Under the dim yellow light of the gas streetlamp, Oscar Wilde's smile was elusive, and his grey-blue eyes were exceptionally deep: "No need to be nervous, handsome sir. I am just a British man with an accent, not a robber."
He didn't know why Lionel had stepped away, likely out of wariness towards a stranger, so he simply laid his cards on the table: "I met Renoir at Mallarmé's salon — hmm, I just saw him acting as your guide, didn't I?"
Lionel smiled helplessly: "Is that so? Good evening, Mr. Wilde. I am Lionel Sorel."
"Lionel Sorel? The Lionel Sorel who wrote 'letter from an unknown woman'? Ha! So this is the biggest surprise of the evening!" Wilde let out a short, pleasant laugh.
Wilde looked towards the noisy entrance of the Louvre: "Sir Cavendish, he invited me to Paris, his intention being to have me — a young man from London with a somewhat insignificant opinion on beauty —
witness firsthand how his 'electric light miracle' illuminated the temple of art, so that upon my return, I could compose an ode to technology for him in the newspapers, announcing to the world: 'Behold, this is the dawn granted to France by Great Britain!'
How noble! How characteristically Victorian and pragmatic!"
Wilde's tone was full of sarcasm: "I must thank those unreliable light bulbs; they completed the most brilliant review for me in advance — with explosions, chaos, and darkness, rather than my poor ink."
Lionel couldn't help but laugh, amused by Wilde's sharp wit.
Wilde's gaze focused on Lionel, as if appreciating a fine piece of porcelain: "However, setting aside this farce, Mr. Sorel, you are my true gain this evening…
Oh, don't misunderstand, I mean, your work — whether 'letter from an unknown woman' or your recent serialization in Le Petit Parisien — has made me… unable to stop reading."
"You'd better be talking about the novel..." Lionel mumbled to himself, but politely said aloud: "...You flatter me."
Wilde's grey-blue eyes sparkled: "I must say, your writing, especially 'the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button,' is refreshing. It doesn't merely pursue the bizarre in its plot — although 'growing backward' itself is shocking enough.
What moves me is your poetic contemplation of 'existence' itself, your keen capture of the essence of life, and the deep, pure aesthetic beauty you unearth beneath a seemingly grotesque surface.
You allow a baby born old to experience love, loss, and solitude, to touch the eternal nature of humanity in the process of time's reversal; this in itself is an adventure with a profoundly 'aesthetic' spirit!
It is like a butterfly encased in amber, heartbreakingly beautiful. It proves that beauty can exist independently, can be sought for its own radiance, without being relegated to the handmaiden of morality or didacticism.
This is precisely what I believe in — art for art's sake!"
His praise was fervent and direct, his language ornate and highly penetrating.
Lionel breathed a slight sigh of relief; discussing literature was acceptable to him — however, Wilde's subsequent invitation made his heart pound.
"A soul as interesting as yours should be seen by more people." Wilde leaned in a little closer, his voice lowered, with an intimate allure.
"I know a place… more private, more free, and more… appreciative of unique beauty and thought. It gathers truly interesting people, artists, poets, souls unconstrained by worldly conventions…"
Wilde's grey-blue eyes looked deeply into Lionel's: "Tomorrow night, on Montmartre, there's a small gathering in the backroom of the 'Black Cat' gallery. I believe you will find inspiration worth savoring there.
Would you grace us with your presence?"
Lionel subtly moved half a step back again, avoiding Wilde's close breath: "Thank you very much for your invitation, Mr. Wilde. However, I regret to say that my final exams are approaching, and my evenings are reserved for Latin and philosophy lectures!"
His refusal was swift and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.
A fleeting hint of disappointment crossed Wilde's eyes. Just as he was about to say something more, he heard the voices of Georges Charpentier and Renoir, clearly calling out to Lionel.
Wilde sighed: "I will be in Paris until next Thursday. I hope to see you again at Mallarmé's salon."
With that, he bowed slightly and left with an air of nonchalance.
Lionel watched his retreating back, let out a long breath, and then temporarily crossed "Mallarmé's Tuesdays" off his salon attendance list.
------
On Sunday, the apartment at 64 Lafitte Street was, as usual, filled with the aroma of coffee and fresh bread early in the morning.
Alice, returning from her walk, placed a copy of Le Petit Journal, still smelling of ink, on the breakfast table, pointing at the headline with lingering fear: "Lionel, quick, look! The night before last was truly terrifying!
Luckily, you weren't hurt — I told you that 'electric light' was no good!"
Lionel's headline was exceptionally striking:
"Electric Light Disaster! 'Paris Salon' Night of Terror!"
The report detailed the immense chaos caused by the chain explosions of electric lights, particularly emphasizing the embarrassment of the British sponsor, Sir Morton Cavendish, whose meticulously planned "electric light" grand ceremony completely devolved into a farce.
Even more striking was the latter half of the report:
"...After the accident, Sir Cavendish demonstrated 'generosity' befitting his status, pledging full compensation for all artworks damaged by the electric light explosions or subsequent chaos, and bearing all losses incurred by the Louvre exhibition hall's two-day closure due to the incident."
"Sir Cavendish angrily declared that this incident was by no means an accident, but a 'vile conspiracy'! He suspected that his commercial rivals had secretly sent people to sabotage his power generation equipment, deliberately increasing the output voltage.
There are reports indicating that gas companies in both London and Paris are very concerned about 'electric light,' believing this new lighting method will replace gas lamps.
"'This is murder against science!'" Sir Cavendish stated. Currently, there is no evidence to support his accusations, and the police have launched an investigation…"
Alice's voice trembled slightly: "I told you that thing was too dangerous! Flickering on and off, and exploding! Gas lamps are much better, safe and steady.
Those gadgets the British came up with are all flashy and utterly unreliable!"
Lionel put down the newspaper and smiled gently: "Alice, fear often stems from the unknown. Last night's accident was indeed frightening, but that doesn't mean electric light itself is bad.
When we first saw a locomotive spewing thick smoke and roaring past, didn't we also think it looked like a man-eating steel monster?
But now? Trains connect cities and bring prosperity — and electric lights are the same.
If I have the chance in the future, I will install electric lights in the apartment to make the night as bright as day."
Alice was startled, somewhat unable to understand why Lionel, after experiencing an explosion, would still have such faith in electric lights.
Lionel smiled and shook his head, ending the conversation.
After breakfast, he told Alice and Petty: "You don't need to prepare lunch or dinner for me; I might not be back until late at night."