Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 72 The Self-Cultivation of a Conman
The morning mist in Paris in spring carries not only moisture from the Seine and coal smoke, but also a faint, almost imperceptible smell of decay—a product of pollen mixed with the stench of feces.

It stuck stickily to Victor Durue's face, but he didn't care and instead breathed it in comfortably.

He stood on the second-floor "aristocratic" terrace of a respectable apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain, overlooking the bustling city below; in the distance, the towering spires of the church seemed poised to pierce the gray sky.

Victor's lips curled into that signature, almost imperceptible, flippant smile once again.

The bright sunshine of Nice, the songs of Marseille, and the ancient cobblestone alleys of Lyon... the innocent and greedy atmosphere that permeated the living rooms of middle-class families in the provinces seemed like a thing of the past.

Those girls, whose eyes gleamed with blind worship for the "manager of Orby Trading Company," wore overly crisp, starched dresses and eagerly presented their dowries.

The francs that their father had hidden in the safe were also easily lured out by the "Panama Canal Bonds," and these became the stepping stones for him to stand here.

Victor Durue still remembers the desperate girl at the foot of the Alps six months ago, the generous dowry and the family's savings—a full five thousand francs—that was one of the most beautiful notes in his symphony of success.

He only met the girl and her family three times and had two meals with them, yet he had them all under his thumb—all he needed were some reasonably well-made fake jewelry and some extravagant promises.

Oh, they also wanted him to find a job for his son who was studying in Paris with a salary of 3000 francs a year—haha, that poor boy has probably already gone back to the Alps to work as a scribe—earning 90 francs a month!
However, the provinces were just a minor tune; Paris, on the other hand, was the true symphony.

Of course, it's no longer feasible to use the name "Orby Trading Company" and fake jewelry to deceive the Parisian ladies and salon queens.

Their horizons have been honed to an incredibly discerning level by literature, art, politics, and the latest scandals.

What they want is not a promise of money, but a drug to excite their spirits, a thrilling leap to break the monotony of their lives, an "exclusive collectible" to embellish their vanity, and something to arouse envy among their circle of girlfriends.

Victor held a piece of paper covered in writing in his hand, the top line of which was a name: "Poor Lionel".

He recalled the night he first heard that name in the tavern—

"That Sorbonne freak!" A man with a wine-red beard sneered with envy and incomprehension. "Heaven knows what bewitches those noble ladies have!"

'Poor Lionel,' ha! That's what they called him.

He supposedly lived in some rat hole in the 11th arrondissement, his coat elbows worn smooth and shiny! Every day he squeezed into a stinky horse-drawn carriage to go to the Sorbonne to study his Latin and philosophy.

Victor Truyer elegantly flicked his cigar ash: "That's all? Parisian ladies are used to talented men; a poor student wouldn't be something they talk about with such relish."

The bearded man curled his lip: "Of course not! This guy also wrote a famous novel called something like 'The Old Guard'—I don't really understand literature stuff."

This guy even scoffed at the gilded salon invitations they presented! I heard that a lady personally sent a carriage to the Sorbonne to invite him, wanting to meet this 'talented and handsome' young man, but what happened? He was turned away without even being allowed in.

The reason? Listen to how absurd it is—he said he wanted to attend the salons of Flaubert and Zola, good heavens, how foolish! Just think about how boring those writers' salons are!

Victor Truuet didn't seem to care at the moment, and simply twirled the glass in his hand gracefully.

But then, another mustachioed drunkard's words struck his brain like lightning: "Ha, you idiot, no wonder you can only attend those 'meat feasts'."

You see, it's precisely this 'unattainability' that's so alluring! What rare treasures haven't these noble ladies seen? Why is it this poor student who makes their hearts itch? Is he some kind of stinky, hard rock?

They talked about his poverty as if it were a rare, hidden antique!
Mystery, mystery is what makes Parisian perfumes so expensive!

Victor's heart clenched suddenly, then expanded with ecstatic joy.

"Lionel"! An extremely ordinary name, almost as ubiquitous as "Pierre"—but right now it's a living symbol, collectively imagined and desired by wealthy women!
Poverty, arrogance, talent, contempt for the powerful, unapproachability... she has never even appeared in the salons of wealthy ladies!
All of this perfectly aligns with the morbid pursuit of "dangerous yet pure" spiritual stimulation by pampered, spiritually empty aristocratic women. They are weary of flattery; they need an idol to conquer, a "charitable project" to prove their charm and tolerance, a "novelty" to adorn their salons!
With that thought in mind, Victor Durue raised his glass high: "All the drinks tonight are on me!"

Cheers erupted in the tavern.

In just two days, two weeks before Easter, Victor Durue rented an attic in the 11th arrondissement. Apart from being too small, smelling terrible, having a landlord with a shrill voice, and cooking awful, it was practically perfect.

Anyway, he'll only come here to make a show of it when "necessary".

Next up are the props, the most important prop—that "jacket with the elbows worn smooth".

Instead of randomly picking something at a flea market, Victor Truyet went to the best men's tailor shop on the outskirts of Saint-Honoré and bought a dark wool coat made of high-quality materials and with an absolutely perfect fit.

After returning home, he found several pieces of old woolen fabric with similar texture but slightly lighter color, and carefully cut them into patch shapes of different sizes.

Instead of sewing the patches on directly, he first used sandpaper to gently sand the areas where the patches were to be applied until the fibers were about to break.

Then, he used the finest horse oil ointment and rubbed these areas with extreme patience, allowing the worn areas to develop a natural sheen from the inside out, formed by long-term friction.

Finally, he asked a tailor to sew on the carefully treated old woolen patches with the finest stitches. From a distance, they looked perfectly natural, as if the patches had accompanied the coat's owner through countless days and nights.

This is by no means a sign of poverty and slovenliness, but rather a carefully designed, poetic kind of worn-out, an elegance of "poor aristocracy".

Victor Truuet would never actually appear before a noblewoman looking dirty, smelly, and slovenly.

The rest of the outfit was also impeccable: a faded but well-made linen shirt; a pair of equally old but not dirty dark trousers with the creases still straight; and a pair of clean old leather shoes with noticeably worn-out heels.

Without a bow tie, his collar was casually open, exuding a touch of intellectual unconventionality.

He even spent a few days wandering around the Sorbonne, observing the demeanor and behavior of the truly poor students.

Victor Truuet practiced in front of the mirror every day. He toned down his usual flippant smile, replacing it with a smile that was a mixture of detachment, indifference, and a hint of weariness, as if he were weary of all the world's superficiality.

He practiced vacating his vision, gazing into the distant void, as if his soul were immersed in some profound contemplation, oblivious to the mundane things before him.

He also practiced his walking posture—his steps were small, carrying a touch of intellectual elegance, yet implying an inner sense of strength, never dragging his feet, and never shrinking back.

“Remember, Victor!” he whispered to himself in the mirror. “You are not going to beg, you are not going to flatter. You are going to give. To give those gilded canaries a dream, a dream about spiritual redemption, about dangerous love, about conquering unruly souls.”

They longed to be seen by the impoverished Lionel, to be the light in his barren life, and to prove that their charm was enough to melt the ice.

What you need to do is become that magic mirror that reflects all their fantasies.

Money? That's nothing more than the ticket they willingly paid for this dream, their pathetic attempt to grab you and prove their worth.

You need to make them feel that accepting their money is a "gift" to them, a ticket that allows them to approach the sanctuary of your soul.

He walked to the window, gazing at the dazzling world before him: "Paris, are you ready to welcome 'Poor Lionel'?"

(End of this chapter)