The Black Funeral at the Moly Mansion
In Paris, October 1898, the sycamore leaves had already turned yellow, and with a gust of wind, they drifted down in flurries onto the cobblestone streets of the 16th arrondissement.
Today, the wrought-iron gate of the Moly mansion was draped in black mourning veils, and even the door knocker was tied with a black satin ribbon. Servants hurried by with solemn faces, carrying trays of hot coffee and cold refreshments, silently weaving among the guests. In front of the mansion, a long line of carriages stretched from avenue Montaigne to the street corner—members of the Parisian business, political circles, and even a few leading theater figures had come. After all, Old Monsieur Moly had been a director of the Bank of France and controlled most of the southern railway network during his lifetime.
Nineteen-year-old Léon Moly stood by the window in the side hall of the mourning chamber, fingertips touching the cold glass. Outside was his family's garden, still blooming with autumn roses—red and white, dazzlingly bright. He was dressed in a black velvet suit, the collar buttoned too tightly, making it hard to breathe.
"Master, it's time to go," came the low, restrained voice of the old butler, Bernard, behind him, tinged with restrained grief.
Léon turned around. Bernard had served his father for thirty years, from youth to his silvering temples. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet he straightened his back, maintaining the dignity befitting the Moly family.
"Has Uncle arrived?" Léon asked.
"Mr. Gaston is already in the main hall, exchanging pleasantries with some directors."
Léon nodded without further questions. He adjusted his sleeve cuffs and followed Bernard through a long corridor. Portraits of ancestors lined both sides of the hall; his father's was only added last year—dressed in a deep blue suit, his gaze calm as he looked into the distance. Léon paused before the portrait, lightly touching the gilded frame with his fingertips, then withdrew his hand.
The main hall was already filled with people. The black mourning clothes surged like a tide, and whispers echoed beneath the carved domed ceiling. As Léon appeared, the crowd automatically parted. He walked straight to the front—where his father's coffin was placed, covered with the Moly family crest flag, a deep purple background embroidered with golden railway wheels and wheat sheaves.
Léon stopped in front of the coffin, kneeled, and bowed his head in silent prayer.
Behind him, murmurs and whispers stirred.
"Too young, can he really bear such a large family business?"
"Old Moly died so suddenly, he didn't even have time to clarify his will…"
"Gaston's always wanted the railway, I fear there will be a fight."
Léon paid no heed. He stood up, turned to the crowd, his back straight like a sword.
Lawyer Dupont cleared his throat, producing a sealed document from his briefcase. It was the will that Old Moly had drafted three days before his death—by then, he was already emaciated from liver disease but still managed to sit up and dictate word by word, which Dupont had recorded himself.
"I, Pierre Moly, hereby declare my final wishes—"
The room was so silent that only the flickering of candle flames could be heard.
The contents of the will were not surprising: all the Moly family assets, including the Paris headquarters Moly Bank, the Marseille railway company, the silk trading house in Lyon, and three wineries in Bordeaux, would be inherited by the eldest son, Léon Moly. The only exceptions were a manor in Nantes and a pension, left to his younger brother, Gaston Moly.
Léon showed no expression upon hearing his name. He merely looked at his father's coffin, at the deep purple banner.
Dupont finished reading the last word, closed the will, and presented it to Léon. "Please, Young Master, receive the will and the family secret files."
Next, a servant brought over a small brass box, palm-sized, with an ancient ornate letter "M" lock. Léon took it, and as his fingertips touched the cold metal surface, he suddenly felt a gaze—intense, burning, carrying a certain emotion he couldn't quite understand.
He looked up.
Uncle Gaston stood at the edge of the crowd, surrounded by a few unfamiliar men. Gaston looked somewhat like his father, but more gaunt, with a perpetually gloomy and calculating expression between his brows. At this moment, he was staring at the brass box in Léon's hand, his gaze deep enough to seem as if he wanted to see right through it.
Seeing Léon look over, Gaston quickly put on a mournful expression, approaching to pat Léon's shoulder. "Good boy, from now on, the Moly family will rely on you. If there's anything you don't understand, just come to Uncle."
Léon nodded slightly. "Thank you, Uncle."
Gaston's hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer before withdrawing.
After the funeral ceremony, the guests gradually dispersed. Léon stood at the mansion's gate, bidding farewell to each one. Bernard whispered behind him, reporting the visitors' intentions. When the last carriage disappeared around the street corner, Léon turned to leave.
"Master," Bernard followed, "Mr. Gaston is waiting for you in the study. He wants to discuss the Marseille railway."
Léon paused.
The Marseille railway—this was his father's most valued project, a dedicated freight line connecting Marseille port and Lyon. Once completed, all the goods from southern France would be transported via the Moly tracks to Paris. But recently, there were rumors of unknown persons active along the railway route—
"I understand," Léon said.
When he entered the study, Gaston was standing by the window, back to the door, holding a half-filled glass of cognac. Upon hearing footsteps, he turned around with a perfectly measured look of concern.
"Léon, I know you're very tired today, but there are some things you need to know early," Gaston said, setting down the glass and pulling out a document from his pocket. "There's word from Marseille—someone is secretly sabotaging the railway construction and threatening our workers. I suspect it's rival interests, but other possibilities can't be ruled out."
Léon took the document, quickly scanning it. It recorded seven recent "accidents" outside Marseille over the past three months—damage to construction equipment, two supervisors injured, even some throwing dead rats into the work sheds.
"What do you want to say?" Léon asked calmly.
Gaston sighed, stepping closer. "When your father was alive, they didn't dare act openly. Now that he's gone, they want to test whether the Molys are easy to bully. Léon, you must go to Marseille yourself, show them— the heir of Moly is not a pushover."
Léon said nothing. He looked at the document in his hand, then at his uncle's worried face.
"I will go," he said.
A flicker of light crossed Gaston's eyes, quickly hidden. "Good, good! I'll arrange for some reliable men to accompany you—"
"No need," Léon interrupted him. "I'll arrange it myself."
Gaston's smile stiffened, then he nodded. "Alright, alright. You've grown up; you must make your own decisions now."
He patted Léon's shoulder and turned to leave. At the door, he looked back. "Léon, remember, the family's reputation is more important than anything else."
The door closed.
Léon stood alone in the study, the last light outside fading. He looked down at the brass box in his hand, unlocked it with the key hanging around his neck—this was the key his father had personally handed him before dying, telling him, "Don't open it unless absolutely necessary."
Inside the box was not the expected bonds or deeds, but a yellowed ledger and a faded photograph. The photo showed his father in his youth, standing on the Marseille port pier, behind him a cargo ship about to set sail. On the back was a small inscription:
"Some truths are hidden in the deepest darkness."
Léon opened the first page of the ledger, and dense numbers flooded his view. He read a few lines, his brow furrowing gradually.
The ledger did not record normal business transactions—behind those figures, strange symbols and several names he'd never heard of appeared. One name kept recurring:
"Redbeard."
Léon closed the ledger, locked it back into the brass box. He moved to the window, gazing at the gradually brightening lights of Paris.
Marseille—what exactly was hidden there?
He didn't know. But he knew he had to go.
Outside the window, a black carriage silently departed from the Moly mansion, fading into the night. Inside, Gaston sat on the plush cushions, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips.
"Master is going to Marseille himself?" whispered his confidant sitting opposite him.
"Mm," Gaston played with a ring on his finger. "Get ready. The stretch of the Rhone River, the current is strong, isn't it?"
His confidant nodded understandingly.
The carriage continued forward, wheels grinding over the cobblestones with a dull sound. In the distance, the Seine flowed quietly in the night, shimmering as if countless eyes were watching.