By the time Charles arose, the sky was already bright.
After washing and dressing, he summoned his servant (one of the few remaining in the Marquis's household) to prepare the carriage, then went straight to breakfast.
Breakfast at the Tréville house was remarkably simple: white bread and plain water.
Forlan was already seated at the dining table, quietly eating her bread. When she saw her brother enter the dining room, she didn't greet him but simply shot him a look that said, "You remember what you promised me, don't you?"
Charles smiled and nodded. "Leave it to me."
A flush of delight crept onto the girl's face, bringing a rosy hue to her slightly pale cheeks.
Afterward, Forlan boarded her own carriage to head to her teacher's art studio for her day's lesson.
She had entrusted everything to her brother.
When his simple breakfast was finished, Charles walked out of the house into the courtyard and stepped into the waiting carriage.
"To Mademoiselle Périette's," he ordered curtly.
Having been there many times before, the servant asked no questions and headed directly west towards the 16th arrondissement.
After a period of jostling travel, the carriage finally stopped in front of a mansion just outside the Bois de Boulogne.
The mansion occupied a large plot of land and was exquisitely decorated on the exterior; one glance was enough to tell it was immensely valuable. The porter, seeing Charles's carriage, opened the gate without hesitation and allowed them to enter.
This was the residence of the renowned Mademoiselle Catherine-de-Périette.
In the literary circles of Paris, Mademoiselle Périette was known for her hospitality. True to her nickname, "the Bluestocking," she loved to host poets and writers in her mansion, listening as they discussed the history of French literature and new intellectual currents. Over time, her salon had become one of the most exclusive in the Parisian literary and publishing world. Many a frustrated young writer and poet had begun their journey to fame and fortune right here.
In the 18th and 19th centuries, it was common for groups of young women to organize gatherings to discuss life, ideals, or the works of famous authors and poets. Figures like Goethe and Byron were idols of these literary salons, attracting legions of female fans. The French jokingly referred to these intellectual young women as bas-bleus, or bluestockings.
And yes, Mademoiselle Catherine-de-Périette was just such a literary young woman.
However, in Charles's eyes, she was no ordinary bluestocking, for two main reasons:
First, she was highly intelligent—a trait that set her apart from ninety percent of her literary peers.
Second, she was very, very rich—a trait that set her apart from ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of them.
A literary young woman with a fortune of several million francs could no longer be considered merely a literary young woman. She was a renowned literary critic, a patron of the arts, the goddess-protector of France's brilliant literary treasures—at least, that's what the publishers said.
And today, Charles had come to seek a favor from this very goddess-protector.
As he entered the mansion's drawing room, Catherine, who was seated on a sofa in a flowing gown chatting with her guests, turned her head. A look of kindness, tinged with a hint of playful mockery, appeared in her eyes.
"Well, well, if it isn't our devotee of Buonaparte. We'd best be careful he doesn't turn the place into a battlefield!" She gestured for Charles to join them on the sofa. Her joke made the guests laugh.
The hardline royalists in northwestern France, in regions like Normandy and Brittany, often deliberately added a "u" to Bonaparte's name, pronouncing it in the Italian style, "Buonaparte," as a sign of contempt. The Bluestocking was borrowing it here to tease Charles for being a Bonapartist.
Catherine had a rather delicate and slender face. Her brown eyes were a perfect match for her chestnut hair, giving her the appearance of a traditional, fragile noble lady. However, her thin, straight, and upright eyebrows would occasionally betray their owner's strong and resolute nature.
"I haven't come to burn this place to the ground today, Mademoiselle," Charles replied, playing along with a straight face.
"Oh? Then what have you come for?" Catherine smiled faintly. "Surely not to look for trouble?"
"I wish that were the case, but unfortunately..." Charles shook his head, giving her a look to indicate that he was here on serious business.
"Oh, what a pity." Catherine understood his signal. She smiled apologetically at her guests, who quickly rose to take their leave.
After the guests had departed, she instructed her servant to bring two cups of coffee and place them on the table, then gestured for the servant to withdraw.
Catherine's smile deepened. She lifted a cup of coffee to her lips, but her eyes remained fixed on Charles with a playful, curious gaze.
"My dear friend, isn't it time you stated your purpose?"
"I've come to ask for information," Charles answered bluntly.
That was right. Beneath the harmless, literary facade, Catherine was an extremely well-informed individual. Whether it was politics, business, or other matters, she always knew things that ordinary people did not.
Under highly coincidental circumstances, Charles had discovered this young lady's true nature. Since then, he had sought her out for intelligence on multiple occasions and had also sold some to her. Thus far, their collaboration had been quite pleasant.
"Information on what?" Catherine asked calmly.
"On the affairs of the Marquis de Léaurand's family," Charles replied directly. "I heard their youngest daughter was recently sent to a convent. While such things aren't exactly rare these days... sending a daughter who is merely fifteen is still rather uncommon. I imagine there must be a reason for it..."
"Heheheh," Catherine suddenly let out a chuckle.
"What is it?" Charles was a bit confused.
"My friend, since when have you taken an interest in another family's young lady? This is quite the news." Catherine placed her cup back on its saucer.
"It's not what you think," Charles denied her speculation. "But from the look on your face, it seems you really do know something."
Charles feigned interest in the coffee in his hands, but his peripheral vision remained locked on her reaction.
Catherine still wore that enigmatic, half-smiling expression.
"This is a matter you should know more about than I do, my friend."
"Hmm?" Charles was taken aback.
Catherine stood up and slowly walked to the window, gazing at the distant forest scenery.
"Isn't the Marquis de Léaurand about to become your relative, Monsieur le Comte?"
In the French aristocracy, it was customary to address the legal heir of a title with a noble rank one step below the one they were set to inherit. For instance, a duke's son would be called a marquis.
Charles was stunned again. "What do you mean?"
Catherine slowly turned around, looking at Charles with the utmost cordiality.
"The eldest son of the Marquis de Léaurand, the Comte de Léaurand, is soon to marry your cousin, Mademoiselle Charlotte-de-Tréville, the granddaughter of the Duke de Tréville. So you see, their family will soon be your relatives..."
Hearing this news, Charles's eyes widened, but he managed to control his emotions a moment later. "I see." He then smiled apologetically at her. "As you know, although my grandfather and the Duke are brothers, their relationship is very poor. Our two families have very little contact. That's why I'm only just hearing this news..."
Catherine was clearly already aware of this information, so she simply offered another faint smile in response.
Charles picked up his cup again and took a sip. The slightly bitter coffee lingered in his mouth for a moment before flowing down his throat, leaving only a raw taste behind.
This matter has become a bit tricky, he thought. But also, more and more interesting.
The Bluestocking had returned to her seat and also took a sip of her coffee.
"It is said the marriage between the two families has been settled and the banns will be posted in the coming days. However, I am not yet privy to more details. As for whether poor Mademoiselle Léaurand was sent to the convent because of this, I am not entirely certain."
According to the French marriage customs of the time, the banns of marriage had to be posted in front of a church. If no objections were raised by the local residents within ten days, the wedding could be held.
"It seems very likely to be related," Charles stated his judgment.
But he couldn't think of a concrete plan of action. After a moment, Charles decided to ask for her help.
"Catherine, my friend, I won't hide it from you: I have been entrusted by someone to right a wrong and get the poor Mademoiselle Léaurand out of that convent..."
"You must do it?"
"Yes, it must be done," Charles answered with certainty. "Therefore, I need your help. Help me find out exactly what connection there is between the marriage of the Léaurand and Duke de Tréville families and Mademoiselle Léaurand being sent to the convent..."
"My fees are not low, you know..." Catherine looked at Charles with that same half-smile.
"I will, of course, do my utmost to repay you, but..." Charles frowned. "I have no money right now..."
Catherine suddenly burst out laughing, waving her hand in a magnanimous gesture. "My dear friend, from others, I ask only for money. But from you, I want something far more precious than money. Yes, I need your intellect. Finish writing your manuscript and give it to me. I've been looking forward to it for a long time. How does Madame de Pompadour defeat her next new rival...?"
Charles felt a little awkward.
Though he was relatively frugal, the Marquis's household expenses were still considerable, while its income was meager. In recent years, they were increasingly spending more than they earned.
Despite being a glorious transmigrator, Charles had found that he possessed no special skills; everything he had learned was completely useless in contemporary France. Out of desperation, he had taken up the path of a 19th-century writer, penning popular novels for newspapers.
As the era gradually stabilized, the magnificent and decadent court life of Louis XIV and Louis XV had once again captured the people's interest. Among female readers, the plots involving the courtly favorites and mistresses of the two monarchs vying for favor were especially popular. As a result, French "palace intrigue novels" flourished and often became bestsellers.
This is a historical fact, not fiction.
When it came to palace intrigue, no country could compare to the rich experience of a certain celestial empire. Using a pseudonym, Charles had adapted court-intrigue novels like Empresses in the Palace, transplanting them into the French court and publishing them with newspapers and publishers. He had become a genuine hit, a rising new writer of some renown. The book he was currently writing depicted the rise and fall of Louis XV's famous mistress, Madame de Pompadour.
The Bluestocking was one of the very few who knew this "writer's" true identity and, incredibly, had become one of his fans, frequently pestering him for the next installment. Perhaps for this reason, she had always held him in high regard and treated him with great courtesy.
However, even though he earned a good number of francs from this, the thought that he, a transmigrator, was reduced to such a miserable state was sometimes so overwhelming that Charles felt he had hit rock bottom.
Embarrassed, Charles mumbled a few perfunctory words and promptly took his leave.
"Make sure you finish the ending soon," the Bluestocking reminded him as he was leaving. "Don't waste your intellect and be like one of those shameful 'bears'!"