Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 576 Jacques, Slovakia...

Marquise Clotilde de Ville, whose husband died five years ago, lives alone in the empty mansion.

Reading novels is her biggest hobby, and "Modern Life" is a literary journal she reads every week without fail.

This time, the Marquise de Ville turned to the scene in "The Sinking of the Titan" where they kissed on the bow of the ship and lingered there for a long time.

Then she sighed softly, closed the magazine, stopped reading, and gently wiped the corner of her eye with a handkerchief.

She suddenly felt a sense of disorientation. Had she ever had such a romantic evening? Had she ever had such a man who made her forget all propriety?

Perhaps it exists, perhaps it doesn't. But novels give everyone the right to dream—whether it's a young girl in the prime of her youth or a widow aging in her twilight years.

But at the same time, she saw the novel's title on the cover in large letters—"The Sinking of the Titan"!
Lionel Sorel was a cruel writer. He gave himself such a beautiful love, yet foreshadowed his inevitable downfall.

But it is precisely this cruelty that makes the Marquise de Ville and all readers unable to put the book down.

She took a deep breath, opened "Modern Life" again, and continued reading, finally reaching the scene where Jacques was painting Ruth—

The cabin lights floated like a layer of mist in the air. Outside the window was the deep sea, and the occasional low rumble of the engine could be heard, as if the whole world was drifting away from them.

Ruth hesitated for a moment. It wasn't that she hadn't been watched before—in London's balls and salons, she was already used to being measured, compared, and scrutinized by countless eyes.

But this is the first time, it's different.

Jacques didn't urge her. He sat in front of the easel, his fingers gripping the pencil, looking somewhat awkward, like a young man suddenly entrusted with a great responsibility.

He wasn't waiting for a body, but for trust.

Ruth finally unbuttoned her clothes. Her movements were so gentle, as if she were not taking off her clothes, but rather slowly shedding her original identity.

She slowly lay down on the sofa, her arms naturally placed beside her head, her face slightly turned to one side, like a child who had just realized she was being stared at.

Jacques almost held his breath. He had painted many female nudes—young, old, slender, plump, beautiful, ugly…

But Ruth's body was different. Her body did not belong to Sharon, nor to the engagement, nor to the son of that American steel tycoon.

At this moment, she belongs only to herself.

At first, Jacques drew very slowly. He didn't even dare to stare at one part of her for too long. He could only keep shifting his gaze, glancing at it once and then immediately returning it to the paper.

Time lost its meaning in that small cabin.

Ruth's breathing gradually became steady. She even forgot that she was naked, only feeling as if her body was being gently supported and surrounded by the quiet seawater.

……

When Jacques finally put down his pencil, neither of them spoke immediately.

Ruth walked quietly to his side and looked down at the sketch. The woman in the drawing had no elaborate embellishments; she was simply a young woman standing between light and shadow.

She said softly, "I've never seen myself like this before."

Jacques looked up, his voice almost a whisper: "Because no one has ever looked at you like that before."

“There is no obscenity here!” In the “Fountain Cafe”, a down-on-his-luck painter began to express his opinion.

“All I see is respect. Jacques gave Ruth dignity, through his art, letting her know that her body is not an object of trade. That’s so French!”

"Very French?" a customer next to me asked curiously.

The painter nodded firmly: "Yes. The British would only hide nude paintings in secret rooms, and the Americans would only make a fuss. But in France, we understand the boundary between art and life."

In the canvas, nudity is legitimate, elegant, and part of art. Lionel grasped this subtle balance.

A young student agreed: “He’s right. Jacques saw the real Ruth. And we, as readers, also saw her through his eyes.”

"And it's done with charcoal pencils, not rings. With your gaze, not with money. This kind of 'possession of art' is more profound than a marriage contract."

"Alright, let's hurry up and read on, stop discussing it. Didn't they say there's also 'carriage passion'?" another young man urged impatiently.

The blunt urging made everyone roll their eyes, but everyone was also curious about how Lionel would write it.

In this era, "sexual descriptions" are not uncommon in novels. Apart from occasionally taking writers to court, readers have long been accustomed to them.

Moreover, Parisian readers still occasionally pull out a copy of "The Decadent City" to reminisce.

She and Jacques were in the cargo hold. It was filled with goods bound for America—machinery, textiles, wine, furniture…and brand-new carriages.

Beside Jacques was a luxurious four-wheeled carriage—a deep red carriage with gold trim, and a family crest on the door.

Ruth approached the carriage: "It was commissioned by Karl. From the best carriage factory in Paris. He said he wanted to take me for a ride in Central Park in New York, so everyone could see it."

Jacques asked her, "Would you like to sit?"

Ruth shook her head: "No."

"Get in." Jacques opened the car door. "Try it out."

Ruth hesitated for a moment, then lifted her skirt and boarded the carriage.

The carriage seats were as soft as clouds, and the silk curtains were gorgeous and thick, completely isolating the outside world when drawn.

Jacques got into the car, sat opposite her, and closed the door.

In an instant, the world fell silent.

The noise from the cargo hold—the shouts of the dockworkers in the distance, the hum of the machinery, the muffled crashing of the waves against the hull—became a blurry background sound.

They sat close together, the only sound in the carriage being their breathing.

Ruth.

"Ah."

"The ship will arrive in New York in three days."

"I know."

“When we get to New York, you’ll disembark and go to Manhattan with Carl. I’ll disembark and find a cheap hotel in Brooklyn. We may never see each other again…” Ruth kissed him, interrupting him.

The kiss was filled with despair. She knew Jacques was telling the truth. The ship would dock, life would go on, and they would return to their separate ways.

Everything from the past will become memories, locked deep in my heart, occasionally surfacing in the long years to come, bringing a bittersweet pain.

But she didn't want to hear it. At least not now.

Jacques responded to her kiss. His hands caressed her face, her neck, her shoulders. His kisses moved from her lips to her chin, to the side of her neck, to her collarbone.

Ruth tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The carriage swayed slightly, like a heartbeat, like a cradle.

"What? They're going to be in the carriage?"

"Still in Ruth's fiancé's carriage?"

"Still in the carriage that Ruth's fiancé was preparing to use to show off his wife's beauty to all of New York?"

"Sorel, you...you are a complete monster!"

Even the most worldly-wise Parisians were deeply moved by this scene.

In France, where extramarital affairs are common, sneaking into someone else's bedroom and having sex in their bed is nothing new.

But the carriage in the novel is different. This carriage is a symbol of a steel tycoon's status and wealth—that of an American billionaire!
He is a successor in the new world, a symbol of his noble lineage who has conquered the old world!

And now, a penniless artist from France has already completed his conquest inside this carriage.

What could be more stimulating to French readers, especially male readers, than this?
"When was the last time we saw such a creative 'scene'?"

"Boccaccio's Decameron? The husband proves his piety downstairs through asceticism, while the wife and the priest indulge in pleasure upstairs?"

"That book is hundreds of years old!"

"It should be the 'swing set' from 'Decadent City'!"

"Yes! It's the 'swing' from 'Decadent City,' ah, beautiful Elena..."

"Now there's another one: 'horse-drawn carriage'!"

"I also have a horse-drawn carriage..."

"Who doesn't have one? But is that 'the fiancé's carriage'?"

"Stop talking nonsense and keep reading!"

The chatter subsided, and everyone's eyes returned to the novel—

Jacques moved his hand to her chest and unbuttoned the first button.

Ruth didn't stop him. Then came the second, the third...

Jacques gently slipped his hand inside, his palm against her skin, rough yet warm.

Ruth shivered, but not from the cold.

Ruth reached out and slowly unbuttoned Jacques' coat, then his shirt. She didn't want any distance between them.

Their clothes fell piece by piece onto the velvet seats and onto the carriage floor.

The lights in the carriage flickered, casting dancing shadows on them.

The carriage swayed slightly in the cargo hold, the ship cut through the waves, and the ocean surged below.

There are now only two people in the carriage that should have belonged to Karl Canage.

Only two people decide at this moment to forget the whole world.

“Jacques, slow down…” Ruth whispered.

—To be continued, see you next Sunday—

The novel ends here; it abruptly concludes here.

"What! You dare to break off here? Lionel! You devil!"

"At the most crucial moment! They just... and then it stopped? We won't see the follow-up until next week?"

"This is reader abuse! It's using literature to abuse readers!"

"Just as hateful as the empty spaces in 'Decadent City'!"

"No, it's even worse!"

Such scenes are playing out all over Paris.

Readers were just getting into the emotional high point of Jacques and Rose's relationship and were preparing to see what would happen next when they found out the serialization had ended.

Anger, disappointment, anxiety—a variety of emotions erupted.

In a bookstore on Boulevard Saint-Germain, a gentleman was so angry that his beard was shaking: "I bought two issues of the magazine just to read this story!"

It broke at the most crucial point? I'm going to write to the editorial department!

The bookstore owner smiled wryly: "More than a dozen people have said that today. But to be honest, that's just Lionel's style."

“But this is too much!” the gentleman said, waving the magazine. “They’re in a carriage…and then what? What if they get caught? They’re just leaving it at that without writing any of that?”

"So you'll buy the next issue," the shopkeeper smiled.

The gentleman froze, then shook his head helplessly: "Damn it, you're right. I'll buy it."

This is exactly the effect Lionel wanted. The abrupt ending, at the most crucial moment, leaves readers itching to buy the next issue.

The readers' reaction was stronger than he had anticipated.

(End of this chapter)