It was already dark, and outside the café, a lamplighter walked by.
Dressed in a uniform somewhat resembling a clergyman's, he precisely touched a tall lamppost with a long pole, and a gas lamp instantly flickered to life.
Warm, yellowish-white light streamed through the window, intermingling with the café's interior lighting.
It wasn't as dim as candlelight, which made shadows dance, nor was it like electric lights, which, once widespread, would illuminate everything in plain view.
Watching Lionel's silhouette, which seemed particularly profound in the lamplight, Sophie's heart skipped two beats, but she didn't agree:
"My mother has cooked for me at home...
I need to go back early to keep her company; she'll be very lonely without me..."
Lionel showed a look of regret but didn't insist.
Instead, he called a waiter:
"Can we get our dinners to go? Could you pack a portion for each of us?"
The waiter replied promptly:
"Of course, sir.
However, we are not a full-service restaurant, so we only offer light meals.
Today's menu is 'Normandy Soft Cheese,' 'Olive Tapenade Bread,' 'Country Baked Chicken with Herb Butter,' and 'Passion Fruit Mille-Feuille,' each for 1 franc.
If you wish to add 5 sous, we also have 'Soft Red Wine' from Bordeaux to accompany your meal, which can be bottled for takeaway..."
It was indeed the financial district; a "light meal" alone cost 1 franc.
Sophie panicked:
"No, no..."
But she couldn't refuse Lionel, so she accepted his kind offer.
Only then did the two get to the main topic of the day.
Sophie took out a piece of paper and handed it to Lionel:
"I checked all the 'Émiles' in the company, filtering out those who were too old, worked daily in Paris, or had no business travel experience...
In the end, only two 'Émiles' were possible.
One is Émile François Dubois, 35 years old, an administrator in the South American branch; the other is Émile Alexandre, 29 years old, who just joined the company last year and is a manager's secretary in the Overseas Business Department.
But neither of them would likely have time to conduct business in the Alps.
You see, although we have an office there, it's very small, and the agricultural products and goods we purchase are very fixed.
Letters sent there are almost periodic, so there's no need to send someone to be stationed there.
Moreover, you said your hometown isn't Gap (the capital) or Embrun, but La Râgne, where there isn't even a train line..."
Listening to Sophie's methodical explanation, Lionel thought to himself, 'This is truly a talent!'—she not only proactively filtered information but also performed basic analysis, saving him a lot of effort.
Was it difficult, he wondered? Perhaps not for a 21st-century career woman, but in the 19th century, women were generally considered ignorant, lacking judgment, and prone to emotional impulses.
Even if Sophie had received some education, her family background suggested it wasn't extensive.
Lionel had also encountered some "intellectual women" of this era who could read and write like her, but most seemed reserved and dull.
Sophie's orderliness and composure, however, impressed him greatly.
Sophie analyzed for a long time, then noticed Lionel was silent.
She looked up to see him gazing at her with those gentle eyes, and her face flushed again:
"...Is there something wrong with what I said?"
Lionel shook his head:
"No, you explained it very well.
So, it's pretty certain now that 'Émile' is a fraud?"
Sophie hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded:
"Definitely a fraud.
Although 'Aubier' has tens of thousands of employees worldwide, everyone is very busy.
No one at a manager level would have time to wander idly in the Alps."
"Knowing that, I'm relieved!"
Lionel put away the paper Sophie had brought.
"It's getting late now.
Where do you live?"
Sophie glanced at Lionel, then lowered her head:
"In the 10th arrondissement, Rue Lancret."
Lionel smiled:
"Then we're neighbors—I'm in the 11th arrondissement, Rue Oberkampf."
Sophie was a little surprised, as Sorbonne students rarely lived in remote and mixed areas like the 11th arrondissement.
However, considering Lionel's family background and his current attire, it seemed quite reasonable.
Just then, the waiter finished packing the two meals Lionel had ordered.
The two stood up, put on their coats, and left the "Seine Sunset" café, each carrying a paper bag.
At this moment, light snow began to fall.
All the streetlights were lit, extending along Paris's wide boulevards into the distant infinity, illuminating buildings like the Bourse and the Opéra Garnier, making them brilliantly picturesque.
But if one looked further afield—for instance, to the 10th and 11th arrondissements where they were, which were almost adjacent to the bustling 2nd and 3rd arrondissements—they appeared much dimmer.
Not far from the café was a public coach stop.
They waited for a while, and the coach passing by Rue Lancret arrived first, with only a few passengers inside.
Sophie politely declined Lionel's offer to walk her home and boarded the coach herself.
But just as the conductor was closing the door, she couldn't help but look back:
"If you want to know anything else, just ask me."
Lionel nodded, as if a pact had been made between them—then watched the coach gradually disappear into the lamplit night.
Half an hour later, the coach stopped at the Rue Lancret station.
Sophie got off and wound her way through dimly lit alleys with only kerosene streetlights, finally stopping in front of an old small house with wooden frames and mud walls.
Sophie took out her key and opened the door.
Inside, there was only cold darkness.
She lit a candle, illuminating a corner of the room, revealing the outlines of rough, heavy tables and chairs, and a fireplace that hadn't been used in a long time.
But today, Sophie felt a warmth here that had been absent before.
She took out the light meal from "Seine Sunset" from the paper bag, looked at the beautifully crafted "Passion Fruit Mille-Feuille," and couldn't resist taking a bite...
"It's delicious, Monsieur Sorel! This is the best thing I've ever eaten in my life! What's it called?"
Petty's eyes sparkled in the dim, flickering candlelight of the hallway, like two tiny stars.
"I think it's called 'Passion Fruit Mille-Feuille'?"
Lionel patted Petty's head—though she was 10 years old, she looked only 7 or 8, and her head seemed especially large on her scrawny shoulders.
Petty looked at the bitten mille-feuille, a little reluctant, and looked up to ask:
"I want to save it for Lyon.
He'll be back on Sunday."
Lyon was Petty's 8-year-old brother, sent by their parents to apprentice with a shoemaker, and only returned once in a long while.
Lionel shook his head:
"The mille-feuille will spoil by Sunday—it's alright, I'll bring back something even better on Sunday."
Petty was so surprised she almost jumped:
"Really?"
Lionel nodded seriously:
"Really!"
After making the promise to Petty, Lionel returned to his small attic—unusually, Madame Martin didn't mock him today.
Having not eaten the landlady's packaged meals for several days, and instead bringing back "big meals" from outside, rumors of "the poor country bumpkin from the Alps getting rich" had spread throughout the dilapidated apartment building.
Although Madame Martin didn't believe Lionel would turn his fortunes around, she had become much more cautious.
"My ties to this world are getting deeper and deeper..."
Lionel muttered to himself.
Whether it was Petty, with their "teacher-student bond," or Sophie, with her "favor of assistance," or the Sorel family in the Alps, whom he hadn't truly "met" but had been working for days to help—all of them were tightening his connection to this world.
Sometimes, he even had a fleeting moment of confusion: could the brief half-life of that 21st-century Chinese young man have been a wild dream dreamt by Lionel Sorel?
But now was not the time to ponder such philosophical questions.
He needed to write a letter to his family and send it by telegram tomorrow!
(End of Chapter)
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