On Montmartre Hill, Baroness Alexeyevna's manor castle was brightly lit under the night sky.
Huge glass windows unreservedly spilled the internal splendor outwards, illuminating the meticulously manicured lawns and surrounding grape arbors.
The air was filled with the aroma of roasted meat, strong perfumes, cigar smoke, and a deliberately created, boisterous joy.
Carriages arrived in an endless stream, unloading guests in bizarre costumes: women dressed as Cleopatra, "knights" in armor, "plague doctors" with huge bird beaks, headless kings and queens...
According to Parisian masquerade ball etiquette, one had to wear their costume from the moment they left home—it was evident how many passersby were startled.
Although attending this Baroness's ball would likely lead to being ostracized by the entire circle of Parisian noblewomen, some people couldn't get into such circles anyway.
Fallen minor nobility, ambitious parvenus, frustrated artists, Russian exiles with thick accents, and some Parisian officials attempting to climb the social ladder or simply observe the spectacle, swarmed like moths to a flame into this "temple of truth" built with rubles.
When Lionel Sorel stepped into this bizarre scene, he initially drew almost no particular attention.
He wore the attire representing his own "truth"—an old jacket with shiny, frayed elbows and visible loose threads, wrinkled, dull-colored trousers, and a pair of old leather shoes with severely worn heels.
There was no mask, no lavish disguise, just a clean but undeniably tired young face, and deliberately disheveled hair.
Amidst the glittering jewels and extravagant costumes filling the hall, his overly authentic "poverty" attire ironically became a different, out-of-place "bizarre costume."
However, a few passing guests soon glanced at him, and whispers spread like ripples:
"Look! 'Poor Lionel'!"
"Oh my god, how creative! Playing that eccentric who rejects all the ladies' salons!"
"Too bad he doesn't smell bad, the portrayal isn't extreme enough!"
"Ha! Look at him, taller than an elk, shoulders wider than a buffalo, where does he look like a poor writer?"
...
Although Lionel was inwardly puzzled as to why these people not only knew his name but also added the qualifier "poor."
But he still tried to maintain outward composure, nodding slightly in response to some vague greetings, and then quickly sought a place to hide himself.
Mr. Turgenev had long since disappeared.
After ushering him in, the old writer, concerned for his homeland, went off to chat with his compatriots exiled in Paris, leaving only the words:
"Have fun!"
The ladies' costumes were varied, but most only wore eye masks covering their eyes—however, in the social customs of Paris and indeed all of Europe, this was considered sufficient to conceal their identities.
If gentlemen took a liking to a lady who sparked their "interest," they could, without regard for whether she wanted to dance or had other male companions, embrace her intimately.
Even if a lady was accompanied by her husband, he could not object to this.
Whatever happened at the masquerade ball could not be carried outside of it—otherwise, one would be considered a boring old fogy, and no one would invite them next time.
Consequently, many prostitutes also mingled in, often dressed in ancient Greek robes, disguised as Phryne, with particularly large cutouts at the sides, revealing full, snowy white hemispheres, constantly lingering near wealthy gentlemen in their sight.
In the grand ballroom at the center of the venue, costumes were like clouds, and men and women alike shed their inhibitions, embracing each other extra tightly as they danced ballroom dances.
Lionel was not accustomed to this environment.
He picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and quietly retreated into the shadow of a colonnade decorated with ancient Roman-style bas-reliefs, merely scanning this flamboyant theater with curious eyes.
Just then, the band struck up a dramatically tense march, a variation imitating "La Marseillaise."
The gaslights in other parts of the hall were dimmed, while the top of the exaggerated spiral staircase in the center of the hall shone as bright as day.
Baroness Balf Alexeyevna Durova-Shcherbatova made her grand entrance.
She was disguised as "Catherine the Great," draped in a voluminous golden gown adorned with countless shimmering rhinestones, its skirt flowing like a golden waterfall, requiring four strong maids to carefully hold it up from below.
A huge white bear fur stole covered her broad shoulders; her face was covered by a shining golden mask, revealing only thick lips painted with vibrant red lipstick; in her hand, she tightly clutched a scepter topped with a golden double-headed eagle.
The guests instantly fell silent, then erupted in enthusiastic applause.
The Baroness was clearly relishing the moment.
She slightly raised her hand, gloved in long golden netting, and spoke in impeccable French, her voice echoing through the hall:
"My dear friends! Welcome to my 'Night of Truth'! May the stars of Montmartre shine tonight for authentic souls!"
Applause rose again, but it seemed less fervent than she had expected.
The Baroness suddenly cast her gaze towards an even brighter spotlight circle already prepared midway up the staircase, her voice abruptly rising, filled with undisguised triumph:
"However, among all the truths tonight, the most brilliant, the most undeniable treasure, is neither the gold and jewels on my person, nor the splendor of this castle!"
She raised her scepter, pointing it like a monarch's staff to the center of the spotlight.
"My dearest friends! Allow me, with immense excitement and pride, to reveal to you—the sun that illuminates my Parisian life, the most authentic and dazzling new star in the firmament of French literature!
He eschews ostentation, revealing himself with the purity of his soul; he is the embodiment of truth in the literary world, and a symbol of supreme talent!
He is—'Poor Lionel,' Lionel Sorel! The author of 'The Old Guard' and 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'!"
Lionel, standing in the corner: "...!?"
Unable to help himself, he followed all eyes to where the scepter pointed.
A tall, upright young man, wearing an eye mask, stood elegantly in the center of the light.
He bowed slightly, a hint of helplessness, detachment, and weariness on his lips, nodding to everyone; he was still wearing that patched, old jacket with elbows polished smooth, trousers full of wrinkles and mud stains, and leather shoes covered in scratches.
The Baroness's voice trembled with excitement and ostentation:
"Ladies and gentlemen!
This is the true Lionel!
Dispensing with all embellishments, facing the world with the most authentic soul!
He is my dearest friend, Paris's unique treasure!"
Thunderous applause and gasps erupted instantly, even far exceeding what the Baroness herself had received moments before!
"Oh!
God!
He's so charming!
Look at his eyes!"
"My heavens! To wear poverty with such elegance and nobility, that is the true character of genius!"
"How authentic!
What a pure soul!
No wonder he can write such moving novels!"
"The Baroness has such good taste! She has discovered a true treasure!"
"This is 'Poor Lionel'! Truly deserving of his reputation!"
...
Praise and admiration surged like a tide towards "Poor Lionel" under the spotlight.
He nodded slightly, with a hint of weariness in his reserve, as if all worldly affairs exhausted him.
Lionel stood in the shadow of the colonnade, dumbfounded; Turgenev, at some unknown point, had appeared beside him, his face filled with incredulity and alarm.
He stammered:
"I... I didn't know... I'll go remind them now..."
Lionel reached out to stop the simple old gentleman, and looking at the facial contours of "Poor Lionel" in the light, which were very familiar from having seen countless portraits, he smiled:
"Mr. Turgenev, don't you think he looks more like 'Lionel Sorel' than I do?"
At this moment, two voices rang out almost simultaneously, but they spoke the same sentence:
"You are under arrest, Lionel Sorel!"
(End of Chapter)
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