At 64 Rue Laffitte, in Lionel's new apartment, the gaslight cast a long shadow of him.
Lionel was frowning at his desk, not because he couldn't write a new piece, but because he was attending Baroness Alekseyevna's masquerade ball tomorrow.
An embossed gold invitation lay open on his desk, lacking even a specific addressee, simply extending a sincere invitation to the bearer to attend the Baroness's masquerade ball, with the theme: "Night of Truth."
If it were hosted by anyone else, he might have refused; but if the person inviting him was Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev, then it was different.
Turgenev was also frank; he was old and had no interest in such social activities for young people.
But the Baroness had promised that if he attended and brought some young Parisian talents, she would provide some necessary assistance to Russian progressives exiled in Paris.
Moreover, there was Baroness Alekseyevna herself—she had donated 300,000 francs to the Sorbonne! Besides doing Turgenev a favor, Lionel was also somewhat curious about what kind of enchantress... generous lady this Baroness was; a masquerade ball was clearly an occasion where one could move freely.
However, the cost of attending the masquerade ball was not insignificant—to avoid being ridiculed for old-fashioned or unoriginal attire, one had to spend a good sum on an outfit.
This money was almost a one-time expense; no one would wear masquerade ball clothes daily, nor could they appear at the next masquerade ball.
Lionel wasn't short on money right now, but he felt a little pained by the thought.
The royalties for "Letter from an Unknown Woman" in "Modern Life" had just been settled—Mr. Charpentier had generously paid at the highest standard, even adding a bonus, a total of 2,000 francs.
"My Uncle Jules" had also been written and sent to "Le Petit Parisien," and should be published in the next couple of days, with royalties likely no less than 300 francs.
Gabriel's 1,500-franc bill of exchange had also been fully cashed out two days prior.
With some previous savings, his cash on hand would soon reach around 5,000 francs.
Hmm, which happened to be Mr. Grinheit's annual salary...
Pish, pish, pish...
Lionel quickly banished the unfortunate neighbor from his mind.
"Costume... the theme is 'Night of Truth'..."
Lionel murmured to himself, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk.
Just wear a mask?
That would be inviting humiliation, betraying Turgenev's recommendation, and perhaps even angering the enthusiastic and wealthy Baroness.
"Truth... identity..." he murmured, chewing on the words.
A bold and clever plan quickly took shape in his mind.
It wouldn't require expensive silk or velvet, nor intricate embroidery or gem-encrusted masks; it only needed a touch of... literary cunning.
Lionel walked to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out an old suit he hadn't worn for a long time.
Looking at the coat, shedding threads everywhere, seams coming undone, and elbows worn smooth, and the terribly wrinkled trousers, a wave of emotion surged within Lionel.
The outfit had been carefully cleaned, free of the "smell of the Eleventh Arrondissement," but still wasn't presentable.
However, this wasn't a big problem at a masquerade ball—at 19th-century European masquerade balls, people dressed as everything from mummies to trees, and even Siberian polar bears.
Wasn't this outfit his "truth"?
A poor boy from the Alps countryside.
————
Under the same night sky, in an office of the Criminal Investigation Department at the Paris Police Headquarters, the only light in the entire building was on.
Inspector Claude was adjusting his sash in front of a full-length mirror.
The man in the mirror was around forty, lean and muscular, with eyes as sharp as an eagle's, but he was currently dressed in an 18th-century French general's uniform.
Inspector Claude had also shaved off his beard, leaving only thick sideburns—he planned to portray Jean Maximilien Lamarque, a famous general under Emperor Napoleon.
This was the "truth" he had chosen—a decisive, brave, and just soldier.
The outfit was rented, 5 francs a day, with a 20-franc deposit, and smelled faintly of mothballs and old wooden crates.
A simplified map of the estate and an embossed gold invitation were spread on his desk—perhaps more than half of the respectable people in Paris had received it.
However, only a few would choose to attend, and he had obtained a ticket effortlessly.
Inspector Claude recalled what "Rat Noah" had told him earlier today in a café in the Second Arrondissement:
"That's him!
My respected sir!
He's the one who bought all the information about Baroness Alekseyevna a few weeks ago!"
"That pretty face, even with a ridiculous fake mustache, how could it escape my eyes?
The most important thing for a 'rat' is observation!"
"Haha, what's his name?
You know, in our line of work, we don't ask for names—and even if we did, would he tell the truth?"
Claude took a deep breath and carefully reviewed the fraudster's portrait several times—from the Alpine police, the Marseille police, the Lyon police...
He needed to make sure he remembered every detail so he could spot the man's tracks beneath the mask.
"Enjoy your last waltz."
Inspector Claude changed back into his regular clothes, put on his hat, left the police station, and turned to blend into the deepening Parisian night.
————
Under the same night sky, at the home of Sergeant Lefebvre of the "Morality Division," he was fretting over a glittering Venetian mask that was almost torn apart from stretching.
The mask was adorned with cheap colored glass "gems" and ostrich feathers dyed gaudy purple, utterly clashing with his bloated, bloodshot face.
"Damn it! How does this thing go on?"
He gasped, his thick fingers fumbling clumsily with the mask's ties.
He finally gave up, balancing the mask crookedly on his greasy bald head, looking precisely like a fat peacock trying to fan its tail but failing.
The rented "aristocrat" evening gown he wore was an even greater disaster—deep purple velvet stretched tightly over his massive body, the gold embroidery distorted over his belly, looking as if it might burst at any moment.
The snowy white lace cravat was pulled loose by him, resembling a bib.
He didn't care if he ruined the outfit; he'd gotten it from the madam of "Caesar's Summer Palace," originally provided for guests to dress up as aristocrats from two hundred years ago.
And an aristocrat was the truth Lefebvre had chosen—the only difference between him and Director Gigo was that he hadn't married the daughter of a noble family.
Otherwise, he would have been the one giving orders that day!
"Gigo, that imbecile!" he mumbled.
"Always stuck in his office, that lord.
Sticking the opened envelope back exactly as it was?
What hooligan or trickster on the streets of Paris doesn't know that trick?
An arrest in public... This credit is all mine!
You won't get a single centime!"
Then he looked at a hastily drawn but distinctly featured portrait on the table:
"Lionel Sorel...
'Honest man'...
Heh heh, once you're in my hands, we'll see how 'honest' you still are!"
(End of this chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon