Lionel had many other unexpected events this week.
Not only did the manuscript fees from Le Petit Parisien and Chronicles of the Fatherland arrive in full, but several newspapers also sent invitations for reprinting and commissioning articles, with some even offering to pay in advance.
Looking at the crisp 420 francs in his hand and the snowstorm of commissioning letters, Lionel finally felt a sense of relief.
Although he was still writing the "An Honest Parisian" column for The Clamor as agreed, it was no longer his sole source of income.
Another surprise was that the Paris police finally had news; an officer named Claude met him in a café and provided the latest information about the swindler.
"According to information gathered from various police departments, there have been frequent cases of marriage fraud similar to what your family experienced recently, and we suspect it's the work of the same person. We have also confirmed that he is indeed not the manager of Orby Trading Company," Detective Claude laid out several portraits in front of Lionel.
Although the details of the people in the portraits varied, their eyebrows, eyes, and outlines were largely unchanged, and the subtle, flirtatious smile around their lips was even more distinctive.
Lionel pointed at the portraits: "It should be him—were these drawn by victims in other places?"
Detective Claude took a sip of coffee: "Yes, first Nice, then Marseille, then Lyon… He always circles around small towns and villages near big cities.
This way, he can always use the developed road network and transportation of large cities to escape."
Lionel keenly caught something: "Nice—Marseille—Lyon… Has he come to Paris now?" These cities, geographically, were getting closer to Paris, which prompted his question.
Detective Claude shrugged: "Perhaps. After all, the ultimate goal of all swindlers in France… no, in all of Europe, is Paris. This is their holy city!
A swindler coming to Paris is like a drop of water dissolving into the sea…"
Lionel was a little confused: "Then why are you telling me this, for…?"
Detective Claude put down his coffee cup, leaned closer to Lionel, and tried his best to force out a sincere smile: "Mr. Sorel, you see, we will do our best to solve the case, but he hasn't committed any crimes in Paris yet.
So, there's nothing we can do!"
Lionel certainly didn't expect the Parisian police to catch the swindler quickly; his goal was merely to draw attention.
Without coordination from the Paris police, local police departments in France at that time would not connect cases or realize that a swindler specializing in marriage for money was on the loose.
Lionel picked up the portraits again for a look and offered his suggestion: "Actually, you could use these portraits to issue warnings to other police departments in France; that way, the noose around the swindler's neck will tighten."
Detective Claude quickly said: "Of course, we will certainly do that. But all of this takes time. So we still need to wait patiently…
But if those damned reporters find out too early and it gets publicized in the newspapers, the swindler might just go into hiding."
Lionel was noncommittal: "Or perhaps it might expose the swindler sooner? Heaven knows what will happen.
But rest assured, as long as I can periodically get updates from you, I won't say anything to Le Petit Parisien…"
Detective Claude cursed "troublesome little devil" under his breath, but said very politely: "Absolutely! I will inform you of any developments in the case."
After bidding farewell to Detective Claude at the café, Lionel was in a good mood.
While it was still early, he decided to go to Orby Trading Company to inform Sophie Denave of the case's progress.
And, while he was at it, he would treat her to afternoon tea to thank her for her help.
— — — — — —
While Lionel and the beautiful Sophie Denave were enjoying exquisite desserts at the "Seine Sunset" café in the spring breeze of Paris, in the port city of Taganrog in southwestern Russia, the cold wind blowing from the Sea of Azov remained biting.
Under a dim, flickering kerosene lamp, a 19-year-old young man huddled in a cold attic, wrapped in the thickest old coat from his home, his breath forming white mist in the frigid air, his fingers already stiff with cold.
But he was oblivious, his entire attention focused on the crumpled magazine in his hand—Chronicles of the Fatherland.
This magazine, edited by the great Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, was not only an important ideological stronghold for progressive Russian intellectuals but also a window for this young man to glimpse the wider world.
Tonight, what caught his eye was a French novel, "the old guard," by a new, unfamiliar French writer—Lionel Sorel.
The halo of the oil lamp flickered on the rough pages, and the young man read slowly and carefully.
Initially, he was drawn to the rough, life-like details of the tavern in the small town at the foot of the Alps in the novel; then, the "out-of-place" protagonist—the old guard in a worn imperial uniform—appeared.
The young man's heart was immediately gripped. He read the detail of the old guard laying out nine coins, he read the old guard's embarrassment as he argued, red-faced amidst the laughter of the crowd, that "taking spoils of war isn't stealing," he read the old guard's clumsy tenderness as he hastily covered his last olives when surrounded by children…
These details were like cold needles, piercing his sensitive soul.
The young man seemed to see the hunchbacked, cloudy-eyed old veterans on the streets of Taganrog, the poor people haggling for a few kopecks in his father's grocery store and leaving empty-handed, and his own compatriots struggling in poverty and alcoholism.
However, what truly struck the young man's soul was the narrator "I"—the tavern's young waiter. His almost cruel, calm narration, his indifference to the old guard's suffering, his even silent participation in the "merry atmosphere"!
This made the young man feel a chilling cold penetrate through time and space, reaching the Russian land where he stood.
"He saw… he recorded… but he was unmoved…" the young man murmured, unconsciously clenching the edge of the magazine, "This is more terrifying than direct descriptions of suffering! This numbness… this habitual cruelty… I am like this too…"
The final image of the old guard crawling away in the cold winter with mud-stained hands became the last straw that broke a certain belief in the young man's heart.
The young man thought of how he, too, had once been the "young waiter" in his family's grocery store, watching poor people lay out coins to buy insignificant small things, and watching his father write names on the credit blackboard…
He had read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Gogol, Pushkin, Mikhail…
But no novel had ever written to his soul like this!
He closed the magazine and leaned against the cold wall, his chest heaving violently, overwhelmed by a vast sense of desolation and powerlessness. The light of the kerosene lamp danced in his eyes, but it could not dispel the gloom in his heart.
"Russia is sick!" This thought, like a flash of lightning, cut through the fog of his mind.
Unlike the illness of France—Russia had the heavy shackles of serfdom around its neck, the suffocating autocracy of the Tsar tightening its body, the numbness and languor of ecclesiastical fatalism on its back, and the deep-seated "Oblomovian" inertia in its very being!
Countless souls withered and sank silently on this vast, cold, seemingly unchanging land!
"Medicine cannot save Russia!" The young man slammed his fist against the wall—this summer, he was to graduate from high school, and based on his grades, admission to the Moscow University medical department was almost a certainty, which was also his family's wish.
But his thinking had now completely changed!
He took out a sheet of letter paper, spread it on the table, then dipped his goose quill, whose tip was already worn blunt, into ink, and began to write with great fervor:
[Dear Mr. Lionel Sorel:
Please forgive my still unpracticed French; I am learning and hope one day to master this elegant language completely. I am taking the liberty of writing to you to express my respect. "the old guard" is an unparalleled masterpiece…
......
I will await your next work with great enthusiasm!]
After writing, the young man checked it repeatedly, and only after confirming there were no issues did he sign the letter—
[Your faithful Anton Pavlovich Chekhov]