Deep in the night, in the study of his apartment at 64 Rue Laffitte, Lionel put down A History of Ten Years and fell into thought.
Today's decision to write "Benyamin Bouton"—which is actually the French equivalent of "Benjamin Button"—while partly provoked by Paul Pigoud, was not entirely impulsive.
The film The Curious Case of Benjamin Button had left a deep impression on him back then; he not only watched it multiple times but also specifically sought out the original novel.
However, the novel version of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was merely a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which did not garner much attention when it was published in 1922.
After David Fincher acquired the rights, he made drastic changes and enrichments to the story, ultimately shaping the film into its delicate, subtle, yet grand and magnificent style.
The original story began in 1860; the film's story, however, started in 1918.
When Lionel spoke of this story at Charpentier Bookstore today, he only vaguely mentioned a general starting time: "the Revolutionary period."
This statement was very vague, because, in the strict sense, the French Revolution lasted from 1789 to 1794, though the Bourbon monarchy was overthrown as early as 1792, followed by a period of factional strife.
However, the French Revolutionary Wars spanned a full ten years, from 1792 to 1802.
Lionel was not sure at which point in time to set it, so he could only speak vaguely, and on his way home, he specifically detoured to the Great Library to borrow these historical works.
It wasn't until he had roughly clarified the historical timeline and major events of late 18th-century France that he finally settled on a decision.
The next step was to figure out which narrative techniques from the film could be retained in his novel and which could not be replicated in a 19th-century novel.
It wasn't until late at night that Lionel penned the first passage onto his manuscript paper:
[Outside, the sky over the Left Bank of the Seine was not the ink-black of night, but a dirty, restless orange-red.
It wasn't the glow of sunset, but the tongues of flame spat from countless burning barricades and buildings.
Thick smoke billowed, and the smell of charring and blood seeped through the window frame cracks, filling the small sickroom.
On the bed, Delphine Villeneuve's withered body struggled to breathe, each gasp pulling at her hollowed chest, triggering a bout of coughing.
The coughing sounded as if it were squeezing out the last vestiges of her life.
"Mama!"
Caroline cried, throwing herself beside the bed, one hand supporting her mother's bony shoulders, the other frantically trying to cover the vibrating window, riddled with cobweb-like cracks:
"Please!
We can't delay any longer!
The Versailles army is advancing just a few streets away, and the Communards are still fighting in the alleys...
This place could turn into a real shooting range at any moment!
The Notre Dame ambulance carriage is downstairs; they said they could take us across the river, to Île Saint-Louis, for now..."
"No,"
Delphine's voice was weak, yet resolute.
"Caroline,"
Delphine moved a bony finger with effort, pointing to a package on the nightstand, her breath short,
"Bring... it here, open it."
Caroline choked back a sob; she knew her mother's innate stubbornness too well, that obstinacy which, once a direction was set, would never turn back.
Submissively and carefully, she picked up the heavy package.
As she unbuckled the strap, her fingertips clearly felt the hard edges beneath the canvas.
The canvas was peeled back, revealing the true appearance of a booklet inside:
Tts cover was so worn the texture was barely visible, its four corners were encased in dull brass protectors, and its spine had been awkwardly reinforced multiple times with coarse twine.
There was no gilded title, only the stains of time and countless tiny scratches, making it seem almost about to fall apart.
"Open it," a strange, almost urgent strength infused Delphine's voice.
"Read. Start from the first page... Read aloud. Now. Right here."
Her clouded eyes fixed on Caroline with an undeniable plea.
Caroline's fingers traced the cold, rough cover, finally prying into the edge of a page and turning open a cover heavier than fate itself.
The flyleaf bore no embellishments, only faded handwriting, the ink deeply absorbed into the paper:
Benyamin Bouton]
----
On the same deep night, on Montmartre Hill, in the suburbs of Paris, Baroness Balf Alexeyevna Durova-Shcherbatova smashed a valuable set of antique Chinese porcelain, worth over 1000 francs.
It was unclear how many sets this was in the past few days, but the Baroness had plenty of money and didn't care.
The servants, trembling with fear, gathered the shattered pieces from the floor, not daring to utter a single word, or even breathe deeply, for fear of being slapped by the Baroness, whose arms were thicker than their own legs.
Baroness Alexeyevna had just endured the most humiliating day of her life, becoming the laughingstock of all Paris, all France, and even the entirety of Europe's aristocratic circles.
She could already imagine how the caustic banker's wife, Madame Rothschild, would mock her in the salons.
She could also imagine how her old rivals back home in Moscow and St. Petersburg would repeat the joke of that night countless times.
Even in her sleep, she would occasionally dream of the scene from that night—
How she had placed the impostor in the center of the lights, how she had described him with the most gushing and exaggerated words, how she had been carried away by the compliments of the ball guests...
Until those two voices, speaking in unison, tore apart all her illusions.
Her perfect literary genius, a handsome man like Endymion the shepherd, disdainful of money and materialism, forever immersed in noble thoughts—"poor Lionel"—was like a stray dog, chased by the police, running wildly throughout the castle.
He knocked over chairs, crushed countless pieces of porcelain on the dining tables, and scrambled wildly under the ladies' voluminous skirts, more comical than a clown in a circus.
All that talk of poverty, pride, brilliance, disdain for the powerful... it was all an act for her, all a trick of a con artist, just like those pretty boys with powdered faces, they were after her money!
But those pretty boys only cheated her out of money, which she had plenty of!
That "poor Lionel" had stolen her heart!
Her heart, which she hadn't easily given to anyone for over forty years, not even her own husband!
Unforgivable!
Baroness Alexeyevna thought of the impostor's handsome face, which was instantly replaced by the face of another "poor Lionel"—the real Lionel.
This was the true root of all evil! The culprit who made her lose face across all of Europe!
If it weren't for him, if it weren't for those miraculous rumors about him, she would never have so easily fallen for that impostor.
Baroness Alexeyevna shouted,
"Yevsey, get in here now, you idiot!"
Soon, a man with slicked-back hair and fawning eyes stood before her.
Baroness Alexeyevna looked down at him, her voice no longer angry, but possessing a peculiar calm, like before a storm:
"Go back to Moscow, tell my dear daughter—Sophia—everything, and have her come to Paris at once!"
Yevsey trembled slightly, then respectfully lowered his head:
"As you command, Madam!"
(End of Chapter)
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