Inspector Claude didn't quite understand why Lionel was so disappointed:
"Although these bonds can't be returned to your family right now, these are 'Panama Canal Bonds' after all! With an annual interest rate of 6%, compounded, you can't lose, you can't be fooled.
My wife even bought some, ten-year ones, with an even higher interest rate..."
Lionel clutched his forehead in anguish:
"Is there no way to finish trying this scoundrel in a single Parisian court?"
Inspector Claude shrugged:
"He didn't defraud anyone of a single centime in Paris, so he can only be convicted based on 'blasphemy and corrupting public morals.'
The Parisian courts have no jurisdiction over local courts, so his fraud charges must be tried in every place he committed deception: Marseille, the Alps, Lyon, Burgundy...
Only after all these local courts have finalized their convictions can the stolen goods be returned."
Inspector Claude then explained France's court hierarchy system—
In France, courts are divided into three levels: courts of first instance, courts of appeal, and the Supreme Court.
Courts of first instance are responsible for the initial trial of most civil and criminal cases, established independently in each locality; courts of appeal are responsible for hearing appeals from lower courts.
France is divided into several appellate districts, each covering several departments.
For example, the Bouches-du-Rhône department, where Marseille is located, falls under the jurisdiction of the Aix Court of Appeal.
The Supreme Court, headquartered in Paris, is the unified highest judicial body in the country.
It does not directly try cases but only rules on whether lower courts have correctly applied the law.
Lionel's head spun from hearing the string of place names, and he asked directly,
"Roughly how long will it take?"
Inspector Claude thought for a moment:
"If he doesn't appeal, probably a year and a half to two years; if he does appeal, maybe three years?
I'm not sure. Don't worry, the bonds won't get lost!
The longer you hold them, the more valuable they become. Time is your friend!"
Lionel now just wanted to shout at Claude:
"You foolish groundhog, good heavens, I really want to kick your backside!"
But at least for now, he couldn't change this fact, and could only pray that when the bonds were returned, they wouldn't be worthless.
He was now feeling a pang of regret over the 200 francs he had spent a few days ago...
Leaving the Paris police station, it was already dusk.
Lionel didn't go home, but instead took a carriage to 'Père Lemerre', a smoky, bustling little tavern in the Saint-Antoine district.
He wasn't looking to drown his sorrows, but rather to make an "incognito visit."
Such small taverns usually had "newspaper readers," typically part-timers who could earn a drink by reading a few articles.
Many literate working-class people relied on reading newspapers to satisfy their craving for alcohol.
This was, in a way, the "live broadcast" in taverns before the invention of radio and television.
The environment at 'Père Lemerre' was very ordinary: sawdust covered the floor, the long wooden tables and benches were worn smooth and greasy; the air was filled with a potent mix of cheap tobacco, sour wine, onion soup, and sweat.
After-work laborers, peddlers, apprentices, artisans, and poor students were the main clientele here.
Lionel ordered a beer and a plate of fried bacon, and sat in a corner, eating, drinking, and observing—
In the center of the tavern, under a dim kerosene lamp, an old shoemaker, acting as the "newspaper reader," was surrounded by a throng of people; even the bartender behind the counter craned his neck.
"Read it, old Jean! Keep reading!"
Urged a young apprentice, forgetting to put down the beer mug in his hand.
"What happened to that poor woman later?"
The old shoemaker cleared his throat, his finger tracing the dense small print on the newspaper, and read in a booming voice:
"...The doctor's face was as pale as a freshly painted wall! Sweat mixed with blood streamed down, and she, looking as if she'd lost her soul, cried out to Luc Bouton—'Your wife... may the Lord take her, she did her best... she...'"
Lionel frowned; this was clearly not his original text.
"Face as pale as a freshly painted wall"—he certainly couldn't have written such a vulgar simile.
But this style clearly pleased the audience; they craned their necks and pricked up their ears, and the tavern fell silent, with only the old shoemaker's resonant voice remaining.
"Luc Bouton, as if struck by lightning, pushed the woman aside and rushed into the room... Damn it!
His young wife, Claire, was lying stiffly on the bed, all bloody beneath her! She was already gone!..."
As the old shoemaker read to this point, his voice also grew somber, tinged with a sigh of regret.
"And then? What about the child, quick!"
A burly worker anxiously interjected.
"Don't rush me!"
The old shoemaker pushed up his spectacles:
"I've been reading for so long, I'm thirsty..."
The worker urging him to continue immediately tossed a few centime coins to the bartender:
"Get this old fellow a beer!"
After drinking his beer, the old shoemaker's face regained its color, and he continued reading:
"...Luc Bouton's gaze, as if he'd seen a ghost, slowly shifted to the 'thing' the doctor was holding...
How could that be a newborn baby?
It was clearly a shrunken little old man!
With sparse white hair all over his head, a face as wrinkled as a walnut shell, and disgusting age spots!
His eyelids drooped, leaving only a slit, and his eyes were cloudy like muddy water!
His nose was flat, his gums shrunken, and a few small yellow teeth looked like they were about to fall out!
His tiny hands and feet were shriveled like chicken claws, and his skin hung loosely on his bones!
And the child was crying, not a 'wah-wah' cry, but a dry, horrifying cough-like wail, like a broken bellows, chilling to hear!"
Lionel: "..."
All his painstakingly crafted words and sentences were wasted in the old shoemaker's mouth.
But the common people clearly preferred the old shoemaker's rendition—
"Whoa!"
A chorus of gasps and incredulous exclamations filled the tavern.
"Born an old man? That's even weirder than the rumors during the Commune!"
A blacksmith exclaimed, clicking his tongue, his face full of disbelief.
"It must be the work of the devil!"
A devout believer crossed himself.
"Poor woman, giving birth to such a monster, she gave her life for it!"
"What about the father? Was he scared witless?"
Someone pressed.
The old shoemaker took a sip of beer from his mug, clearing his throat:
"...Luc Bouton let out a strange 'ergh' from his throat, and two words burst out: 'Monster!'
He sprang back in fright, his spine hitting the wall with a 'clang'!
His eyes were bloodshot and wide, likely driven mad with fear...
The doctor desperately tried to persuade him,
'No! For God's sake! He's alive! He's a boy! Monsieur Bouton, you cannot...'"
"...Just as this commotion was happening, the street outside erupted into chaos!
Glass shattered, people shouted to the heavens, 'Hang the aristocrats!
Burn their dog kennels!'..."
The listeners in the tavern nodded in agreement, discussing animatedly:
"That's right! It was so chaotic back then!
The Bastille had just fallen, and people would rush anyone they didn't like!"
"The father was ruthless enough, but... oh well..."
"Where did he throw it? Read it, you old fellow!"
"The almshouse! The Salpêtrière Almshouse near Place du Châtelet!..."
...
Lionel left before the story concluded, leaving behind 1 franc for the bartender, so the old shoemaker could drink whatever he wanted that night.
Although he didn't yet know the sales figures for this issue of Le Petit Parisien, he was already certain that The Strange Case of Benjamin Bouton would be well-received.
Because if the story itself lacked appeal, it couldn't have stirred such enthusiasm for adaptation among "newspaper readers" like the old shoemaker.
Everything that happened in 'Père Lemerre' tavern today gave him boundless confidence.
(End of Chapter)
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