A fleeting light sparked in Petty's eyes when she saw Lionel, then quickly dimmed. Her pale lips trembled, but she ultimately said nothing.
It was her mother who spoke: "Isn't this Young Master Sorel? Which noble lady are you going to get rich from today?"
Lionel knew she was displeased that he always made Petty eat the delicious food he brought right there, never letting her take it home.
Most of the residents in this apartment building speculated about this young man who suddenly stopped taking Mrs. Martin's meal plan. A common consensus was that he had likely latched onto some noble lady.
Although Lionel was a poor student, he possessed a well-built physique, honed in the Alps' mountains, and a handsome face with Southern features.
With these assets, coupled with the debauched environment of Sorbonne, it wasn't strange for him to catch the eye of a classmate's parent.
Lionel originally intended to harden his heart and go straight downstairs, leaving. After all, he hadn't received Gabriel's money yet, and even if he stretched it, he only had a little over 100 francs in cash. This capital was a bit short for playing the hero.
But now…
Lionel stopped, turned, and intently stared at the stout, sturdy middle-aged woman—she had a messy, reddish-brown hair, a large, swollen red nose, clearly indicating she was a drunkard; her apron was greasy and stained all over, its original color no longer discernible;
She held a broom, but in truth, Petty did almost all the housework besides cooking. The broom's main purpose was to beat her daughter from one spot to another…
This was the common family situation among the poor in Paris; kinship was almost a luxury for them.
Children usually started helping with chores at six. Boys were sent off as apprentices before they turned ten, while girls stayed until ten or twelve before being sent to work as maids or in factories.
However, none of this was too bad.
Truly cruel parents would send their daughters to places like ballet schools or similar institutions.
Back then, wealthy men could pay to secure a seat at the Paris Opera, granting them free access to the backstage to meet actors or dancers; the Opera even provided them with secret, luxurious private boxes for their pleasure.
Providing sexual services even became a "duty" for ballet dancers.
Sending their daughters to become ballet dancers, if they gained the favor of a "patron," not only covered their living and training expenses but also provided their families with substantial returns.
They usually contracted syphilis or other common infectious diseases of courtesans before they were twenty, then their bodies would gradually break down, and they would ultimately die in the prime of their youth.
Petty's mother felt a shiver down her spine from Lionel's gaze, but she wasn't truly afraid. She paused, then flashed a lewd smile: "What's wrong, Young Master Sorel? Have you taken a liking to this little hussy too?"
As she spoke, she dragged Petty's arm outwards, letting the sunlight fall on her bloodless face and disheveled hair.
Then she turned to the middle-aged woman from "Swan Castle" and said, "See, Sister Grete, even this brilliant student from Sorbonne thinks our Petty is beautiful. Do you still think 10 francs a month for 'nutrition' is too expensive?"
Sister Grete shot Lionel an angry glance. She indeed was reluctant to let go of a good prospect like Petty.
Although Petty looked malnourished now, her superior bone structure, excellent facial features, and body proportions indicated she was a natural ballet dancer. In just a few years, she could become a cash cow.
She gritted her teeth, ready to agree.
"Fifteen francs, fifteen francs a month." Lionel's voice echoed through the apartment stairwell, stunning Petty's mother, Sister Grete, the onlookers Mrs. Martin, and the other residents.
This was a price Sister Grete absolutely could not accept, and Petty's mother absolutely could not refuse.
Petty's eyes lit up again, more dazzling than the morning light streaming in from the narrow skylight.
Lionel felt in his pocket, pulled out various coins worth about 15 francs, and tossed them at Petty's mother's feet: "I happen to need someone to tidy my room and wash my clothes right now."
He almost laughed out loud after saying it—his attic was so small it was only fit for mice, and the clothes he was wearing now were practically all the clothes he owned.
Watching the woman squatting on the ground, frantically picking up money, Lionel took out a key from his pocket and handed it to Petty: "You start work today. When I return tonight, I hope to see the room tidy. Can you do that?"
Petty clutched the key with almost all her life's strength, then nodded with all her life's strength: "Yes, Young Master Sorel!"
Lionel also nodded: "Good. I have things to do, so I'm leaving now."
With that, without waiting for anyone else to react, he went downstairs in a few quick steps.
Sister Grete from "Swan Castle" quickly followed, calling out to Lionel and threatening him fiercely: "Do you know who the owner of 'Swan Castle' is?"
Lionel turned back and smiled: "Why don't you tell me? I'm going to meet the owner of Paris's largest circulating newspaper in a bit, and he should be very interested in the answer to that question too."
Sister Grete was startled. Did this boy know the owner of Le Petit Journal or Le Figaro?
He looked poor and unlike it, but that snobbish woman just said he was a brilliant student from Sorbonne... The rest of her words were choked back.
Lionel paid no attention to what this woman, whose profession was almost that of a madam, was thinking. He strode away from Oberkampf Street and went to the public carriage stop on Market Street to wait for a ride.
Half an hour later, he arrived at Café de Flore, located at the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue Saint-Benoît.
It was a weekend morning. Although the sun was already high, it wasn't yet time to while away hours with coffee, so there were only a few customers in the cafe.
A broad-shouldered figure, smoking a cigar and occasionally looking around, quickly caught his eye. Lionel walked straight to him and sat down opposite him: "Good morning, Mr. Maurel."
He also pulled a thick envelope from his coat and placed it on the table.
Gariel Maurel looked at the young man sitting opposite him, first with some surprise, then with an expression of displeasure: "Damn it, his pen name is 'An Honest Parisian,' but he's not honest at all!
How much did he pay you to come here?"
The young man in front of him looked only in his early twenties, with a naive face and shabby clothes. He absolutely couldn't be the kind of old lecher who would write "the priest's joke" and "Ilena hanging upside down on the grape trellis."
Lionel, however, was noncommittal: "If you don't want to talk to me, then I'll take this draft back…" He made to pick up the envelope.
Gabriel quickly pressed down on Lionel's hand: "Talk, talk!"
Lionel smiled and withdrew his hand; his goal was achieved.
Gabriel sighed in relief, quickly tore open the envelope, and pulled out the letter inside to read it.