On Montmartre, Baroness Alekseyevna's manor castle was brightly lit against the night sky.
Huge glass windows spilled the internal splendor unreservedly, illuminating the meticulously manicured lawns and surrounding grape arbors.
The air was filled with the aroma of roasted meat, strong perfume, cigar smoke, and a deliberately created, boisterous joy.
Carriages arrived in an endless stream, unloading guests in bizarre costumes: women dressed as Cleopatra, "knights" in armor, "plague doctors" with huge bird beaks, headless kings and queens…
According to the rules of Parisian masquerade balls, you had to wear your costume from the moment you left your house—one can imagine how many passersby were startled.
Although attending the Baroness's ball might lead to being ostracized by the entire Parisian high society, some people were already outside such circles.
Declining minor nobles, ambitious parvenus, frustrated artists, Russian exiles with strong accents, and some Parisian officials trying to climb the social ladder or simply curious, flocked like moths to a flame into this "temple of truth" built with rubles.
When Lionel Sorel stepped into this bizarre world, he initially drew almost no special attention.
He wore the outfit representing his "truth"—an old coat with shiny, worn elbows and visible loose threads, wrinkled and dull-colored trousers, and a pair of old leather shoes with heavily worn heels.
There was no mask, no elaborate disguise, only a clean but visibly tired young face and deliberately disheveled hair.
Amidst the glittering jewels and extravagant costumes, his overly realistic "poverty" attire became a unique, out-of-place "strange costume" in itself.
However, a few passing guests quickly glanced at him, and whispers spread like ripples:
"Look! 'Poor Léonard'!"
"Oh my God, how creative! Playing that eccentric who rejects all high society salons!"
"Too bad he doesn't smell bad enough, not extreme enough!"
"Ha! Look at him, taller than an elk, with shoulders wider than a buffalo, how can he look like a poor writer?"
…
Lionel wondered why these people not only knew his name but also added the adjective "poor."
But he still tried to maintain his composure, nodding slightly in response to some vague greetings, then quickly tried to find a place to hide himself.
Turgenev had long since disappeared.
After bringing him in, the old writer, concerned about his homeland, went to socialize with his compatriots exiled in Paris, leaving only the words: "Have fun!"
The ladies' costumes were varied, but most only wore eye masks, which, in Parisian and indeed all of European social etiquette, was considered sufficient to conceal their identities.
If a gentleman was interested in a lady, he could embrace her intimately without concern for whether she wanted to dance or had other male companions.
Even if the lady was accompanied by her husband, he could not object to this.
Whatever happened at the masquerade ball could not be brought outside the ball—otherwise, one would be considered a boring old-fashioned person and would not be invited again.
Thus, many courtesans also mingled in, often dressed in ancient Greek robes, disguised as "Phryne," with large cutouts on the sides revealing full, pale semicircles, constantly hovering next to gentlemen they deemed wealthy.
The grand ballroom in the center of the hall was even more splendid, with men and women letting go of their inhibitions, holding each other tightly as they danced.
Lionel was not accustomed to this environment. He picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and quietly retreated into the shadow of a colonnade decorated with faux-Roman reliefs, observing this opulent theater with curious eyes.
Just then, the orchestra struck up a march full of dramatic tension, a variation on "La Marseillaise." The gaslights in other parts of the venue were dimmed, while the top of the exaggerated spiral staircase in the center of the hall shone like daylight.
Baroness Balf Alexeievna Durova-Shcherbatova made her grand entrance.
She was dressed as "Catherine the Great," wearing a massive golden gown encrusted with countless sparkling rhinestones, its train flowing like a golden waterfall, requiring four strong maids to carefully lift it from below.
A huge white bear fur stole covered her broad shoulders; her face was covered by a shimmering golden mask, revealing only thick lips painted with vibrant lipstick; she clutched a scepter topped with a golden double-headed eagle.
The guests instantly fell silent, then erupted in enthusiastic applause.
The Baroness was clearly in her element. She slightly raised her hand, gloved in golden mesh, and her voice, in pure French, resonated through the hall:
"My dear friends! Welcome to my 'Night of Truth'! May the stars of Montmartre shine tonight for authentic souls!"
Applause rose again, but it seemed less fervent than she had hoped.
The Baroness sharply turned her gaze to a pre-arranged, even brighter spotlight in the middle of the staircase, her voice suddenly rising, filled with undisguised triumph:
"However, among all the truths tonight, the most brilliant, the most undeniable treasure, is not the gold and jewels on me, nor the splendor of this castle!"
She raised her scepter, pointing it like a monarch's staff to the center of the spotlight.
"My dearest friends! Allow me, with immense excitement and pride, to reveal to you—the sun that illuminates my Parisian life, the most authentic and dazzling new star in the firmament of French literature!
He discards ostentation, revealing himself through the purity of his soul; he is the embodiment of truth in the literary world, and a symbol of supreme talent!
He is—'Poor Léonard,' Lionel Sorel! The author of 'the old guard' and 'letter from an unknown woman'!"
Lionel, standing in the corner: "…!?" He couldn't help but follow all eyes, looking towards where the scepter pointed.
A tall young man, wearing an eye mask, stood elegantly in the center of the light.
He bowed slightly, a hint of helplessness, detachment, and weariness on his lips, nodding to everyone; he was still wearing that patched, elbow-worn old coat, trousers full of wrinkles and mud, and scratched leather shoes.
The Baroness's voice trembled with excitement and showmanship: "Ladies and gentlemen! This is the real Lionel! Discarding all pretense, facing the world with the most genuine soul!
He is my most precious friend, Paris's unique treasure!"
Thunderous applause and exclamations erupted instantly, even far exceeding that given to the Baroness herself just moments before!
"Oh! My God! He's so charming! Look at that gaze!"
"Heavens! To wear poverty with such elegance and nobility, that is the essence of genius!"
"How real! How pure a soul! No wonder he can write such moving novels!"
"The Baroness has such an eye! She has discovered a true treasure!"
"This is 'Poor Léonard'! Truly lives up to his name!"
…
Praise and admiration flooded towards "Poor Léonard" under the spotlight. He nodded slightly, with a hint of weariness in his reserve, as if all worldly things exhausted him.
Lionel stood in the shadow of the colonnade, dumbfounded; Turgenev, at some point, had appeared beside him, his face filled with incredulity and panic.
He stammered, "I… I didn't know… I'll go warn him now…"
Lionel reached out to stop the earnest old gentleman, looking at the facial features of "Poor Léonard" in the light, which he recognized so well from countless portraits, and smiled: "Mr. Turgenev, don't you think he looks more like 'Lionel Sorel' than I do?"
At that moment, two voices spoke almost simultaneously, but they said the same thing:
"You are under arrest, Lionel Sorel!"