At 64 Lafitte Street[1], in Lionel Sorel's new apartment, the gaslight cast his shadow long.
Lionel Sorel was currently frowning at his desk, not because he couldn't write a new work, but because he was about to attend Baroness Alekseyevna's masquerade ball tomorrow.
Spread open on the desk in front of him was a gold-embossed invitation, without even a salutation. It simply read: "You are cordially invited to Baroness Alekseyevna's masquerade ball. Theme: 'Night of Truth'."
If it had been held by anyone else, he might have declined; but if the one inviting him was Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev, then it was different.
Turgenev was also very frank; he himself was old and had no interest in such social events for young people.
However, Baroness Alekseyevna promised that if he could attend and bring a few talented young Parisians, she would provide some necessary assistance to Russian progressives in exile in Paris.
Moreover, there was Baroness Alekseyevna—she had donated 300,000 francs to Sorbonne because of him!
Besides doing Turgenev a favor, Lionel Sorel was also somewhat curious about what kind of enchantress… generous lady Baroness Alekseyevna was. A masquerade ball was clearly an occasion where one could advance or retreat gracefully.
However, the cost of attending a masquerade ball was not cheap—because to avoid being ridiculed for old-fashioned or unoriginal attire, one had to spend a lot of money on costumes.
This money was almost a one-time expense; no one would wear masquerade clothes daily, and they couldn't appear at the next masquerade ball.
Lionel Sorel was not short of money now, but he felt a little pained.
The manuscript fee for 'letter from an unknown woman' in 'Modern Life' had just been settled—Charpentier generously paid at the highest standard, even adding an extra bonus, a full 2,000 francs.
'my uncle jules' had also been written and sent to Le Petit Parisien, and should be published in the next two days. The manuscript fee should be no less than 300 francs.
Garibuer's 1,500-franc draft had also been fully cashed two days ago. Including some previous savings, his cash on hand would soon reach around 5,000 francs.
Hmm, exactly Greenheight's annual salary…
Bah, bah, bah… Lionel Sorel quickly chased this unfortunate neighbor out of his mind.
"Costume… the theme is 'Night of Truth'…" Lionel Sorel murmured, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table.
Just wearing a mask? That would be inviting humiliation, would fail Turgenev's introduction, and might even anger the enthusiastic and wealthy Baroness Alekseyevna.
"Truth… identity…" He quietly chewed on these words, and a bold and clever plan quickly formed in his mind.
It didn't require expensive silk or velvet, no intricate embroidery or jewel-encrusted masks; it only needed a little… literary cunning.
Lionel Sorel walked to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out the old suit of clothes he hadn't worn for a long time.
Looking at the jacket, which was shedding everywhere, coming apart at the seams, and worn smooth at the elbows, and the wrinkled trousers, Lionel Sorel felt a surge of emotion.
This suit had been carefully cleaned, free of the "Eleventh District smell," but it was still not presentable.
However, this was not a big problem at a masquerade ball—at 19th-century European masquerade balls, people dressed as everything from mummies to trees, and even Siberian polar bears.
Wasn't this outfit his "truth"? A poor boy from the Alps countryside.
— — — —
Under the same night sky, in an office at the Paris Police Headquarters Criminal Investigation Department, the only light in the entire department was on. Inspector Claude was adjusting his sash in front of a dressing mirror.
The man in the mirror was around forty, lean and capable, with eyes as sharp as an eagle's. At this moment, he was wearing an 18th-century French general's uniform.
Inspector Claude had also shaved off his beard, leaving only thick sideburns—he intended to portray Jean-Maximilien Lamarque, a famous general under Emperor Napoleon.
This was his chosen "truth"—a decisive, brave, and just soldier.
This outfit was rented, 5 francs per day, with a 20-franc deposit. It exuded a faint smell of mothballs and old wooden chests.
Spread out on his desk was a simplified map of the estate, and a gold-embossed invitation—probably half of all respectable people in Paris had received one.
However, only a few would choose to go, and he had easily obtained one.
Inspector Claude thought of what "Rat Noah" had told him today in the café in the Second District:
"It was him! My esteemed sir! It was he who bought all the information about Baroness Alekseyevna a few weeks ago!"
"It was that pretty face, even with a ridiculous fake mustache, but how could it escape my eyes? The most important thing for a 'rat' is observation!"
"Ha, what was his name? You know, in our line of work, we don't ask people's names—even if you ask, will he tell the truth?"
…
Claude took a deep breath and carefully looked at the swindler's portrait several times—from the Alps police, Marseille police, Lyon police…
He had to make sure to remember every detail so he could spot this person's tracks beneath the mask.
"Enjoy your last waltz." Inspector Claude changed back into his regular clothes, put on his hat, left the police station, and turned to merge into the deepening Parisian night.
— — — —
Under the same night sky, at the home of Lefèvre, the "Morality Department" chief, he was fretting over a glittering Venetian mask that was almost bursting at the seams.
The mask was adorned with cheap colored glass "gems" and gaudily dyed purple ostrich feathers, utterly mismatched with his bloated, bloodshot face.
"Damn it! How do I put this thing on?" He panted, his thick fingers clumsily fumbling with the mask's ties.
He finally gave up, perching the mask crookedly on his shiny bald head, looking like a fat peacock trying to display its tail feathers but failing.
The rented "aristocratic" tuxedo he wore was an even greater disaster—the dark purple velvet fabric stretched tightly over his massive body, the gold embroidery distorted at his belly, as if it would burst at any moment.
The pure white lace cravat was pulled loose and sagged, like a bib.
He didn't care if he ruined the clothes; after all, he had gotten them from the madam of "Caesar's Summer Palace," where they were originally provided to guests so they could dress up as aristocrats from two hundred years ago.
And an aristocrat was the truth Lefèvre had chosen—the only difference between him and Chief Gigo was that he hadn't married the daughter of an aristocratic family.
Otherwise, he would have been the one giving orders that day!
"Gigo, that idiot!" he grumbled. "He's clearly a gentleman who's never left his office. He glued the opened envelope back exactly as it was. What Parisian street ruffian or swindler doesn't know that trick?
An arrest in broad daylight… all the credit for this will be mine! You won't get a single cent!"
Then he looked at a rough but distinctive portrait on the table: "Lionel Sorel… 'Honest Man'… Heh heh, once you fall into my hands, we'll see how honest you are!"
[1] The primary "Lafitte street" in France is the Rue Laffitte in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, a historic and busy street known for its architecture and the headquarters of various banks and businesses. There is also a town called Maisons-Laffitte near Paris, which has numerous streets within it.