As the ship approached the final stretch into Marseille harbor, the sky had already darkened completely.
Léon stood at the ship's railing, gazing at the distant port lights twinkling like stars, but his mind was silently counting—since he left his cabin, three different groups of people had changed behind him. First was the man with a scarred brow, then a thin man wearing a baseball cap, and now there was a bald man. The three were scattered at different positions on the deck, yet all subtly kept their eyes on him.
He pretended to be oblivious, lit a cigarette, and leisurely walked toward the stern.
This section of the river was narrow, with desolate shoals and reeds on either side. It was about an hour's journey from Marseille. If those people intended to attack, this was the most suitable place—the village was nowhere nearby, and even if there was a commotion, no one would hear it.
Léon guessed correctly.
Just as he reached the stern and hadn't yet turned around, a sudden gust of wind struck him from behind. Instinctively, he tilted his head, and a wooden stick scraped past his ear, smashing into his shoulder, making him gasp in pain.
"Don't move," someone hissed behind him, with a heavy Marseille accent.
Léon slowly raised his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three figures approaching from different directions—scar-faced man, baseball cap, and bald man—surrounding him at the ship's railing.
"Hand over the stuff," the scar-faced man stepped forward, tapping his palm with the wooden stick, "Young master of the Moula family, don't make things difficult for us."
Léon looked at them with no expression: "What stuff?"
"Stop pretending," the bald man spat. "The ledger your father left. Mr. Gaston said once we get it, we'll let you go."
A cold feeling settled in Léon's heart. It was indeed his uncle.
"The ledger isn't on me," he said. "It's in the cabin. If you want it, I'll go back and get it."
The scar-faced man smiled, his expression especially sinister under the dim light: "Young master, do you think we're three-year-olds? Since we boarded from Avignon, your cabin door hasn't opened once. If the stuff was inside, you'd have taken it long ago."
Léon didn't reply. His hand slowly moved inside his coat—where a Browning pistol was tucked.
"Don't move!" The baseball cap, sharp-eyed, grabbed his wrist quickly. He felt along Léon's waist and pulled out the gun, proudly handing it to the scar-faced man. "Big brother, look—still a tough nut."
The scar-faced man took the gun, weighed it in his hand, and clicked his tongue: "Nice gun. The Moula young master, indeed, is different." He tucked the gun into his waist. "Enough wasting time. Where's the ledger?"
Léon was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled.
"Are you sure you want to do this here?" he said softly, with an inexplicable calmness. "The ship is about to reach Marseille. There are police and customs at the port. If you kill me, how will you escape?"
The scar-faced man's face changed.
But the bald man snorted: "Young master, you probably don't know—this stretch of river, especially at night—people often 'accidentally' fall into the water. The current's so strong, drowning a few people is no big deal."
Before he finished speaking, he suddenly lunged forward, punching Léon in the stomach.
Pain shot through Léon, and he hunched over. But in that moment, he swiftly drew a folding knife from his boot—his last trump card. As the blade snapped open, he swung it back, slashing across the bald man's arm, opening a bloody wound.
"Goddamn it!" the bald man screamed, retreating.
Both the scar-faced man and the baseball cap lunged at him simultaneously. Léon sidestepped the punch from the baseball cap but was struck on the back by the scar-faced man's stick, staggering against the ship's railing.
Pain—fiery and burning.
But he refused to let go, gripping the knife tightly, the tip aimed at his attackers.
"The ledger," he said through gritted teeth, "is not on the boat. I already had someone take it back to Paris. Mr. Gaston, you're wasting your effort."
The scar-faced man froze.
"No way," he said. "We've been watching you—"
"Watching me?" Léon sneered coldly. "You're watching that gun case, right? Have you looked inside? It only contains some blank paper."
The scar-faced man's face changed completely. He hurriedly looked back at the baseball cap, who shook his head hurriedly: "I, I saw it. It's definitely documents…"
"That's fake," Léon said. "The real ledger was in Bernard's hands three days ago."
In truth, this was a lie. The ledger was in his own inner pocket, a thin booklet pressed close to his chest, painfully uncomfortable.
But at this moment, he needed to make them hesitate.
Even just for a few seconds.
The scar-faced man hesitated, his expression flickering uncertainly as he seemed to weigh his options.
Just then, a distant whistle sounded—the pilot boat approaching Marseille.
"Big brother, it's too late," the bald man, clutching his bleeding arm, said hurriedly. "Either we deal with him now, or—"
The scar-faced man clenched his teeth and made up his mind: "Attack."
All three rushed forward at once.
Léon knew he couldn't hold them off. He swung his knife to fend off the foremost baseball cap, but was caught from the side by the bald man. The scar-faced man raised his stick and struck hard at his left shoulder—
"Bang!"
A muffled sound.
Léon's left shoulder felt as if it was on fire, and pain nearly knocked him out. It wasn't the stick; it was a gun. The scar-faced man fired his Browning.
Blood gushed from the wound, soaking half his body instantly.
"Young master, I'm sorry," the scar-faced man aimed the gun at his head. "Mr. Gaston said—live to see people, die to see corpses. Since the ledger isn't on you, then—"
He hadn't finished.
Léon suddenly smiled.
That smile was so strange that the scar-faced man froze for a moment. In that instant, Léon summoned his remaining strength, grabbing the bald man and flipping over the railing together—
"Splash!"
The icy river water engulfed everything instantly.
As Léon plunged into the Rhône River, his last thought was: the ledger is still there, father, the ledger is still there.
The water was colder than he imagined. The Rhône at the end of October, rushing swiftly, with undercurrents surging. He desperately opened his eyes but saw nothing—only endless darkness and cold.
The wound on his left shoulder felt like fire, blood flowing into the water, probably attracting fish or something else.
He didn't know how long he could hold on.
But he couldn't die.
The ledger was still there. His father's secret was still there. Colette… no, he hadn't met Colette yet. Only one person filled his mind now—the uncle who stood on the Paris dock, patting his shoulder and saying, "Good boy."
Gaston.
Léon clenched his teeth and paddled desperately. Water flooded into his mouth, choking him almost to suffocation. He didn't know how long he had been swimming, only that the current was too strong and he couldn't swim against it. He could only try to stay afloat, try not to swallow water, try to—
His consciousness gradually faded.
...
At the stern, the three scar-faced men leaned over the railing, looking down into the darkness, seeing nothing.
"Shot and fell into this water," the bald man, clutching his arm, grimaced. "No way I'll survive."
The scar-faced man stared at the river for a long time, finally straightening up, rubbing his Browning on his coat, and tucking it into his pocket.
"Let's go," he said. "Tell Mr. Gaston—he's dead."
The baseball cap looked uneasy: "What if—"
"No 'what if,'" the scar-faced man interrupted. "With this weather, this water—flowing so fast—by the time we reach downstream, it'll just be a corpse. Even if luckier and washed ashore, it's out in the wilderness—no one to save him."
He turned and headed back toward the cabin, then paused after a few steps, looking back at the dark river surface.
"Mr. Gaston said—dead must be seen. But how many people drown in this stretch of Marseille river every year, and how many are ever recovered?"
The bald man and the baseball cap exchanged glances and said nothing more.
The three disappeared into the cabin.
A few minutes later, in a corner of the stern, a figure dressed in coarse cloth slowly stood up. A young man, in his early twenties, thin-faced but with sharp eyes like an eagle.
He looked at the river surface, then at the direction of the cabin, his brows furrowing tightly.
"Young master of the Moula family…" he muttered softly. "Gaston…"
The young man hesitated for a moment, then pulled something from his pocket—a folding knife Léon had dropped on the deck during the struggle, now recovered.
He sheathed the knife and turned to disappear into the darkness.
...
The Rhône River continued to flow.
Under the moonlight, the surface shimmered as if nothing had happened.
But downstream, a dark figure drifted with the current, sometimes surfacing, sometimes swallowed by the waves. In that hand, tightly clutching a book wrapped in oilcloth—his last possession, taken out just before plunging into the river, pressed firmly against his chest.
His father's secret.
More important than life itself.
Léon's consciousness was fading. He didn't know where he was or where he was headed—only that he must not let go, must not let go, must not—
Darkness completely swallowed him.
The Rhône River flowed northward, through reeds, across desolate shoals, past sleeping villages. The water grew shallower, the current slower. After an unknown amount of time, in a deep night with the moon slightly westward, it finally gently pushed the bloodied man onto a riverbank.
Opposite the bank was a lavender field after harvest.
By late October, the lavender had withered, leaving only neat ridges and yellowing branches. But under the moonlight, the dried branches still emitted a faint fragrance, carried by the night wind, drifting toward the riverbank, toward the motionless figure lying there.
In the distance, a dim yellow light shone from a small wooden hut's window.