Christmas Eve, 1879.
The streets of Paris were enveloped in a festive, almost extravagant, bustle.
The gaslights shone brighter than usual, illuminating the dazzling array of goods in shop windows:
From exquisite porcelain produced in Sèvres to magnificent silks brought from Lyon, from Bordeaux wines to sparkling wines from the Champagne region, all drew the gaze of passersby.
The air was filled with the mixed aroma of roast goose, chestnuts, cinnamon, and mulled wine, as well as the expensive perfumes of ladies and the cigar smoke of gentlemen.
Carriages rumbled through the streets, their bells jingling crisply, as uniformed coachmen exhaled white mist, striving to forge a path through the bustling crowd.
"La Pérouse" restaurant on Rue de la Paix was one of the most renowned restaurants in Paris.
Its long history, elegant decor, and impeccable service attracted diners who sought true quality.
Lionel Sorel sat at a window table, watching the constant stream of people outside.
He was waiting for Sophie Deneuve.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
A clear and calm voice sounded beside him.
Lionel looked up, immediately stood, and pulled out a chair for Sophie:
"Not at all, I just arrived myself."
Sophie Deneuve had clearly dressed carefully for the evening.
She wore a dark blue wool gown, simple yet elegant in style, with delicate lace adorning the collar and cuffs, making her fair skin appear even whiter.
Her long hair was swept into a fashionable yet demure chignon, revealing the graceful lines of her neck.
Lionel praised her sincerely:
"You look beautiful, Sophie."
Sophie smiled:
"Thank you, Léon."
The waiter appeared silently, beginning to serve the pre-ordered meal to the two of them.
Sophie had pan-fried halibut with white wine sauce, and asparagus cream soup as an appetizer.
Lionel had the restaurant's signature dish—beef stewed in red wine.
He also ordered a fine bottle of Bordeaux red wine.
As they ate and talked, Sophie suddenly said,
"I've been following all the reports about 'The Chorus,' and the recent... stir has been quite lively."
Lionel shook his head:
"Yes, unexpectedly lively. I hope the play itself won't disappoint."
Sophie's tone was very certain:
"I'm sure it won't; you always achieve what you set out to do."
These words warmed Lionel's heart.
He put down his knife and fork, leaning slightly forward:
"Sophie, tomorrow night is the premiere of 'The Chorus.' I hope you'll come, with me.
I have a very well-placed private box, and I hope you can be there to share that moment."
Sophie was silent for a few seconds, her expression complex.
Then, she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lionel:
"Léon, thank you for the invitation, I'm very grateful. But... I'm afraid I can't accept."
Lionel was stunned; this answer was completely unexpected:
"Why? Do you have other plans for tomorrow evening?"
Sophie interrupted him:
"No, no other plans. I just feel that the occasion tomorrow night, that world, shouldn't belong to me."
She paused, seemingly weighing her words:
"That will be your night, Léon. The Comédie-Française, the Salle Richelieu, a packed audience, all the prominent figures of Paris...
Madame Rothschild, the Count de Rohan, they'll all be there, won't they? I would seem... out of place there."
Lionel quickly defended:
"How could that be? You behaved very appropriately at the last ball, no one..."
Sophie interrupted him again, her tone still calm:
"That's different, Léon. A ball is a one-off social performance; I can wear borrowed jewelry and a disguised mask and get through it.
But tomorrow will be a sustained, public scrutiny, with reporters everywhere. I don't want those kinds of gazes, Léon.
Nor do I want you to be distracted by my presence, or... feel any form of awkwardness.
Tomorrow's newspapers will be filled with reports about everything; I don't want to be part of that gossip, nor do I want you to be part of it because of me."
Lionel stared at her blankly, speechless for a moment.
Sophie's voice softened:
"I would rather, the morning after tomorrow, buy a copy of Le Figaro or La République and quietly read the news of your great success.
That would be more real and more comfortable for me. I will be happy for you, Léon, genuinely happy. But that happiness will happen in my world, not in yours."
A strong sense of loss gripped Lionel, but he also understood her choice.
In an era where women were generally expected to depend on men, Sophie Deneuve stubbornly refused to let admiration consume her sense of self.
He was silent for a moment, then slowly spoke:
"I understand, Sophie. I respect your decision, and I thank you for your honesty."
Sophie let out a sigh of relief, a hint of apology flashing in her eyes:
"Thank you for understanding, Léon."
Just then, the waiter brought dessert.
An exquisite Christmas cake, its sweet aroma temporarily dispelling the heavy atmosphere at the table.
------
Evening, December 26, 1879.
Rue de Richelieu, where the Comédie-Française was located, was already packed solid with people and carriages.
Despite the cold weather, with breath condensing into frost, it did nothing to deter the enthusiasm of Parisian citizens and notables from all walks of life who came to watch the premiere of "The Chorus."
The theater entrance teemed with people, elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies exchanging greetings and lively chatter.
One after another, ornately decorated carriages pulled up to the theater entrance, dropping off the evening's most important guests.
Each time a dignitary's carriage arrived, it caused a stir and whispers among the crowd.
"Look! It's the Rothschilds' carriage!" someone exclaimed softly.
A luxurious carriage, bearing a prominent family crest on its door, came to a smooth halt.
A footman quickly stepped forward to open the door.
First to alight was Alphonse de Rothschild, his expression serious and attire impeccable.
He elegantly extended a hand to assist his beautiful and charming wife.
Madame Rothschild was truly radiant tonight.
She wore a sweeping dark green velvet evening gown, adorned with intricate black lace and shimmering sequins.
A dazzling sapphire necklace graced her neck, and her coiled blonde hair was secured with sparkling diamond hairpins.
Before long, another carriage adorned with an ancient family crest caught attention.
"It's the Rohan family!"
Albert de Rohan was the first to spring from the carriage, dressed in a crisp suit, his hair meticulously combed, his face beaming with proud excitement.
Uncharacteristically, he ignored the surrounding gazes, turning instead to carefully assist his mother—the Countess de Rohan—from the carriage.
Last to alight was the Count de Rohan himself.
As the Deputy Minister of Public Education and Fine Arts, he appeared in high spirits tonight, constantly nodding greetings to the crowds who recognized him.
Next, another luxurious carriage with an exotic flair pulled up.
The door opened, and a shrewd-looking middle-aged gentleman alighted, then turned to help down an exceedingly beautiful young woman.
Someone asked curiously,
"Who are they? They look unfamiliar."
A well-informed person whispered,
"It's the Zweig couple from Vienna. Moritz Zweig and his wife Ida Zweig. Tsk-tsk, I hear her family is from Breitau, a true golden swan."
The continuous arrival of these prominent figures steadily pushed the atmosphere to a climax.
Critics, writers, artists, politicians, financiers... the leading figures of Parisian society and the art world were almost all gathered there.
The ultimate climax finally arrived.
An unassuming black carriage, adorned with religious symbols, discreetly drove to the theater entrance, guarded by several solemn-faced attendants.
The previously boisterous crowd suddenly fell silent; everyone instinctively held their breath, their gaze fixed on the carriage.
The coachman opened the door, and the first to alight was a serious-faced senior clergyman in a black robe—Monsignor Vallet.
After alighting, he respectfully stood to one side.
Then, an elderly man, draped in a red sash and wearing a small red cap, slowly descended.
An uncontrollable gasp and stir arose from the crowd!
"My God! It's His Eminence the Archbishop! Archbishop Guibert himself has come!"
The Archbishop of Paris, His Eminence Louis-Antoine-Augustin Guibert, had actually personally attended the Comédie-Française to watch the premiere of a new play!
This was an extremely rare occurrence in Paris.
The Archbishop's face was serene, bearing his usual dignity, as he slowly entered the theater, surrounded by the crowd.
Wherever he went, the crowd spontaneously parted, and many devout Catholics even made the sign of the cross.
The crowd began to surge like a tide towards the ticket gates...
----
At this moment, backstage in the theater, the atmosphere was also extremely tense.
Lionel Sorel stood behind the curtain, looking through a small gap at the opulent, gradually filling theater outside.
The interior of the Salle Richelieu featured a typical Italian-style theater layout, with horseshoe-shaped seating divided into the parterre, the upper circles, and tiers of private boxes.
He saw Madame Rothschild and her husband seated in the best box directly facing the stage, saw the Rohan family in another box not far away, and also saw the beautiful Madame Zweig... and, of course, the packed general seating.
The scene was even grander and more solemn than he had anticipated.
Just then, the gaslights in the theater began to dim, signaling the imminent start of the performance.
The noisy chatter gradually subsided like a receding tide, finally transforming into a silence filled with anticipation.
All eyes were fixed on the deep crimson, gold-embroidered velvet curtain.
The stage manager gave the final cue, and the actors took their positions.
Lionel Sorel took one last look at the audience section, a tapestry of darkness and starlight, then slowly retreated into the shadows backstage.
The grand curtain of the Comédie-Française's Salle Richelieu slowly rose on this cold evening of December 26, 1879, under the gaze of Paris and indeed all of Europe.
The premiere of "The Chorus" officially began.
(End of chapter)
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