It was already dark, and a lamplighter walked past the cafe, dressed in a uniform somewhat resembling a priest's. With a long pole, he precisely tapped the top of a lamppost, and a gas streetlamp lit up.
The warm, yellowish-white light spilled into the windows, intermingling with the cafe's interior lights. It wasn't dim like candles, casting flickering shadows, nor was it like the pervasive electric lights that would later illuminate everything with stark clarity.
Sophie's heart thumped twice as she looked at Lionel's silhouette, which appeared particularly profound in the lamplight, but she didn't agree: "My mother made dinner for me at home... I need to go back early to keep her company; she'll be very lonely without me..."
Lionel showed a regretful expression but didn't insist. Instead, he called the waiter: "Can we get your dinner to go? Please pack one for each of us."
The waiter answered promptly: "Of course, sir. However, we are not a restaurant specializing in full meals, so we only have simple dishes. Today's menu is 'Normandy Soft Cheese,' 'Olive Paste Bread,' 'Country Baked Chicken with Herb Butter,' and 'Passion Fruit Mille-feuille,' each 1 franc.
If you're willing to add 5 sous, we also have 'Soft Red Wine' from Bordeaux to accompany your meal, which can be bottled for takeaway..."
As expected of the financial district, a "simple meal" cost 1 franc.
Sophie panicked: "No, no..."
But she couldn't resist Lionel and accepted his kind offer.
Only then did the two get to the main topic of the day.
Sophie took out a piece of paper and handed it to Lionel: "I've checked all the 'Émiles' in the company, excluding those who are too old, work in Paris every day, or have no travel experience... In the end, only two 'Émiles' are possible.
One is Émile Francois Dubois, 35 years old, an administrator at the South American branch; the other is Émile Alexander, 29 years old, who joined the company last year and is a manager's secretary in the Overseas Business Department.
However, neither of these two is likely to have time to conduct business in the Alps. You see, although we have an office there, it's very small, the agricultural products and goods purchased are very fixed, and letters sent there are almost periodic, so there's no need to send someone to be stationed there.
Moreover, you said your hometown isn't Gap (the capital) or Embrun, but Laragne, where there isn't even a train..."
Listening to Sophie's systematic explanation, Lionel thought, "She's really a talent"—not only can she actively filter information, but she can also perform basic analysis, saving him a lot of effort.
Was it difficult, these things? Perhaps not for a professional woman in the 21st century, but in the 19th century, women were generally considered ignorant, lacking judgment, and full of emotional impulses.
Even if Sophie had received some education, her family background suggested it wasn't extensive.
Lionel had also encountered some "intellectual women" like her who could read and write in this era, but most seemed reserved and dull, whereas Sophie's displayed organization and calmness made him look at her with new eyes.
Sophie analyzed for a long time and, finding no reaction from Lionel, looked up to see him gazing at her with those gentle eyes, and her face reddened again: "...Is there something wrong with what I said?"
Lionel shook his head: "No, you explained it very well. So, it's pretty much confirmed now that this 'Émile' is a fraud?"
Sophie hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded: "He's definitely a fraud. Although Aubert & Cie has tens of thousands of employees worldwide, everyone is very busy. No one at a manager level would have time to idle in the Alps."
"With your words, I'm relieved!" Lionel put away the paper Sophie had brought. "It's getting a bit late now, where is your home?"
Sophie glanced at Lionel, then lowered her head: "In the Tenth Arrondissement, Rue Lancry."
Lionel laughed: "Then we're neighbors—I'm in the Eleventh arrondissement, Oberkampf Street."
Sophie was a little surprised because Sorbonne students rarely lived in such a remote and mixed area as the Eleventh arrondissement; however, considering Lionel's family background and his current attire, it seemed perfectly reasonable.
At this point, the waiter brought the two packed meals Lionel had ordered. They both stood up, put on their coats, and, each carrying a paper bag, left the "Sunset on the Seine" cafe.
By then, light snow had begun to fall, and all the streetlights were lit, extending along Paris's wide avenues into the endless distance, illuminating buildings like the Stock Exchange and the Paris Opera House, making them look magnificently picturesque.
But if one looked further—for example, at the Tenth Arrondissement and Eleventh arrondissement where the two were, both almost adjacent to the bustling Second District and Third Arrondissement—they appeared much dimmer.
Not far from the cafe was a public carriage stop. After waiting for a while, the carriage bound for Rue Lancry arrived first. There were very few passengers on board at that moment.
Sophie politely declined Lionel's offer to escort her home and got into the carriage. But just as the conductor was closing the door, she couldn't help but look back: "If you want to know anything else, just ask me."
Lionel nodded, seemingly having made an agreement with her—then watched the carriage gradually disappear into the lamplight.
Half an hour later, the carriage stopped at the Rue Lancry station. Sophie got off and, winding her way through dimly lit kerosene-lit alleys, finally stopped in front of an old, small house with wooden frames and mud walls.
Sophie took out her key and opened the door; the house was filled with cold darkness.
She lit a candle, illuminating a corner of the room. The outlines of rough, heavy tables and chairs appeared, as did a fireplace that hadn't been used in a long time.
But today, Sophie felt a warmth here that hadn't been present before.
She took out the "Sunset on the Seine" simple meal from the paper bag, looked at the exquisitely made "Passion Fruit Mille-feuille," and couldn't resist taking a bite...
"It's delicious, Sorel! This is the best thing I've ever eaten in my life! What is it called?"
Petty's eyes sparkled, like two tiny stars in the flickering candlelight of the dim stairwell.
"I think it's called 'Passion Fruit Mille-feuille'?" Lionel stroked Petty's head—though she was 10 years old, she looked only about 7 or 8, and her head seemed especially large on her scrawny shoulders.
Petty looked at the bitten mille-feuille, somewhat reluctant, and looked up to ask: "I want to save it for Léon, he'll be back on Sunday."
Léon is Petty's younger brother, 8 years old this year. Their parents sent him to apprentice with a shoemaker, and he could only come home once in a long while.
Lionel shook his head: "The mille-feuille will spoil by Sunday—it's alright, I'll bring back something even tastier on Sunday."
Petty was so excited she almost jumped: "Really?"
Lionel nodded seriously: "Really!"
After making the promise to Petty, Lionel returned to his small attic—unusually, Mrs. Martin didn't mock him today.
For several days in a row, he hadn't eaten his landlady's meals but had brought back "fancy meals" from outside. The rumor that the "poor bumpkin from the Alps" had struck it rich had already spread through the dilapidated apartment building.
Although Mrs. Martin didn't believe Lionel would turn his fortunes around, she had become much more cautious.
"My ties to this world are growing deeper and deeper..." Lionel mused to himself.
Whether it was Petty, with whom he shared a "teacher-student bond," or Sophie, who had shown him "kindness," or the Sorel Family in the Alps, whom he hadn't truly "met" yet but had already been working for several days, all were tightening his connection to this world.
Sometimes, he even felt a certain trance, wondering if the brief half-life of that young Chinese man from the 21st century was just a crazy dream Lionel Sorel was having?
But now was not the time to ponder such philosophical questions. He needed to write a letter to his family now and send it by telegram tomorrow!