Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 96 The Night of the Truth
In Montmartre, the estate and castle of Baroness Alexievna are brightly lit under the night sky.

The enormous glass windows unleash the interior's splendor, illuminating the meticulously manicured lawn and the surrounding grapevines.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasted meat, strong perfume, cigar smoke, and a deliberately created, boisterous merriment.

Carriages arrived one after another, unloading guests dressed in bizarre costumes: a woman dressed as Cleopatra, a "knight" in armor, a "plague doctor" with a giant bird's beak, a king and queen without heads...

The rule of the Paris masquerade ball is that you must wear this outfit from the moment you leave your house—which shows how frightening it is for passersby.

Although attending this baroness's ball might lead to being ostracized by the entire Parisian social circle—but some people simply can't fit into such circles anyway.

Declining nobles, ambitious nouveau riche, frustrated artists, Russian exiles with heavy accents, and some Parisian officials trying to curry favor or simply looking on for the spectacle, flocked to this temple of "truth" built of rubles, like insects drawn to light.

When Lionel Sorel stepped into this bizarre and fantastical place, he initially attracted almost no attention.

He was dressed in the outfit that represented his "truth"—an old jacket with shiny, worn-out elbows and loose threads, wrinkled, dark-colored trousers, and a pair of old leather shoes with badly worn heels.

No mask, no elaborate disguise, just a clean but tired young face and deliberately messy hair.

Amidst the dazzling jewels and outlandish costumes, his overly realistic "poverty" attire stood out as an unusual and incongruous "outlandish costume."

However, a few passing guests soon glanced at him, and whispers spread like ripples:
“Look! 'Poor Lionel'!”

"Wow, that's so creative! To play that weirdo who refuses all high-society salons!"

"It's a pity he doesn't smell bad; his acting wasn't quite perfect!"

"Ha! Look at him, he's taller than a deer and has shoulders broader than a buffalo, where is the look of a poor writer?"

……

Lionel was puzzled as to why these people not only knew his name but also added the qualifier "poor".

But he still tried to maintain a calm demeanor, nodding slightly in response to some vague greetings, and then quickly tried to find a place to hide himself.

Mr. Turgenev has long since disappeared.

After being led in, the elderly writer, who cared deeply about his homeland, went to chat with his fellow countrymen who were in exile in Paris, leaving only the words, "Have fun!"

The ladies dressed in various styles, but most of them only wore eye masks to cover their eyes—which, according to the social norms of Paris and even the whole of Europe, was considered a way to conceal their identities.

If men take a fancy to a woman who arouses their "interest," they can embrace and be intimate with her without caring whether she wants to dance or whether she has other male companions.

Even if the woman is accompanied by her husband, no one can object to it.

Whatever happens at the masquerade ball, he cannot be taken outside of it—otherwise he will be considered a boring old-fashioned person, and no one will invite him next time.

As a result, many prostitutes also infiltrated the area. They often wore ancient Greek robes and dressed up as "Phoenix," with particularly large cutouts on the sides that revealed their full, snow-white breasts. They would then linger around the men they considered wealthy.

In the center of the venue, the large dance floor was filled with people dressed in their finest attire. Men and women alike let go of their inhibitions, embracing each other tightly as they danced ballroom dances.

Lionel was not comfortable in this environment. He picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and quietly disappeared into the shadow of a column decorated with imitation ancient Roman reliefs, only scanning the ostentatious theater with an interested gaze.

Just then, the band played a dramatic march, a variation of "La Marseillaise." The gaslights in other parts of the hall were dimmed, while the top of the extravagant spiral staircase in the center of the hall was brightly lit.

Baroness Balf Alekseyevna Durova-Sherbatova made a grand entrance.

She transformed into "Catherine the Great," draped in a massive golden gown studded with countless shimmering rhinestones. The skirt flowed like a golden waterfall, requiring four strong maids to carefully support it from below. A huge polar bearskin shawl covered her broad shoulders; a gleaming golden mask covered her face, revealing only her thick lips painted with bright red lipstick; and in her hand she gripped a scepter topped with a golden double-headed eagle.

The guests fell silent instantly, then burst into enthusiastic applause.

The Baroness was clearly captivated; she slightly raised her hand, clad in a long, gold-mesh gloved hand, and spoke in perfect French, her voice echoing throughout the hall:
"My dear friends! Welcome to my 'Night of Truth'! May the stars in Montmartre shine tonight because of true souls!"

The applause rang out again, but it didn't seem as enthusiastic as she had hoped.

The Baroness abruptly turned her gaze to a pre-arranged, even more dazzling spotlight halfway up the stairs, her voice rising sharply, filled with undisguised smugness:
"However, of all the truths tonight, the most dazzling and undeniable treasure is neither the gold and jewels on my body, nor the splendor of this castle!"

She raised her scepter, pointing it like a monarch's scepter to the center of the spotlight.

"My dearest friends! Please allow me, with immense excitement and pride, to reveal to you—the sun that illuminated my life in Paris, the truest and most dazzling new star in the sky of French literature!"

He rejected superficiality and revealed the purity of his soul. He was the embodiment of the truth of the literary world and a symbol of unparalleled talent!

He is—Lionel Sorel, the poor Lionel! Author of *The Old Guard* and *Letter from an Unknown Woman*!

Standing in the corner, Lionel thought, "...!?" He couldn't help but follow all the gazes and look at where the scepter was pointing.

A tall, handsome young man wearing an eye mask stood gracefully in the center of the light.

He bowed slightly, a hint of helplessness, detachment, and weariness on his lips, and nodded to everyone. He was still wearing the same old patched coat with the elbows worn smooth, his trousers were wrinkled and covered in mud, and his leather shoes were covered in scratches.

The Baroness's voice trembled with excitement and pride: "Ladies and gentlemen! This is the real Lionel! Stripped of all pretense, facing the world with his most authentic soul!"
He is my most precious friend, a unique gem of Paris!

Thunderous applause and gasps erupted instantly, far exceeding those given to the Baroness herself!

"Oh my God! He's so charming! Look at those eyes!"

"My God! To be able to dress so elegantly and noblely even in poverty, that's the spirit of a genius!"

"How real! What a pure soul! No wonder he could write such a moving novel!"

"The Baroness has such a discerning eye! She has discovered a true gem!"

"This is 'Poor Lionel'! He truly lives up to his name!"

……

Praise and admiration flooded the spotlight onto "the poor Lionel." He nodded slightly, his composure tinged with a hint of weariness, as if the mundane world had exhausted him.

Lionel stood in the shadow of the colonnade, speechless; Turgenev, who had somehow appeared beside him, looked incredulous and bewildered.

He stammered, "I...I didn't know...I'll go and remind them now..."

Lionel reached out to stop the unassuming old man, and looking at the familiar facial features of "Poor Lionel" in the lamplight, which he recognized so well from studying countless portraits, he smiled: "Mr. Turgenev, don't you think he looks more like 'Lionel Sorel' than I do?"

At that moment, two voices rang out almost simultaneously, but they said the same thing:

"You're under arrest, Lionel Sorel!"

(End of this chapter)