The morning mist in springtime Paris carried not only the moisture and coal smoke of the Seine but also a faint, elusive scent of decay—a product of pollen mixed with the odor of feces.
It clung to Victor Drouet's face in a sticky film, but he didn't mind, breathing it in with contentment.
He stood on the balcony of the second-floor "noble level" of a respectable apartment building on Boulevard Saint-Germain, overlooking the bustling city below; in the distance, the soaring spires of a church were about to pierce the grey sky.
Victor's lips once again bore that signature, faint, flirtatious smile.
The bright sun of Nice, the songs of Marseille, and the ancient cobblestone alleys of Lyon... the scent of innocence and greed that permeated the living rooms of provincial middle-class families felt like a lifetime ago.
Those young women whose eyes sparkled with blind adoration for the aura of "manager of Orby Trading Company," wearing overly starched dresses, eagerly offered their dowries;
Even their fathers' francs, hidden in safes, were easily lured out by "Panama Canal bonds"—all of these became his stepping stones to stand where he was now.
Victor Drouet still remembered that desperate young woman at the foot of the Alps six months ago, her generous dowry and her family's entire savings—a full five thousand francs—one of the most beautiful notes in his symphony of success.
He had only met the girl and her family three times and had two meals with them, yet he had them all playing in the palm of his hand—it only required some not-too-shabby fake jewelry and some extravagant promises.
Oh, they even wanted him to find a job for their son studying in Paris, a job with an annual salary of 3,000 francs—haha, that poor boy probably rolled back to the Alps to be a copyist now—he could earn 90 francs a month!
However, the provinces were merely a minor key; Paris, on the other hand, was a true symphony.
Of course, here in Paris, using the name of "Orby Trading Company" and fake jewelry to deceive the ladies of high society, the queens of the salons, was no longer feasible.
Their discerning tastes had been cultivated by literature, art, politics, and the most novel scandals.
They didn't want promises of money; they wanted a stimulant for their minds, a thrilling leap to break the monotony of life, "exclusive collectibles" to adorn their vanity, something to ignite envy among their circle of friends.
Victor held a manuscript page full of writing in his hand; the very top line was a name:
"Poor Lionel."
He recalled the night he first heard that name in a tavern—
"That freak from the Sorbonne!"
A red-cheeked, bearded man sneered with jealousy and bewilderment:
"God knows what spell those noble ladies are under!
'Poor Lionel,' ha!
That's what they call him.
They say he lives in some rat hole in the 11th arrondissement, with the elbows of his coat shiny with wear!
He rides a smelly public carriage every day to the Sorbonne to pore over his Latin and philosophy."
Victor Drouet elegantly flicked the ash from his cigar:
"Is that all?
Parisian ladies are accustomed to men of talent; a mere poor student wouldn't pique their interest so much."
The bearded man pursed his lips:
"Of course not!
This fellow also wrote a notorious novel, something called 'The Old Guard'—I don't understand literature myself.
This guy even scoffs at the gilded salon invitations they send him!
I heard a lady personally sent a carriage to the Sorbonne to invite him, wanting to meet this 'talented and handsome' young man, and what happened?
He directly turned her away.
The reason?
Listen to how absurd it is—he said he wanted to attend Flaubert's and Zola's salons, good heavens, how foolish!
Just imagine how boring those writers' salons must be!"
Victor Drouet remained unperturbed at this point, merely elegantly twirling the glass in his hand.
But then, another mustachioed drunkard's words struck his brain like lightning:
"Ha, you fool, no wonder you only attend those 'meat banquets.'
You see, it's precisely this 'unattainability' that captivates!
What rare treasures haven't noble ladies seen?
Why is it this poor student who makes their hearts itch with longing?
Is it just because he's like a stubborn, smelly rock?
They discuss his poverty as if discussing a rare, hidden antique!
Mystery, mystery is the most expensive perfume in Paris!"
Victor's heart clenched suddenly, then expanded in ecstasy.
"Lionel"! A name as common as "Pierre"—but now it was a living symbol, collectively imagined and desired by the ladies of society!
Poor, proud, talented, disdainful of the powerful, difficult to approach... he hadn't even appeared at the ladies' salons!
All of this perfectly fit the pathological pursuit of "dangerous yet pure" spiritual stimulation by these pampered, empty-hearted noblewomen.
They were tired of flattery; they needed an idol to conquer, a "charity project" to prove their charm and generosity, a "novelty" to adorn their salons!
Thinking of this, Victor Drouet raised his wine glass high:
"All drinks tonight are on me!"
The tavern erupted in cheers.
In just two days, two weeks before Easter, Victor Drouet rented an attic in the 11th arrondissement.
Aside from it being too small, smelling too bad, the landlady's voice being too shrill, and the cooking being terrible, it had absolutely no flaws.
Anyway, he would only come here to "play the part" when necessary.
Next were the props, the most important prop—that "shiny-elbowed coat."
Victor Drouet didn't just casually pick one up at a second-hand market.
Instead, he went to the best men's tailor on Faubourg Saint-Honoré and bought a dark wool coat of excellent material and perfect fit.
Back home, he found several pieces of old wool fabric of similar texture but slightly lighter color and carefully cut them into various-sized patch shapes.
He didn't sew these patches on directly.
Instead, he first gently abraded the areas where the patches were to go with sandpaper until the fibers were almost broken.
Then, using high-quality saddle soap, he patiently rubbed these areas, giving the worn spots a natural, from-the-inside-out sheen, as if formed by long-term friction.
Finally, he had a tailor sew on those carefully treated old wool patches with the finest stitches, making them appear perfectly natural from a distance, as if the patches had accompanied the coat's owner through countless days and nights.
This was by no means the sloppiness of destitution, but a carefully designed, poetic shabbiness, an elegance of the "impoverished aristocrat" type.
Victor Drouet would never truly appear dirty, smelly, and unkempt before noble ladies.
His other attire was also meticulous: a faded but good-quality linen shirt; a pair of dark trousers, equally old but clean, with their creases still sharp; a pair of clean old leather shoes, with clearly uneven wear on the heels.
No cravat, his collar casually open, showing a hint of intellectual unruliness.
He even spent a few days wandering near the Sorbonne, observing the demeanor and manners of actual poor students.
Victor Drouet practiced in front of the mirror every day.
He reined in his usual flirtatious smile, transforming it into a blend of aloofness, indifference, and subtle fatigue, as if weary of all the world's superficiality.
He practiced letting his gaze go blank, looking into the void in the distance, as if his soul was immersed in deep thought, oblivious to the mundane objects before him.
He also practiced his walking posture—small steps, with a scholarly refinement, yet subtly conveying an inner strength, never dragging, never cowering.
"Remember, Victor!"
He whispered to his reflection:
"You are not begging, not flattering.
You are giving charity.
Giving those pampered canaries a dream, a dream of spiritual salvation, of dangerous love, of conquering a rebellious soul.
They long to be 'seen' by 'Poor Lionel,' long to be the 'light' in his barren life, long to prove that their charm is enough to melt this 'ice.'
What you need to do is become the magic mirror that reflects all their fantasies.
Money?
That's just the admission ticket they willingly pay for this beautiful dream, their pathetic attempt to grasp you, to prove their own worth.
You must make them feel that accepting their money is a 'favor' to them, a ticket that allows them to approach the sacred temple of your soul."
He walked to the window, gazing at the glittering world before him:
"Paris, are you ready to welcome 'Poor Lionel'?"
(End of Chapter)
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