In March in Paris, a chill from winter still lingered in the air, and the trees along the Seine had just timidly sprouted tender buds.
Near Boulevard Saint-Michel on the Left Bank, an inconspicuous mobile bookstall was quietly set up in a corner.
The vendor was a small man, wrapped in an old overcoat, with vigilant eyes.
His stall looked ordinary, piled with old newspapers, popular novels, and a few historical biographies.
But if a regular customer approached, with just a specific look or a vague code word, he would, as if performing a magic trick, carefully pull out plain-printed pamphlets one by one from a locked old leather case beneath the stall.
Transactions were swift and silent; coins dropped into palms with a dull thud, and the pamphlets were quickly tucked into the buyers' inner coat pockets or deep inside their briefcases.
But today, the vendor was unusually different—the pamphlets in the old leather case were divided into two batches, one thick and one thin.
The thick one sold for only 15 sous, while the thin one cost 1 franc.
A bank clerk carrying a briefcase, a regular customer here, frowned upon hearing the prices and asked, "Pierre, have you lost your mind?"
Pierre, the vendor, first pulled out the thick pamphlet and handed it to him:
"Don't rush, just read a couple of pages first."
The bank clerk took the book, glanced around, saw no familiar faces, and began to read confidently.
Just five minutes later, his eyes widened, and he cursed,
"Damn it, what does '20 lines deleted here' mean?
That scoundrel deserves to go to hell!
I knew he wasn't being honest!"
Vendor Pierre then handed him the thin pamphlet, a lewd smile on his face:
"You should take a look at this one."
The bank clerk took the thin pamphlet, and this time, after just 30 seconds, he bent at the waist, then clutched the thin pamphlet to his chest:
"That bastard deserves to be roasted in Satan's oven!
...How much?"
Vendor Pierre's smile was both lewd and straightforward:
"If you buy both pamphlets together, it's 1 franc 10 sous, saving you 5 sous.
I'll tell you—this thin one is printed on a single side, you can cut it out with scissors and paste it into the corresponding spot in the thick one..."
The bank clerk made the sign of the cross on his chest:
"God, please forgive this sinner..."
He then pulled out 1 franc 10 sous in coins and tossed them over, stuffed both books into his briefcase, and left, bent at the waist.
——————
Deep within an old mansion in the Latin Quarter of the Fifth Arrondissement, a room converted into a "private reading room" was filled with smoke, making the already dim light even more murky.
The facilities were rudimentary, with only a few rows of hard wooden tables and chairs and dim gas lamps.
At one of these rows, several men huddled together, almost head-to-head, greedily reading the same book spread out on the table—a few rare copies that the reading room owner had obtained at great risk, charging a high hourly fee.
They turned pages cautiously, fearing any sound might attract unwanted attention.
The only sounds in the room were heavy breathing, an occasional suppressed cough, and the soft scrape of coins gently pushed across the tabletop—a signal to extend reading time.
Shadows from the lamps played across each man's face, their expressions so focused they were almost grim.
Some would suddenly pause while reading, lift their heads, and stare blankly into the smoky air, as if their souls had been deeply pierced by a scene or a phrase in the book, falling into a momentary trance.
The air was hot and murky, mixed with the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and an indescribable, peculiar excitement born from sharing a forbidden secret.
Others were queuing behind them, anxiously watching the clock on the wall.
Every 20 minutes, someone would step forward to pull one of the readers away from the book, then squeeze themselves in.
The one pulled away would often let out a whimper, then quickly bent at the waist as if realizing something, provoking a burst of laughter.
——————
In a luxurious villa in Montmartre, a resort on the outskirts of Paris, adorned with velvet draperies and filled with the strong scent of perfume, a "Gentlemen's Club" was about to host a private salon.
The waiting gentlemen were not, as usual, focused on appreciating the artworks on the walls or engaging in hushed conversations.
Instead, each was deeply engrossed in a soft sofa, in various postures, but all with their heads bowed, their minds completely captivated by a thick pamphlet in their hands, one with a plain cover and not even a title.
A strange quiet filled the air, broken only by the occasional crackle of wood in the fireplace and the rustle of turning pages.
Some unconsciously licked dry lips, their Adam's apples bobbing; others frowned deeply, as if undergoing some inner struggle; and some had an ineffable smile playing on their lips, mixed with excitement and a hint of unease.
A waiter walked by with a tray, but even the crisp clink of crystal glasses failed to disturb their concentration.
Here, time seemed to stretch, and the waiting bought with money was replaced by another, stronger attraction originating from the pages.
After a good while, an old gentleman with white hair suddenly blurted out,
"Damn it, I also own a vineyard, why didn't I think of that..."
He then realized this wasn't his private study and others were present.
He awkwardly hushed his voice, intending to get up and go to the restroom—but quickly, as if he noticed something, he immediately bent at the waist.
He furtively glanced around, saw that no one had noticed him, everyone was focused on the thick pamphlet before them, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.
——————
Father Bertrand, dressed in black robes and known in the parish for his strictness, piety, and fairness, was striding quickly through a dim alley.
Pressed tightly against his chest was not his daily Bible and Breviary, but the "forbidden book" he had just acquired with half a month's stipend.
Father Bertrand felt the book like a burning coal, scorching his chest.
Snippets he had glimpsed before buying it echoed repeatedly in his mind—about how "Simons" used the parish doctor's greed to cover up his crimes, about those rituals performed in the grand mansion's chapel that were more blasphemy than prayer.
And of course, the women in the book... those women...
Oh, God, merely thinking of a single word felt like a sin.
But those words, and the sentences formed by those words, were like the sharpest sewing needles, boring ceaselessly and deeper into the furthest reaches of his mind.
"This is to understand the devil!"
"Only by understanding the devil can one defeat the devil!"
"Lord, please grant me the strength to overcome the devil!"
Father Bertrand mumbled to himself, but then he suddenly saw a young girl from near his church walking towards him, smiling as she greeted him:
"Good afternoon, Father Bertrand, may God bless you!"
Father Bertrand looked at the girl's youthful face and suddenly remembered a scene from the book—[Hélène opened the window, sweeping down the petals and leaves accumulated overnight on the windowsill, which fell onto Gérard Simons' head...]
Immediately, he felt something was amiss, and under the girl's surprised and alarmed gaze, he bowed to her.
————
In the plush sofa of the bank manager's office, the respectable Mr. Raynal—a banker known for his prudence and piety—was holding a book, enjoying his lunch break.
But what his secretary, who brought him tea, didn't know was that Mr. Raynal was experiencing unprecedented torment.
On the pages, the description of Master Simons' meticulously designed "game" under the grape arbor, with its vivid details and seductive atmosphere, far exceeded his meager imagination.
He felt the collar of his stiffly starched shirt become uncomfortably tight, and fine beads of sweat emerged on his forehead.
He wanted to close the book, but the explicit suggestions and tension-filled scenes held his gaze like a magnet.
A strong sense of moral guilt gripped him—as a father of four children and a model benefactor of the parish, he shouldn't have been exposed to such "depraved" texts.
He remembered the mischievous, mysterious smile of his debauched and prank-loving friend when he handed him this book.
Yet, his body's honest reactions and the long-dormant heat ignited deep within him made him unable to resist the temptation of the next page.
He impatiently loosened his tie, his Adam's apple once again bobbed violently, and finally, his fingers betrayed his reason, trembling as they turned to a new page.
He felt he was standing on the edge of an abyss, fully aware of the danger, yet unable to retreat.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the office door, and his secretary's voice announced:
"Mr. Paris has arrived."
Raynal subconsciously stood up, ready to greet the client—but immediately bent at the waist, sitting back down on the sofa:
"Please ask him to wait a moment..."
——————
By night, the busiest and liveliest places in all of Paris were no longer the salons or balls, but brothels of all sizes.
From courtesans living in villas who charged thousands of francs for a night of pleasure, to mid- and high-end brothels scattered in upscale neighborhoods and near churches that required dozens or hundreds of francs for an overnight stay, even low-end dens where 10 sous could get you "a go"—all were overflowing with people.
Even madams who had retired from active duty years ago were forced back into service.
Even stranger, these incessant customers made all sorts of bizarre requests, some of which made even the most seasoned courtesans blush.
The only commonality was that, even without consuming mummy powder, they were all exceptionally vigorous tonight, so when they left, they were all bent at the waist, leaning against walls...
A virus called "Decadent Metropolis" was spreading across Paris, and indeed France, at an unprecedented rate...
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$10 -> 300+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon