From late 1879 to early 1880, in the streets and alleys of Paris, a new sound was added to the familiar clatter of carriages and the shouts of newsboys.
It was a melody hummed by children's clear, even slightly off-key voices—
"Oh, night has just fallen upon the earth..."
"Granny Manon has a cat, with its tail held so high!..."
The interludes from "The Choir"—especially the pure "Night" and the playful, mischievous "Granny Manon's Cat"—infiltrated every corner of Paris at an astonishing speed.
In the neat parks beside Boulevard Saint-Germain, boys and girls in velvet coats hummed as they swung;
In the intricate alleys of the Marais, children rolling iron hoops echoed with louder voices.
Even under the arches of the Pont des Arts along the Seine, a few ragged street children, their cheeks red from the cold, sang fragments of "Night" in tender, hoarse voices, intermittently yet unusually seriously.
The singing seemed out of place with the surroundings, yet it stubbornly glimmered with a faint light, as if the children from the "pond bottom" in the play had truly stepped into reality.
At the Conservatoire de Paris, Achille-Claude Debussy almost overnight became the hottest star in the entire school.
Invitations began to pour in like snowflakes—not for salon entertainment, but for serious theatrical scoring commissions, with rewards so generous they made him dizzy.
However, among all the invitations, a letter from distant Russia plunged him into unprecedented hesitation.
The letter was from Nadezhda von Meck, a famous art patron, and Tchaikovsky's close friend and benefactor.
In the letter, she sincerely invited Debussy to Moscow to serve as her family's pianist and chamber music consultant, offering extremely generous terms.
Had it been two months ago, the financially strapped Debussy would have packed his bags without hesitation.
But at this moment, touching another substantial composing advance he had just received in his pocket, he wavered.
The Parisian music market was embracing him; his career had just begun to take off in his homeland.
Going to Russia, Madame von Meck was indeed a powerful patron for musicians, but being dependent on others felt completely different.
The young musical genius was caught in a happy dilemma; he urgently wanted to find the respected Monsieur Sorell to consult him for advice.
————
Meanwhile, at the Comédie-Française, the office of director Émile Perrin was bustling with activity.
Representatives from Lyon, Marseille, Nantes, Toulouse, Nice... almost all French cities with decent theaters, crowded into his reception room.
Their goal was astonishingly consistent: to obtain authorization through the Comédie-Française to stage "The Choir" in their local cities.
The sensation caused by "The Choir" in Paris had already spread throughout the country through these representatives' letters, telegrams, and personal visits.
Every city's theater manager saw the enormous box office potential of this play, and they eagerly wished to bring it to their own stages.
But Director Émile Perrin saw a different picture.
Thanks to the immense success of "The Choir," his reputation had reached its peak, and he even had a chance to contend for the position of director of the Opéra de Paris.
He was absolutely unwilling to let Lionel sell the script and score of "The Choir" to other theaters, allowing "The Choir" to be performed everywhere in France.
He saw a better idea—to make "The Choir" the "exclusive signature" of the Comédie-Française, a permanent repertoire piece.
If other cities wanted to stage it, they would have to invite the original cast and crew of the Comédie-Française to tour!
This was how to maximize profit and spread his own reputation throughout France!
For this purpose, he unhesitatingly dispatched his chief assistant with a new contract offering extremely tempting conditions to find Lionel.
In the new contract, he substantially increased Lionel's box office percentage from the industry standard 3% to 6%.
The condition was that Lionel must grant the Comédie-Française exclusive performing rights to the play, and all future out-of-town performances would be managed by the Comédie-Française.
Thus, the Comédie-Française assistant, representatives from various city theaters, and the preoccupied Debussy all began an "all-city search" for Lionel Sorell.
They all went to 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, but Patty politely informed them that the young master had been going out early every day recently, his whereabouts unknown, often returning late at night, sometimes not at all.
They then asked Maupassant, Zola, and Flaubert, only to learn that Lionel had not appeared at their salons for weeks.
The young successful playwright seemed to have evaporated from Paris.
————
At this moment, Lionel was safely ensconced in a messy studio in Montmartre, Paris.
The air was filled with the scent of linseed oil and tobacco, and crumpled sketches, worn-out brushes, and several color-stained palettes lay scattered on the floor.
The owner of the studio, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, stood before his easel, occasionally squinting at the model in front of him, and at other times applying paint to the canvas with quick, precise strokes of a heavily loaded brush.
Fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and his expression was utterly focused.
And his model was none other than Lionel Sorell, whom many were frantically searching for.
Lionel leaned against an old sofa covered with a crimson velvet blanket, his posture relaxed but not lazy.
He wore a simple white shirt, collar slightly open, with his jacket casually draped over a nearby wicker chair.
The winter daylight from outside streamed through the massive north window, softly illuminating half of his face and body, creating alternating patterns of light and shadow.
"Yes, just like that, hold it, Lionel... Very good... You are much quieter than the models Monet finds, they always like to move around..."
Renoir mumbled as he painted, completely immersed in his world of light and shadow.
Lionel smiled faintly, saying nothing.
He, of course, knew many people were looking for him, and probably knew why—but he was not in a hurry.
As "The Choir" gained more performances, greater fame, and higher box office receipts, his bargaining power would also increase.
So, he might as well let the dust settle for a bit.
Coincidentally, Renoir had invited him—the winter sunlight in Paris had been excellent lately, perfect for painting portraits.
Lionel had previously agreed to pose for Renoir's portrait, so he took the opportunity to escape the hustle and bustle.
Renoir was extremely strict about lighting, only painting for two or three hours a day, some of which was spent waiting for clouds and haze to clear.
During these intervals, Lionel would drink coffee and discuss art-related topics.
What moved Renoir was that Lionel not only deeply appreciated the artistic principles of "Impressionism" but even said their paintings would fetch incredibly high prices in the future.
It was worth noting that just a few months ago, he was so poor he had to struggle to make ends meet.
To reciprocate this sense of kinship, Renoir brought out many of his treasured, high-quality paintings that he was unwilling to consign to galleries, letting Lionel choose freely.
Lionel was not shy either, paying according to Renoir's current market price, and almost every day he left with one or two paintings—
Some of these paintings hung on the walls of his own apartment, others in Sophie's home.
The process could be said to be very pleasant!
Moreover, watching Renoir capture and reshape light, and construct images with color blocks and brushstrokes, was a fresh and relaxing experience for him.
However, two letters, one from Moscow and one from London, disrupted his leisure time...
(End of Chapter)
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