet with his beautifully curly beard...

Apart from Professor Tainer, almost everyone else was a senior he had met at the salon, and each of them wore a worried expression.

Upon seeing Lionel emerge unharmed, Ivan Turgenev was the first to greet him: "Are you alright? Chief Gigo just said it was all a misunderstanding..."

Others also came forward to greet Lionel, while the reporters were kept on the perimeter, though they were trying to break through the police lines.

At that moment, Chief Gigo squeezed in—this was probably the most stressful night of his three-year tenure as chief—and shook hands with Lionel: "Sorry, it's all that idiot Lefebvre's fault..."

"But it's alright now, it was all a misunderstanding. The reporter is right outside, and we hope...we hope you can be understanding."

Lionel nodded and said with a smile, "You can't blame them—blame only on that liar, he impersonated me so perfectly! Isn't that right, Mr. Turgenev?"

Turgenev frowned: "Yes... if I hadn't met you, I might have mistaken that liar for you too."

At that moment, a reporter crawled in from under the crowd, pulled out a wooden box from behind, and quickly pulled out three legs to prop it up.

"Everyone, please look ahead and keep smiling. Mr. Lionel, please step to the center..."

Director Gigo immediately stood beside Lionel.

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.

The following day, Le Petit Parisien, which featured a photograph of Lionel with several literary giants in the Paris police station office, sold out.

At that time, newspapers could not print photographs, so the newspapers used etching techniques to print the images based on photographs, which were quite lifelike.

The “farce” that took place last night at Baroness Alexievna’s masquerade ball in Montmartre has also received extensive coverage.

Two "Lionel Sorel"s collide in a car accident; a notorious conman traveling throughout France is arrested; the true author of "Decadent City" is revealed...

Each and every single one of these incidents could make the headlines of the day's newspapers, let alone the fact that three of them could be combined into one!

One front page wasn't enough; Le Parisien used two full pages to publish all the content—it was rushed and done overnight, and that was all they could manage.

Just as readers finished reading the two pages and were still wanting more, they turned to the back of the newspaper and were struck by a line of large characters—

Lionel Sorel, the conscience of the Sorbonne, a brilliant novelist, a victim of fraud, a confidant of Parisian women, and a man with a childlike heart, presents his latest masterpiece. Deeply moving and tear-jerking, it forces everyone to re-examine family, money, and kinship. Not reading it means you're not truly French.

My Uncle Jules

Lionel: "..."

(End of this chapter)