Just as Lionel found himself in an awkward predicament, beneath the ballroom's domed ceiling, the light and lively melody of Johann Strauss Jr.'s "Tritsch-Tratsch Polka" suddenly rang out.
This cheerful dance tune instantly dispelled the lingering ambiance of the previous waltz.
Its skipping notes, like a troupe of sprites in gleaming dance shoes, urged people into a more vibrant revelry.
A flicker of surprise crossed Mrs. Ida Zweig's eyes, and a faint blush colored her cheeks:
"Monsieur Sorel, this is one of my favorite polkas. Might I have the honor of asking you to dance this one with me?"
Her invitation was direct and bold, while Moritz Zweig, standing nearby, displayed gentlemanly consideration, nodding slightly with a smile:
"Ah, a wonderful polka! Just so, I see an old business acquaintance approaching. Please excuse me, my dear; do enjoy the dance, Monsieur Sorel."
He gave Lionel a polite smile, then, carrying his wine glass, calmly strolled into the conversing crowd nearby.
Lionel was slightly taken aback but maintained a proper smile.
He happened to know how to dance the polka, and refusing a lady who had just sincerely praised your work was considered extremely impolite in the 19th century.
He could only bow slightly:
"It would be my honor, Madame Zweig." At the same time, he extended his arm.
Ida Zweig's slender fingers gently rested on his arm, and they stepped onto the dance floor together.
The polka's rhythm was lively, and the steps were relatively simple.
Lionel moved carefully to avoid stepping on his partner's expensive gown.
Ida Zweig's steps were light and precise; her skirt flared open like a flower when she spun.
After a light spin, she leaned slightly closer, her tone ambiguous, her warm breath directly wafting towards Lionel's nose and mouth:
"Monsieur Sorel, your novel... especially that 'letter'..."
"It kept me from sleeping for several nights. I kept wondering what kind of sensitive and profound soul could so accurately capture and portray such a... burning, soul-scorching yet silent passion?"
Lionel felt his legs begin to stiffen.
He steadied his steps, his gaze politely fixed on her chignon:
"You flatter me, Madame. I merely attempt to understand and present a certain possibility of human emotion. That it resonates with you is the work's fortune."
Ida Zweig chuckled:
"Merely a possibility? But what I read was truth. It was the burning desire, hidden behind every word, almost bursting forth. Just like... just like now..."
Her voice dropped lower:
"...It's as if I can feel the heartbeat within your words, passing through the paper to my fingertips."
Lionel felt the temperature in the ballroom suddenly seem to rise.
He continued to spin, his tone steady:
"The power of words lies in their ability to ignite the reader's own imagination and emotional experience, Madame. The fervor you perceive is perhaps a projection of your own rich and delicate emotions.
This is the highest praise an author can hope for—but his duty, after all, is merely to strike the match, not to become the flame itself."
Ida Zweig keenly caught the subtle refusal in his words; far from being displeased, she chuckled again.
Her words were bold and cunning:
"Oh, my dear Lionel—please allow me to call you that—you needn't be so nervous, nor so quick to arm yourself with such pretty literary theories.
Rest assured, I am not one of those reckless young maidens who would, out of momentary passion, lead both myself and you into an awkward situation."
She slightly adjusted her dance steps, restoring the distance between them to a more decorous level, as if that brief moment of closeness had merely been an accidental consequence of the rhythm.
Her tone was relaxed and teasing:
"You see, I have just this year given Moritz a healthy son, our Alfred. He is the future hope of the Zweig family, his father's proud heir."
As she mentioned her son, a gentle maternal glow swept across her face, but quickly gave way to a mature allure:
"So, you understand? According to our... well, custom here? Or perhaps, tacit understanding? I now possess a certain degree of freedom. Moritz won't interfere too much with my... social life."
Lionel was momentarily speechless.
He naturally understood the tacitly accepted open marriage relationships among upper-class European couples in the 19th century.
After fulfilling the primary duty of "bearing an heir," women often gained more leeway to seek emotional solace or sensory stimulation.
He just hadn't expected Madame Zweig to be so direct in stating this to him.
As the dance tune neared its end, the rhythm grew increasingly cheerful and urgent, and she took advantage of a spin to draw close to Lionel again:
"He is a lovely child, Alfred. But I often think, if I could have another child... I would hope he could not only inherit the family's wealth but also possess...
Hmm, for example, a handsome and elegant figure like yours, and the captivating talent of your pen—how perfect that would be."
Lionel stumbled slightly, almost missing a beat, and an uncontrollable flush spread across his cheeks.
This lady's boldness and directness simply exceeded his imagination.
He steadied himself, forcing himself to calm down.
Just as the music was about to cease, he took a deep breath, his tone sincere:
"Madame, you flatter me greatly. But I believe that with the excellent lineage of you and Monsieur Zweig, every one of your children is bound to possess unparalleled qualities.
Your future children, male or female, are destined to become extraordinary individuals. If he or she were to become a writer, their name might indeed be preserved in literary history."
The last note of the "Tritsch-Tratsch Polka" fell crisp and clear, and the dance ended.
People on the dance floor exchanged greetings, filling the air with pleasant laughter and conversation.
Ida Zweig's fingers, however, did not immediately slide from Lionel's arm.
She rose slightly on her tiptoes, gently pressed her index finger to her own soft lips, and then lightly touched it to his lips.
She then quickly stepped back, resuming the dignified posture of a noblewoman:
"Aunt Adele is truly enviable, to have discovered a genius like you in Paris. However, Lionel, Paris is not the whole world—Vienna likewise longs to nurture true artistic souls."
Lionel's mind was still blank, and he subconsciously asked,
"Aunt Adele?"
Ida Zweig smiled enchantingly:
"Eleonore Adelaide de Rothschild, did you not know 'Adele' is her nickname?
Before I married, my surname was Bretault, and by kinship, I should call her aunt.
So, you see, we are not strangers. Since you already have her in Paris, then in Vienna, let me offer you the same... support and convenience!"
Bretault?
Rothschild?
These two European banking families are related?
Before he could formulate words to politely decline, Ida Zweig gave him no chance.
She gracefully nodded slightly, as if merely concluding an ordinary social dance:
"Well then, until next time, my dear Lionel. I hope you enjoy your time in Vienna—oh, and by the way, what should that child be called?"
"Child?"
"The one you said would leave their name in literary history."
"...Stephen, Stephen is a very good name."
"Good, then Stephen it is—Stephen Zweig, a lovely name."
With that, she gracefully turned and quickly blended into the cheerful conversations of the other guests.
At that moment, an excited voice rang out beside Lionel:
"My God! Léon! I can hardly believe my eyes!"
Maupassant had sidled over unnoticed, his eyes wide as saucers, staring intently in the direction Ida had departed:
"That's Madame Zweig! One of Vienna's wealthiest and most beautiful ladies! What did I see? She invited you to dance! She was practically in your arms! She even...!"
He excitedly gestured the fingertip kiss, as if disbelieving:
"What magic did you work on her? Tell me quickly! You lucky dog! Oh, it's so unfair! Why do good things always happen to you!"
Lionel loosened his cravat:
"I think I'll head back to rest... You all enjoy yourselves."
Maupassant was stunned:
"The ball has only just begun..."
Lionel, however, did not wish to stay another moment:
"What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"
Maupassant thought for a moment:
"It seems we're visiting the 'Academy of Fine Arts Vienna,' and perhaps you'll give a speech..."
Lionel: "...Why the Academy of Fine Arts?"
Maupassant shrugged:
"Heaven knows..."
(End of Chapter)
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