Lionel had many other unexpected events this week.
Not only were the manuscript fees from Le Petit Parisien and Notes of the Fatherland paid in full, but several newspapers also sent invitations for reprinting and commissioned articles, with some even offering advance payments.
Looking at the crisp 420 francs in his hand and the flurry of commissioning letters, Lionel finally felt a sense of relief.
Although he was still writing the "An Honest Parisian" column for Le Chahut every week as agreed, it was no longer his sole source of income.
Another unexpected event was that the Paris police finally had news.
An officer named Claude met him at a cafe and provided the latest information about the swindler.
"According to information compiled from various police departments, there have been frequent cases of marriage fraud similar to what your family experienced recently, which we suspect is the work of the same person.
We have also confirmed that he is indeed not the manager of 'Orby Trading Company'," Detective Claude laid out several portraits in front of Lionel.
Although the details of the people in the portraits varied, their eyebrows, outlines, and the faint, flirtatious smile around their lips were largely consistent and distinctive.
Lionel pointed at a portrait:
"It should be him – were these drawn by victims in other places?"
Detective Claude took a sip of coffee:
"Yes, first Nice, then Marseille, then Lyon...
He always circles around small towns and villages near large cities.
This way, he can always use the extensive road network and transportation of big cities to escape."
Lionel keenly caught something:
"Nice - Marseille - Lyon... Has he come to Paris yet?"
These cities, geographically speaking, were getting closer and closer to Paris, which is why he asked.
Detective Claude shrugged:
"Perhaps.
After all, the ultimate goal of all swindlers in France... no, in all of Europe, is Paris.
This is their holy city!
A swindler coming to Paris is like a drop of water merging into the sea..."
Lionel was somewhat puzzled:
"So you're telling me all this for...?"
Detective Claude put down his coffee cup, leaned closer to Lionel, and tried his best to squeeze out a sincere smile:
"Mr. Sorel, you see, we will do our best to solve the case, but he hasn't committed a crime in Paris yet.
So, there's not much we can do!"
Lionel, of course, didn't expect the Parisian police to catch the swindler quickly; his goal was merely to attract attention.
Without coordination from the Paris police, local police departments in France at that time would not have connected cases and would not have realized there was a swindler specializing in marriage for financial gain on the loose.
Lionel picked up the portrait again, looked at it, and offered his suggestion:
"Actually, you could use this portrait to issue a warning to police departments in other regions of France.
That way, the noose around the swindler's neck will tighten."
Detective Claude hastily said:
"Of course, we will certainly do that. But all of this takes time.
So, we need to wait patiently...
But if those damned reporters find out too early, and it's publicized in the newspapers, the swindler might go into hiding."
Lionel was noncommittal:
"Or perhaps it might expose this swindler sooner?
Heaven knows what will happen.
But rest assured, as long as I get occasional updates from you, I won't say anything to Le Petit Parisien..."
Detective Claude cursed "troublesome brat" inwardly, but said very politely:
"Absolutely! I will inform you of any developments in the case."
After bidding farewell to Detective Claude at the cafe, Lionel was in a good mood.
Taking advantage of the early hour, he decided to visit the "Orby Trading Company" to update Sophie Denueve on the case's progress.
Hmm, and perhaps invite her for afternoon tea to thank her for her help.
------
While Lionel and the beautiful Sophie Denueve were enjoying exquisite desserts at the "Seine Sunset" cafe in the spring breeze of Paris, far away in the port city of Taganrog, in southwestern Russia, the cold wind blowing from the Sea of Azov remained biting.
Under a dim, flickering kerosene lamp, a 19-year-old young man was curled up in a cold attic, wrapped in the thickest old coat from his home.
His breath condensed into white mist in the frigid air, and his fingers were already frozen stiff.
But he was oblivious, his entire attention focused on the crumpled magazine in his hand – Notes of the Fatherland.
This magazine, edited by the great Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, was not only an important intellectual platform for progressive Russian intellectuals but also a window for this young man to glimpse the wider world.
Tonight, what caught his eye was a French novel, The Old Guard, written by a new and unknown French writer – Lionel Sorel.
The halo of the oil lamp flickered on the rough pages.
The young man read slowly and carefully.
Initially, he was drawn by the raw, life-like details of the tavern in the small Alpine town in the novel; then, the "out-of-place" protagonist appeared – the Old Guard in a worn-out imperial uniform.
The young man's heart was immediately gripped.
He read the detail of the Old Guard laying out nine coins, the embarrassment of the Old Guard whose face turned red as he argued "taking spoils isn't stealing" amidst the laughter of others, and the clumsy tenderness of the Old Guard hastily covering his last few olives when surrounded by children...
These details were like cold needles, piercing his sensitive soul.
The young man seemed to see the hunched-back, cloudy-eyed old veterans on the streets of Taganrog, the poor people haggling for a few kopecks in his father's grocery store, eventually leaving empty-handed, and his compatriots struggling in poverty and alcoholism.
However, what truly struck the young man's soul was the narrator "I" – the tavern boy.
His almost cruel calm narration, his numbness to the Old Guard's suffering, his even tacit participation in the "joyful atmosphere"! This sent a bone-chilling cold through space and time, reaching the very land of Russia where he stood.
"He saw... he recorded... but he was indifferent..." the young man murmured to himself, his fingers unconsciously clutching the edge of the magazine,
"This is more terrifying than direct descriptions of suffering!
This numbness... this habitual cruelty... I am also like this..."
The final image of the Old Guard crawling away in the cold winter, with hands covered in mud, became the last straw that broke a certain belief in the young man's heart.
The young man thought of himself as a "shop assistant" in his family's grocery store, watching poor people lay out coins for trivial items, and watching his father write names on the chalkboard for credit...
He had read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Gogol, Pushkin, Mikhail... But no novel had ever touched his soul like this.
He closed the magazine, leaned against the cold wall, his chest heaving violently.
A profound sense of sorrow and powerlessness overwhelmed him.
The light of the kerosene lamp danced in his eyes but could not disperse the gloom in his heart.
"Russia is sick!"
This thought, like a flash of lightning, cleared the fog from his mind.
Unlike the sickness of France – Russia had the heavy shackles of serfdom around its neck, the suffocating autocracy of the Tsar choking it, the numbness and languor of church fatalism on its back, and the deep-seated "Oblomovian" inertia within its very body!
Countless souls silently withered and sank on this vast, cold, seemingly unchanging land!
"Medicine cannot save Russia!"
The young man slammed his fist against the wall – this summer, he was graduating from secondary school, and based on his grades, admission to the Moscow University Medical Faculty was almost certain; it was also his family's wish. But his thinking had completely changed!
He took out a sheet of paper, spread it on the table, then dipped his goose quill, whose tip was already worn blunt, into the ink, and began to write with immense fervor:
[Dear Mr. Lionel Sorel:
Please forgive my unpracticed French; I am learning and hope one day to master this elegant language completely.
I am presuming to write to you to express my admiration.
The Old Guard is an unparalleled masterpiece...
......
I will await your next work with great enthusiasm!]
After writing, the young man checked it repeatedly, and only after confirming there were no issues did he sign at the end of the letter –
[Your faithful Anton Pavlovich Chekhov]
Oblomov is a novel by Russian critical realist writer Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov, first published in 1859.
The novel tells the story of Oblomov, an intellectual landowner who lives a privileged life and views labor and public service as unbearable burdens.
Although he devises extensive plans of action, he is unable to accomplish anything and ends up simply lying on his sofa, living aimlessly, becoming a complete idler and a waste.
(End of Chapter)
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