The air in Paris in early May was a blend of the clean moisture from the Seine River and the fragrance of flowers lining the streets, carried by the spring breeze across the entire city.
But for the offices of Modern Life, the air was filled with an unprecedented, almost anxious, anticipation.
Mr. Georges Charpentier stood by the window; he rarely visited this place, which was usually filled with the smell of ink, sweat, and tobacco.
Beside him were the editor-in-chief, Emile Bergerat, and Pierre Renoir, whose cheekbones were noticeably more prominent due to his exhaustion.
Their gaze was directed downstairs, where they could see the entrance of Charpentier Bookstore on the ground floor, and a newsstand across the street.
Today was the debut of the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button.
It was also the moment for Georges Charpentier to see if his "big gamble" would pay off.
— — —
Madame Rothschild's mansion in the Saint-Germain district had always been a symbol of taste and style, though she only used it for parties and salons.
Here, velvet curtains hung low, and soft light spilled onto Louis XV-style gilded furniture and oriental rugs. The air was sweet with the scent of fine cigars, expensive perfumes, and freshly baked madeleines.
Several elegantly dressed ladies and two impeccably dressed gentlemen were gathered around a small, mother-of-pearl-inlaid round table. In the center, instead of a tea set, were several copies of Modern Life, freshly delivered and exuding the clean scent of ink.
"George' taste is finally not bad this time. This issue of Modern Life finally has genuine 'Modern Life'," Madame Rothschild's words elicited a light chuckle.
With a lace-gloved fingertip, she opened the newspaper. The front page featured a novel titled the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button.
Although she had read it a week in advance, seeing "Lionel Sorel" as the author's name below the title filled Madame Rothschild with excitement, pride, and a touch of grievance.
She had clearly agreed to sponsor the publication of Lionel's first novel, but he had effortlessly secured a serialization in Modern Life.
She recalled how, just over a month ago, in the small reception room at the Sorbonne, he was still so weak and poor… though also very confident, proud, even to the point of arrogance.
Now, he had so quickly gained the confidence to support that arrogance.
Is this talent? Madame Rothschild's eyes grew a little more intoxicated at the thought.
"This is the real Lionel, not that ridiculous impostor…" A surge of pride swelled within her.
"What is this?" a noblewoman exclaimed.
From the newspaper in her hand, a small card, about five inches square, dropped out. It featured a beautifully drawn, brightly colored print—
A dying old man lay on a sickbed, outside the window, the burning light of street barricades illuminated the frightened and sorrowful profile of a young woman.
This painting had distinct Impressionist characteristics, using the interplay of light and shadow to intertwine the shadow of death with the frenzy of war, full of tragic tension.
"I have one in mine too," another noblewoman cried out in surprise.
The painting in her hand was different from the previous one: a wicker basket, inside which a swaddled infant could vaguely be seen. A thin, withered hand reached out, as if calling for its parents, or perhaps accusing heaven of injustice…
The remaining few also flipped through their newspapers, but most were duplicates of the first two. Only one different color print was found:
A man looked back in terror, in the distance, a restless crowd and burning flames were vaguely visible, as if an epoch-making torrent was about to engulf him.
A young lady covered her mouth with a fan: "Holy Mary! It's painted so beautifully! It's practically a work of art!"
Another gentleman echoed: "The light and shadow, the colors, the composition… It's a masterpiece!"
It was then that everyone noticed a small note at the beginning of the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button, stating that each issue of the magazine randomly included only one of these four illustrations!
Moreover, the four illustrations, when strung together, depicted the main plot of the novel serialized in this issue.
The salon instantly fell silent, then a wave of astonished realization swept through: "Oh! My God! So, to collect a complete set of all four illustrations…"
Madame Rothschild smiled: "Exactly, my dear. Theoretically, you would need to buy at least four copies of Modern Life, and pray for enough luck to get different illustrations. Or…
You'd need enough friends willing to trade with you."
A subtle, competitive excitement spread through the salon; a certain flame deep within these gentlemen and ladies seemed to have been ignited.
A noblewoman of Madame Rothschild's age showed a sly smile: "Four illustrations? There are only three here!"
Madame Rothschild replied in an undeniable tone: "There will soon be four—I mean, everyone present will have such a set of illustrations!"
She then called her coachman: "André, go buy a few more copies of Modern Life—how many? It doesn't matter, take 50 francs. Keep buying until we have a complete set of these illustrations for everyone!"
Immediately after, Madame Rothschild turned the newspaper back to the front page: "Alright, the illustrations are for the novel's sake—George wouldn't have invested so much for a mediocre work, would he?"
It was then that everyone came to their senses. Those four small, exquisite, and "hunt-worthy" color illustrations, like the most tempting candies, had firmly captured their desires, making them almost overlook the novel itself.
Upon being reminded, they realized this with a start and turned back to the front page of the newspaper, beginning to read the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button.
Soon, the novel's peculiar opening with a flashback, the deathbed wishes amidst the smoke of war, the horrifying infant against the backdrop of the Great Revolution, Father Luc de Bouton's choice to abandon him in fear and revolutionary fervor…
These plot points immediately captivated them.
The few people occasionally exchanged whispered discussions about fate, time, paternal love, and fear…
The atmosphere of the salon also grew more intense.
— — — —
"Mr. Charpentier, look, the carriages are already forming a long line!" Emile Bergerat excitedly pointed downstairs.
Georges Charpentier nodded almost imperceptibly, trying to maintain his gentlemanly composure, but the curve of his lips was irrepressible.
"After today, who will dare to say I am inferior to my father, a prodigal son?" A surge of emotion also swelled within him, but he could not vent it in front of his subordinates.
Just then, footsteps clattered down the stairs, and a young man ran up, panting: "Sir… sir, the newspapers are sold out. All 2,000 copies prepared in the bookstore are gone.
What should we do?"
Georges Charpentier was about to say "print more immediately," but suddenly remembered Lionel's instructions. Controlling his excitement, he replied to the eager employee in a cool tone: "Sold out? Then tell them it's sold out, there are no more."
The employee was stunned: "We're not reprinting?"
Georges Charpentier gritted his teeth: "No reprinting! This issue is all there is!"
Emile Bergerat and Renoir looked at him in disbelief.
— — — —
While stacks of Modern Life newspapers lay before the gentlemen and ladies of high society, a thick stack also lay before Lionel—
"Panama Canal Five-Year Bonds"
He spoke incredulously and indignantly: "No, is he sick? Did he actually believe it?"