Lionel couldn't help but cough, attracting everyone's attention. Immediately, like rabbits seeing the shadow of an eagle, they all scurried back into their rooms.
The tenant downstairs, who had been making unreasonable demands on Petty, quieted down and tiptoed into his room.
Only when Lionel's figure appeared in the kitchen doorway did Petty drop her guard, saying proudly with a tearful voice, "Young Master Sorel, I didn't let anyone touch your chicken soup."
Lionel nodded, "Well done, Petty!"
Then he lifted the lid of the soup pot, and immediately, an aroma several times richer than before wafted out, almost overflowing from the small apartment.
Lionel couldn't help but exclaim, "The taste of a free-range old hen truly can't be matched by a white-feathered chicken raised for only 45 days!"
As the white mist dispersed, the thick, golden chicken soup floated with translucent radish cubes and snow-white mushroom slices; and the grey hen itself had already shown its greatest kindness to this world—
The golden-yellow chicken skin had become semi-transparent, with the rich flesh beneath faintly visible, beckoning hungry stomachs to quickly enjoy it.
Petty suddenly swayed, about to faint, and a loud, long "Gurgle~~~" sounded from her small stomach.
Then she watched as Lionel actually pulled out the almost melted onions and celery from the chicken's belly, tossing them carelessly into the trash can. She almost couldn't help but say, "Young Master, these can be for me."
Next, she saw Lionel add a handful of spaghetti to the chicken soup…
Ten minutes later, two bowls of fragrant chicken soup spaghetti were on the dining table, with the meat in each bowl piled high above the rim.
Petty looked at the table in some shock, momentarily unsure how the Young Master could possibly eat two bowls of noodles at once…
Lionel used his knife and fork to twirl some noodles, then suddenly noticed Petty still standing by his side, somewhat puzzled: "Sit down and eat together!"
Petty looked at Lionel in shock, then looked incredulously at the chicken soup noodles on the table—"Is this for me?"
One must know that when she ate Mrs. Martin's catered meals with her parents, she only got the scraps that the adults didn't want, often still half-hungry after a meal.
No servant in all of France—no, in all of Europe—was ever heard of sitting at the same table as their master, eating the same food.
Even Mrs. Martin, who was warming herself by the fire in the adjacent living room, was stunned by Lionel's words—as a local elder over sixty, she had witnessed Paris's ups and downs for more than half a century.
She had heard many revolutionaries and politicians preach with beautiful slogans like "everyone is equal," but she had never truly seen anyone with money who didn't hire a bunch of servants to wait on them, nor had she seen any rich person allow servants to sit at the table and eat with them.
But Lionel's words were so natural, without a trace of pretense, as if it were a matter of course.
Petty hesitantly sat down, her bottom only daring to touch the edge of the chair, ready at any moment for Lionel to say, "I was joking," and then return to her rightful standing place.
But Lionel was only focused on slurping his noodles, not even looking up at her.
Petty plucked up her courage, picked up her fork, twirled the noodles, and brought them to her mouth—an indescribable aroma filled her oral cavity, and her tongue felt as if it would melt.
Then, with a nervous heart, she took a bite of the meat. The wonderful, springy texture and even stronger meaty aroma made her mind go blank…
Petty took a full twenty minutes to eat one bowl of noodles, and the entire bowl was licked clean…
Putting down the bowl, she saw Lionel looking at her with concern: "Are you full? If you want more, just get it from the pot…"
Petty quickly opened her mouth, wanting to say, "No need, Young Master!"—but no words came out; instead, a long burp escaped…
It was another Monday morning, and Lionel arrived at Sorbonne College on time.
The entrance was still a grand gathering of carriages, only now when he jumped off the public carriage, no one dared to mock him anymore.
Not only because they feared his sharp tongue, but also because Albert de Rohan, the college bully, had suddenly changed his ways. Not only did he stop bullying Lionel, but he even told others not to touch him.
So, the students generally speculated that Lionel had at least caught the eye of some countess, which was why the arrogant Albert was so wary of him, and they all cast envious and jealous glances his way.
The naive and innocent Lionel, a simple young man from the Alps, didn't know what was happening, only feeling a strange, warm, and ambiguous atmosphere surrounding him today…
The first class was, as usual, Professor Taine's "Origins of French Literature." The old professor, who had been absent for a week due to a cold, was in full swing today, asking him three questions in a row as soon as class started, making Lionel sweat.
Although he managed to answer them with his accumulated knowledge from his previous life, Lionel still felt something was off—he hadn't been late today, nor had he bickered with Albert in class, so why did Professor Taine have such a big problem with him?
Finally, class ended. Professor Taine, still unwilling to let Lionel off the hook, glared at him resentfully and left with a huff.
Even stranger things happened in the afternoon—as soon as class ended, Lionel was called to the office by Mr. Duen, the school's registrar, which also sparked much discussion among the students.
"You know about the 'Poetry Society' before Easter, don't you?" Mr. Duen asked the tall and handsome young man in front of him, secretly praising the Dean's discerning eye.
Lionel nodded, "Of course I know." The Sorbonne's "Poetry Society" was a well-known event in Parisian university education, always attended by a large number of wealthy people and nobles.
Mr. Duen asked with concern, "Why haven't I seen you participate before?"
Lionel searched his memory before replying, "I submitted something, but it wasn't selected."
Sorbonne students who wanted to participate in the "Poetry Society" either had parents like Albert who would attend the event, or they needed to submit to the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts journal. Only those with outstanding talent who gained favor had the chance to shine at the "Poetry Society."
Lionel's original self had once submitted a "Hymn to the Virgin Mary" to the journal, which naturally yielded no results.
Mr. Duen patted Lionel's shoulder encouragingly: "This year, we hope—no, you must submit to the journal. I believe in your talent!"
Lionel was even more bewildered, wondering if there was something wrong with the mushrooms in the hen stew yesterday, causing him to have so many hallucinations today.
But since the college registrar had already spoken, how could he refuse? He could only brace himself and agree: "Okay, I will definitely submit this year!"
Mr. Duen then relaxed: "That's good—the sooner the better. Once you've written it, you can give the manuscript directly to me."
At this moment, Lionel felt that the bald, hunchbacked old man in front of him was like an NPC in a game, and he had inexplicably received a side quest.
...
In the evening, after eating the oxtail soup Petty had made with all her might, Lionel first wrote a confirmation letter to Gabriel, then spread out new manuscript paper on the desk, and began to ponder, quill in hand.
He wanted to complete Mr. Duen's task as soon as possible—whatever his purpose was in wanting him to participate in the "Poetry Society"—if it affected the writing of "the decadent city," it would not be worth it.
But the more he thought about it, the more interesting he found it:
The Sorbonne Faculty of Arts journal was a somewhat famous publication in Parisian literary circles.
Although not as well-known as the major newspapers openly distributed to the public, most literary critics in Paris, and professors from various university faculties of arts, philosophy, and theology, subscribed to it.
No matter what, Sorbonne still represented the humanities departments of French universities, and the journal occasionally featured some eye-catching works…
Thinking of this, Lionel no longer had the idea of being perfunctory but became more serious than ever before.
It wasn't until the candle had burned halfway down that he wrote the first line on the manuscript paper:
"The layout of the tavern in the Alps is different from elsewhere:…"