Lionel couldn't help but cough, drawing everyone's attention.
Then, like rabbits seeing the shadow of an eagle, they all scurried back into their rooms.
The tenant downstairs, who had made unreasonable demands of Petty, also quieted down and tiptoed into their room.
Only when Lionel appeared at the kitchen door did Petty lower her guard, saying proudly with a choked voice,
"Young Master Sorel, I didn't let anyone touch your chicken soup."
Lionel nodded:
"Well done, Petty!"
Then he lifted the lid of the soup pot, and immediately an aroma several times richer than before wafted out, almost overflowing from the small apartment.
Lionel couldn't help but exclaim:
"The taste of a free-range old hen truly can't be matched by a broiler chicken slaughtered after 45 days!"
As the white mist dissipated, the thick, golden chicken soup had translucent radish chunks and snow-white mushroom slices floating on it; and the grey hen itself had already shown its greatest kindness to the world—
The glistening yellow chicken skin had turned translucent, its plump flesh beneath faintly visible, calling out to hungry stomachs to quickly enjoy it.
Petty suddenly swayed, almost fainting, and her tiny stomach let out a loud and long "grumble~~~".
Then she watched as Lionel actually pulled out the almost-melted onions and celery from the chicken's belly, carelessly throwing them into the trash, almost unable to stop herself from saying:
"Young Master, those could be eaten by me."
Then she saw Lionel put a handful of pasta into the chicken soup...
Ten minutes later, two steaming bowls of chicken soup pasta were on the dining table, with meat piled high above the rim of each bowl.
Petty looked at the dining table in some shock, momentarily unable to understand how the young master could eat two bowls of noodles at once...
Lionel twirled a few strands of pasta with his knife and fork, then suddenly noticed Petty still standing by, somewhat puzzled: "Sit down and eat together!"
Petty looked at Lionel in shock, then incredulously at the chicken soup noodles on the table—Is this for me?
She knew that when she and her parents ate Mrs. Martin's catered meals, they only got scraps the adults didn't want, often leaving them half-hungry after a meal.
In all of France—no, all of Europe—she had never heard of any servant eating the same food at the same table as their master.
Even Mrs. Martin, warming herself by the fire in the adjacent living room, was stunned by Lionel's words—as a local woman over sixty, she had witnessed Paris's ups and downs for more than half a century.
She had heard many revolutionaries and politicians proclaim beautiful slogans like "all men are equal," but she had never truly seen anyone wealthy not hire a retinue of servants to attend to them, nor had she seen any rich person invite servants to eat at the table with them.
But Lionel's words were so natural, without a hint of pretense, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Petty sat down hesitantly, only daring to perch on the edge of the chair, ready at any moment for Lionel to say "I was joking," and then return to where she should stand.
But Lionel was focused on slurping down his noodles, not looking up at her at all.
Petty gathered her courage, picked up her fork, twirled some noodles, and brought them to her mouth—an indescribable aroma filled her oral cavity, her tongue felt like it was melting.
Then, with a nervous heart, she took a bite of meat, the wonderful, springy texture and even stronger meaty aroma made her mind go blank...
One bowl of noodles took Petty a full twenty minutes to eat, and the entire bowl was licked sparkling clean...
Only after putting down the bowl did she see Lionel looking at her with concern:
"Are you full? If you want more, just get it from the pot..."
Petty quickly opened her mouth, wanting to say "No need, Young Master!"—but before the words came out, they were replaced by a long burp...
It was another Monday morning, and Lionel arrived at the Sorbonne Academy on time.
The entrance was still a lively gathering of carriages, but now, when he alighted from a public carriage, no one dared to mock him anymore.
Not only because they feared his sharp tongue, but also because Albert de Rohan, the academy bully, had suddenly changed his ways, not only no longer bullying Lionel but even telling others not to bother him.
So the students generally speculated that Lionel had at least caught the eye of some countess, which was why the arrogant Albert was so wary, and they all cast envious, jealous glances his way.
Lionel, the naive and ignorant young man from the Alps, didn't know what was happening, only felt a strange, warm, ambiguous atmosphere around him today...
The first class, as usual, was Professor Taine's "Origins of French Literature."
The old professor, who had been absent for a week due to a cold, was in full force today, asking Lionel three questions consecutively right at the start of class, making him sweat.
Although he managed to cope thanks to his accumulated knowledge from his previous life, Lionel still felt something was off—he hadn't been late today, nor had he argued with Albert in class, so why did Professor Taine have such a strong opinion of him?
Finally, when class ended, Professor Taine, unable to stump Lionel, glared at him resentfully and huffily left.
An even stranger thing happened in the afternoon—as soon as class ended, Lionel was summoned to the office by Mr. Doane, the school's dean, which also caused a stir among his classmates.
"The 'Poetry Society' before Easter, you know about it, right?"
Mr. Doane asked the tall, handsome young man before him, silently praising the Dean's discerning eye.
Lionel nodded:
"Of course I know."
The Sorbonne's 'Poetry Society' was a renowned event in Paris's university educational circles, with a large number of wealthy individuals and aristocrats attending each time.
Mr. Doane asked with concern:
"Why haven't I seen you participate before?"
Lionel searched his memory before replying:
"I submitted entries, but they weren't selected."
Sorbonne students who wanted to participate in the 'Poetry Society' either had to be second-generation attendees whose parents were present at the event, like Albert, or they needed to submit to the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts' academic journal, where those with outstanding talent and favor would have the opportunity to make a name for themselves at the 'Poetry Society'.
Lionel's original self had once submitted a "Hymn to the Virgin" to the journal, which naturally yielded no results.
Mr. Doane gave Lionel an encouraging pat on the shoulder:
"This year, we hope—no, you must submit to the journal.
I believe in your talent!"
Lionel was even more bewildered, thinking if there was something wrong with the mushrooms in the stewed hen yesterday, causing him to have so many hallucinations today.
But since the school's dean had already spoken, how could he refuse?
He could only brace himself and agree:
"Alright, I'll definitely submit this year!"
Mr. Doane finally relaxed:
"That's good—the sooner the better.
You can give the manuscript directly to me when you're done."
At this moment, Lionel felt that the bald, hunchbacked old man in front of him was like an NPC in a game, and he had inexplicably received a side quest.
...
That evening, after eating the oxtail soup Petty had made with all her might, Lionel first wrote a confirmation letter to Gabriel, then laid out new manuscript paper on the table and pondered, quill in hand.
He wanted to complete Mr. Doane's task as soon as possible—whatever his purpose was for wanting him to participate in the 'Poetry Society'—if it affected the writing of "The Decadent City," it wouldn't be worth it.
But the more he thought about it, the more interesting it became:
The academic journal of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts was a somewhat famous entity in Parisian literary circles.
Although not as famous as the widely published newspapers, most Parisian literary critics and professors from various university faculties of arts, philosophy, and theology subscribed to it.
In any case, the Sorbonne remained the face of humanities in French universities, and the journal occasionally featured some eye-catching works...
Thinking of this, Lionel no longer felt like just going through the motions; instead, he became serious like never before.
It wasn't until the candle had burned halfway down that he wrote the first line on the manuscript paper:
[The layout of taverns in the Alps is different from elsewhere: ...]
(End of Chapter)
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