Inspector Claude was somewhat puzzled as to why Lionel was so disappointed: "Although these bonds cannot be returned to your family right now, they are, after all, 'Panama Canal Bonds'!
With an annual interest rate of 6% and compound interest, you can't go wrong. My wife even bought some, a ten-year term, with an even higher interest rate…"
Lionel clutched his forehead in agony: "Is there no way to try this scoundrel all at once in a Parisian court?"
Inspector Claude shrugged: "He didn't defraud a single cent in Paris, so he can only be convicted based on 'blasphemy and moral corruption'.
Parisian courts do not have jurisdiction over local courts, so his fraud charges must be tried in every place he committed fraud: Marseille, the Alps, Lyon, Burgundy…
Only after all these local courts have finalized their verdicts can the stolen goods be returned."
Inspector Claude then explained France's court hierarchy system—
In France, courts are divided into three levels: Courts of First Instance, Courts of Appeal, and the Supreme Court.
Courts of First Instance handle the initial trials for most civil and criminal cases, with independent establishments in various locations; Courts of Appeal hear appeals from lower courts.
France is divided into several appellate districts, each covering several provinces. For example, the Bouches-du-Rhône department, where Marseille is located, falls under the jurisdiction of the Aix Court of Appeal.
The Supreme Court, headquartered in Paris, is the unified highest judicial body in the country. It does not directly hear cases but only determines whether lower courts have correctly applied the law.
Lionel's head swam with all the place names, and he asked directly: "Roughly how long will it take?"
Inspector Claude thought for a moment: "If he doesn't appeal, probably a year and a half to two years; if he appeals, maybe three years? I'm not sure.
Don't worry, the bonds won't be lost! The longer you hold them, the more valuable they become. Time is your friend!"
Lionel now just wanted to yell at Claude: "You stupid groundhog, God, I really want to kick your butt!"
But at least for now, he couldn't change this fact; he could only pray that the bonds wouldn't be worthless paper when they were finally returned.
He was now feeling a bit pained about the 200 francs he had spent a few days ago…
It was already evening when Lionel left the Paris Police Department. Instead of going home, he took a carriage to "Père Lemerre," a small, smoky, bustling tavern in the Saint-Antoine district.
He wasn't trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol but rather conducting a "private inspection."
Such small taverns usually had "newspaper readers," who were typically part-timers. They could get a drink by reading a few articles. Many literate working-class people relied on reading newspapers to satisfy their craving for alcohol.
This was also a form of "live broadcast" in taverns before the invention of radio and television.
The environment at "Père Lemerre" was quite ordinary: sawdust covered the floor, and the long wooden tables and benches were polished smooth from use; the air was a strong mix of cheap tobacco, sour wine, onion soup, and sweat.
Off-duty workers, hawkers, apprentices, artisans, and poor students were the main clientele here.
Lionel ordered a beer and a plate of fried bacon, then sat in a corner, eating, drinking, and observing—
In the center of the tavern, under a dim kerosene lamp, an old shoemaker acting as a "newspaper reader" was surrounded by a crowd, even the bartender behind the counter craned his neck.
"Read on, Old Jean! Keep reading!" a young apprentice urged, forgetting to put down the beer mug in his hand. "What happened to that poor woman afterward?"
The old shoemaker cleared his throat, his finger pointing at the tiny, dense print on the newspaper, and read in a loud voice:
"…The doctor's face was as pale as a freshly painted wall! Sweat mixed with blood streamed down, and she cried out to Luc Bouton as if her soul had left her body—'Your wife… may the Lord receive her, she did her best… she…'"
Lionel frowned. This was clearly not his original text. What "face as pale as a freshly painted wall"—he certainly couldn't write such a vulgar simile.
But this tone clearly pleased the audience. They craned their necks and pricked up their ears; the tavern fell silent, with only the old shoemaker's resonant voice remaining.
"Luc Bouton was struck by lightning, pushed the woman aside, and rushed into the room… Damn it! His young wife, Claire, was lying stiff on the bed, all bloody beneath her! She was already gone!…"
At this point, the old shoemaker's voice also deepened, carrying a hint of regret.
"And then? Quickly, tell us about the child!" a burly worker anxiously interrupted.
"Don't rush!" The old shoemaker pushed up his glasses: "I've been reading for so long, I'm thirsty…"
The worker urging him to read quickly immediately tossed a few centime coins to the bartender: "Get this old fellow a beer!"
After drinking the beer, the old shoemaker's face regained its color, and he continued reading: "…Luc Bouton's eyes, like he'd seen a ghost, slowly moved to the 'thing' the doctor was holding… Was that really a newborn baby?
It was clearly a shriveled little old man! A head full of sparse white hair, a face as wrinkled as a walnut shell, and those disgusting age spots! His eyelids drooped, leaving only a slit, and his eyes were as cloudy as muddy water!
His nose was flat, his gums receded, and a few small yellow teeth looked like they were about to fall out!
His tiny hands and feet were as dry as chicken claws, and his skin hung loosely over his bones! The baby was crying, not a 'wah-wah' cry, but a dry, hacking 'cough-cough' like a broken bellows, which sounded eerie!"
Lionel: "…" All his painstaking efforts in word choice were wasted in the old shoemaker's mouth.
But the common people clearly preferred the old shoemaker's rendition—
"Whoa!" A chorus of gasps and incredulous exclamations filled the tavern.
"Born an old man? That's even weirder than the rumors during the Commune!" A blacksmith clicked his tongue, his face full of disbelief.
"It must be the devil's doing!" A devout believer made the sign of the cross.
"Poor woman, giving birth to such a monster and losing her life for it!"
"What about the father? Was he scared senseless?" Someone asked.
The old shoemaker took a sip of beer from his glass to clear his throat:
"…Luc Bouton let out a strange 'er' sound in his throat and blurted out two words: 'Monster!' He jumped back in fright, his spine hitting the wall with a 'bang!' His eyes were bloodshot, probably scared out of his mind…
The doctor desperately pleaded with him, 'No! For God's sake! He's alive! He's a boy! Monsieur Bouton, you can't…'"
"…While they were arguing, the street outside exploded! Glass shattered with a crash, people screamed loudly, 'Hang the aristocrats! Burn their dog kennels!'…"
The listeners in the tavern nodded, chattering excitedly:
"That's right! How chaotic it was back then! The Bastille had just fallen, and people charged at anyone they disliked!"
"The father was quite heartless, but… oh…"
"Where was he thrown? Read on, you old fellow!"
"The poorhouse! The Salpêtrière poorhouse near Place du Châtelet!…"
…
Lionel left without listening to the end, leaving 1 franc for the bartender so that the old shoemaker could drink whatever he wanted that night.
Although he didn't yet know the sales figures for this issue of Le Petit Parisien, he was confident that the reception for the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button would not be bad.
Because if the story itself lacked appeal, it wouldn't inspire the kind of enthusiastic adaptation seen from "newspaper readers" like the old shoemaker. Everything that happened in "Père Lemerre" tavern today gave him immense confidence.