Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 57 Paris Bowed Down
In March, the air in Paris still carried the chill of winter, and the trees along the Seine were just beginning to sprout timid buds.

Near Boulevard Saint-Michel on the Left Bank, an inconspicuous mobile bookstall quietly sits in a corner. The owner is a short man wrapped in an old overcoat with alert eyes.

His stall seemed ordinary, piled with old newspapers, popular novels, and a few historical biographies. But if a regular customer approached, with just a specific look or a vague code word, he would, as if by magic, carefully pull out a series of simply printed booklets from a locked old leather case under the stall.

The transaction was swift and silent; coins fell into the palm of the hand with a dull thud, while books were quickly stuffed into the buyer's coat pocket or deep inside briefcase.

But today's stall owner is different—the pamphlets in the old leather trunk are divided into two batches, one thick and one thin. The thick one sells for only 15 sous, while the thin one sells for 1 franc.

A bank clerk carrying a briefcase, a regular customer, frowned upon hearing the price and asked, "Pierre, have you lost your mind?"

The stall owner, named Pierre, first pulled out the thickest book and handed it to the other person: "Don't rush, take a look at two pages first."

The bank clerk took the book, looked around, and seeing no familiar faces, began to read it with peace of mind.

Just five minutes later, the bank clerk's eyes widened as he cursed, "Damn it, what does 'delete 20 lines here' mean? You damn bastard, you deserve to go to hell! I don't think he's being honest at all!"

The stall owner, Pierre, then handed over the thin booklet, revealing a lewd smile: "Take another look at it."

The bank clerk took the booklet, glanced at it for only 30 seconds, then bent over, clutching it to his chest: "You bastard who deserves to be roasted in Satan's oven! ...How much?"

The stall owner, Pierre, had a sly yet honest smile: "Buy both together, 1 franc for 10 sous, and you'll save 5 sous. Let me show you—the thinner one is printed on one side, so you can cut it out with scissors and paste it into the corresponding spot on the thicker one..."

The bank clerk made the sign of the cross on his chest: "God, forgive me, a sinner..."

He then took out a 1 franc and 10 sous coin and tossed it over, then stuffed the two books into his briefcase, bent over, and left.

------

Deep inside an old house in the Latin Quarter of the Fifth District, a room converted into a "private reading room" is filled with smoke, making the already dim light even darker.

The facilities here are rudimentary, with only a few rows of hard wooden tables and chairs and dim gaslights. In one row, several men are huddled together, almost head to head, greedily reading the same book spread out on the table—a few rare books that the reading room owner risked his life to acquire, charged by the hour, and quite expensive.

They turned the pages carefully, afraid of making any noise that might attract unwanted attention. The only sounds in the room were heavy breathing, the occasional suppressed cough, and the soft scraping of a coin against the table—signals that they wanted to extend their reading time.

The lamplight cast shadows on everyone's faces, their expressions so focused they bordered on ferocity. Some would pause abruptly at a certain point, look up, and stare blankly into the smoky air, as if their souls had been deeply pierced by a scene or sentence in the book, falling into a brief daze.

The air was stuffy and murky, mixed with the smells of cigarettes, sweat, and an indescribable, strange excitement arising from sharing forbidden secrets.

Others were waiting in line behind, anxiously watching the clock on the wall. Every 20 minutes, someone would come up and pull one of the onlookers away from the book, then squeeze in themselves.

The person being pulled out often lets out a groan, then quickly bends over as if realizing something, eliciting a burst of laughter.

------

In a luxurious villa in Montmartre, a resort town on the outskirts of Paris, a private salon is about to take place in a "gentlemen's club" decorated with velvet curtains and filled with the scent of strong perfume.

The waiting gentlemen were not as focused as usual on admiring the artwork on the wall or chatting in hushed tones. Instead, they were all slumped in the soft sofas, each in a different posture, but all with their heads down, their minds firmly captivated by a thick book with a simple cover and no title.

An eerie silence filled the air, broken only by the occasional crackling of firewood in the fireplace and the rustling of pages turning.

Some people unconsciously licked their dry lips, their Adam's apple bobbing; some frowned, as if going through some kind of inner struggle; and some had an indescribable smile on their lips, a mixture of excitement and a hint of unease.

The waiter walked by with a tray, the clinking of crystal glasses failing to disturb the focused concentration. Here, time seemed to stretch out, the waiting for monetary purchase replaced by a stronger, more compelling attraction derived from the pages themselves.

After a long while, an elderly gentleman with a full head of white hair suddenly exclaimed, "Damn it, I also own a vineyard! How come I never thought of that..."

He then realized that this was not his own study and that there were other people around. Embarrassed, he shut up and tried to get up to go to the bathroom—but he quickly noticed something and immediately bent down.

He glanced around and, finding that no one was paying attention to him, but rather focused on the thick book in front of them, he breathed a sigh of relief.

------

Father Bertrand, dressed in black robes and known in the parish for his strictness, piety, and justice, was walking briskly through the dimly lit alley. Tightly pressed to his chest was not his daily Bible and daily readings, but the "forbidden book" he had just acquired with half a month's stipend.

Father Bertrand felt the book was like a red-hot coal, burning his chest.

The fragments of conversation he had glimpsed before buying it echoed repeatedly in his mind—about how "Simmons" had used the parish doctor's greed to cover up his crimes, and about the blasphemous rituals performed in the chapel of the magnificent mansion that were less prayer and more sacrilege.

And of course, there are the women in the book… those women… oh my god, just thinking about a single word is a sin.

But those words, and the sentences they formed, were like the sharpest sewing needles, relentlessly drilling deeper and deeper into his brain.

"This is to understand the devil!"

Only by understanding the devil can we defeat him!

"Lord, grant me the strength to overcome the devil!"

Father Bertrand muttered to himself, when he suddenly saw a young woman walking towards him from near his church, smiling and greeting him: "Good afternoon, Father Bertrand, may God bless you!"

Father Bertrand looked at the girl's youthful face and suddenly recalled a scene from the book—[Elena opened the window and swept away the petals and leaves that had accumulated on the windowsill overnight, which fell onto Gérard Simonds's head...]

He immediately sensed something was amiss, and bowed to her in surprise and fear.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

In the bank manager's office, on a plush sofa, the respectable Mr. Lionel—a banker known for his prudence and piety—was enjoying his lunch break with a book in hand.

But what his secretary, who served him tea, didn't know was that Mr. Lionel was going through an unprecedented ordeal.

On the pages of the book, Mr. Simmons's meticulously designed "game" under the grape trellis is so vivid in detail and so alluring in atmosphere that it far surpasses his meager imagination.

He felt the collar of his crisply starched shirt tighten unusually, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He wanted to close the book, but the explicit hints and tense scenes drew his gaze like a magnet.

A strong sense of moral guilt gripped him—as a father of four and a model donor to the parish, he shouldn't have come into contact with such "depraved" writing.

He recalled the mischievous, enigmatic smile on his philandering, prankster friend's face as he handed him the book.

However, his body's honest reaction and the long-lost heat ignited deep within him made it impossible for him to resist the temptation of the next page.

He loosened his tie in frustration, his Adam's apple bobbing violently once more. Finally, his fingers betrayed his reason, trembling as he turned to a new page. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss, aware of the danger, yet unable to retreat.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the office door, and the secretary's voice rang out: "Mr. Paris is here."

Lionel instinctively stood up, ready to greet the client—but immediately bent down and sat back down on the sofa: "Please ask him to wait a moment..."

------

At night, the busiest and most bustling places in Paris are no longer the salons and balls, but the brothels of all sizes.

Whether it was the socialites living in villas where a night of passion cost thousands of francs; or the mid- to high-class brothels located in upscale neighborhoods and near churches where a night cost tens or hundreds of francs; or even the low-class brothels where a single encounter could be had for 10 sous, all were overcrowded.

Even brothel madams who had been away from frontline work for many years were forced to return to work and find new employment.

What's even stranger is that these endless stream of customers made all sorts of outrageous requests, some of which would make even seasoned ladies blush.

The only thing they had in common was that, even without taking the mummy powder, they were all exceptionally vigorous tonight, so they went out hunched over, leaning against the wall...

A virus called "decadent city" is spreading at an unprecedented rate in Paris, and even in France...

　I originally intended to write what 2K published, but the more I imagined these people reading the book, the more amusing it became, so I ended up writing half a chapter more.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)