Deep in the quiet of the night, in the study of his apartment at 64 Lafitte Street, Lionel put down "A History of Ten Years" and fell into deep thought.
Today, he decided to write "Benjamin Button" — which is actually the French equivalent of "Benjamin Button" — and although there was an element of being provoked by Paul Pigout, it wasn't entirely impulsive.
The movie "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" had left a deep impression on him back then; he not only watched it multiple times but also specifically sought out the original novel.
However, the novel version of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" was just a short story written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and it didn't garner much attention when it was published in 1922.
After David Fincher acquired the rights, he made extensive changes and enrichments to the story, ultimately shaping it into the delicate yet grand style of the film.
The starting point of the original story was 1860; the starting point of the movie's story, however, was 1918.
When Lionel spoke about this story to everyone at Charpentier Bookstore today, he only vaguely mentioned a general starting time: "the period of the Great Revolution."
This statement was very vague because, in a strict sense, the "French Revolution" lasted from 1789 to 1794, but the Bourbon monarchy had been overthrown as early as 1792, followed by a period of infighting among various factions.
However, the "French Revolutionary Wars" lasted from 1792 to 1802, a full 10 years.
Lionel was not sure at which point in time to set it, so he could only be vague, and on his way home, he specifically detoured to the Great Library to borrow these historical works.
It wasn't until he had roughly sorted out the historical timeline and major events of France at the end of the 18th century that he finally made a decision.
Next, he needed to decide which narrative techniques from the movie could be retained in his novel and which could not be replicated in a 19th-century novel.
It wasn't until late into the night that Lionel penned the first paragraph on his manuscript paper:
"The sky over the Left Bank of the Seine River outside the window was not the inky blackness of night, but a murky, agitated orange-red. It was not a sunset, but the fiery tongues spewing from countless burning barricades and buildings. Thick smoke billowed, and the smell of char and blood seeped through the cracks in the window frame, filling the small sickroom. Delphine Villeneuf's withered body on the bed gasped with effort, each breath pulling at her sunken chest, triggering a fit of coughing. The coughing seemed to squeeze out every last bit of life she had left.
"'Mama!' Caroline cried, throwing herself beside the bed, one hand supporting her mother's bony shoulder, the other frantically trying to cover the window that buzzed from vibrations and was covered in spiderweb-like cracks: 'Please! We can't delay any longer! The Versailles army is advancing just a few streets away, and the Commune is still fighting in the alleys… This place could turn into a real shooting range at any moment! The Notre Dame ambulance carriage is downstairs, they said they can take us across the river, to Île Saint-Louis, for now…'
"'No.' Delphine's voice was weak, yet resolute: 'Caroline,' Delphine struggled to move her emaciated fingers, pointing to a package on the bedside table, her breath short, 'Bring it… over here, open it.'
Caroline choked back a sob. She knew her mother's inherent stubbornness too well, that kind of unyielding determination once she had set her mind on a direction. She obediently, carefully, picked up the heavy package. As she unbuckled the leather strap, her fingertips clearly felt the hard edges beneath the canvas. The canvas was peeled back, revealing the true form of a booklet inside: the cover was so worn its texture was almost indiscernible, its four corners protected by dull brass caps, and the spine had been clumsily reinforced multiple times with coarse twine. There was no gilded title, only the stains of time and countless tiny scratches, almost falling apart.
"'Open it,' a strange, almost urgent strength infused Delphine's voice, 'Read. From the first page… read it aloud. Now. Right here.' Her cloudy eyes fixed on Caroline, with an undeniable plea.
Caroline's fingers caressed the cold, rough cover, finally prying into the edge of the pages and turning open a cover heavier than fate itself. The flyleaf had no ornamentation, only a faded, deeply ink-stained script: Benjamin Button."
— — — —
On the same late night, on Montmartre in the suburbs of Paris, Baroness Alekseyevna Durova-Sherbatova smashed a set of precious antique Chinese porcelain, valued at over 1,000 francs.
She didn't know if this was the nth set in days, but the Baroness had plenty of money and didn't care.
The servants timidly gathered the fragments on the floor, not daring to utter a word, or even breathe, for fear of being slapped by the Baroness, whose arms were thicker than their legs.
Baroness Alekseyevna had just experienced the most humiliating day of her life, becoming the laughingstock of all Paris, all France, and even the entire European high society.
She could already imagine how that sharp-tongued banker's wife, Madame Rothschild, would mock her in the salon.
She could also imagine how many times her old rivals in her hometown, Moscow and St. Petersburg, would repeat the joke of that evening.
Even when she slept, she would occasionally dream of the scene from that night —
How she had allowed that swindler to stand in the center of the lights, how she had described him with the most syrupy and exaggerated words, how she had floated on air amidst the compliments of the ball guests…
Until those two voices, speaking in unison, shattered all her illusions.
Her perfect literary genius, a handsome man like Endymion the shepherd, disdainful of money and material desires, forever immersed in noble thoughts — "Poor Léonard" — ran around the entire castle like a wild dog, chased by the police.
He knocked over chairs, trampled countless pieces of porcelain on the dining table, and scurried under the voluminous skirts of female guests, more comical than a clown in a circus.
What poverty, what arrogance, what talent, what disdain for the powerful… it was all an act for her, all a swindler's trick, just like those pretty boys with powdered faces, all after her money!
But those pretty boys only cheated her out of money, and she had plenty of that!
That "Poor Léonard" stole her heart!
Her heart, which she had not easily given to anyone for over forty years, not even to her own husband!
Unforgivable!
Baroness Alekseyevna thought of the swindler's pretty face, which was instantly replaced by the face of another "Poor Léonard"—the real Lionel.
This was the true source of all evil! The culprit who made her lose face across all of Europe!
If it weren't for him, if it weren't for those miraculous rumors about him, she would not have fallen so easily for that swindler.
Baroness Alekseyevna shouted, "Yevsey, get in here, you imbecile!"
Soon, a man with slicked-back hair and fawning eyes stood before her.
Baroness Alekseyevna looked down at him, her voice no longer angry, but with a special, pre-storm calm:
"You go back to Moscow and tell everything to my dear daughter—Sophia—and have her come to Paris immediately!"
Yevsey trembled slightly, then respectfully bowed his head: "Yes, Baroness!"