Lionel returned from Good Words magazine, walking quickly back to his temporary residence.
He was just one cross street away.
However, as he turned the corner, he saw over a dozen shadowy figures gathered at the apartment entrance, and his heart tightened.
An instinctive wariness made him slow his pace.
Norman McLeod's private apartment was located in a typical affluent middle-class London neighborhood, with residents almost all being native British elites.
The vast majority of those people were clearly not residents of the community; not only was their skin dark, but their appearance was also completely different from that of Britons.
The other few indeed looked British, but they held small notebooks and pencils, looking like journalists.
He subconsciously wanted to go around them, but the group had already spotted him and quickly surrounded him.
One tall young man, dressed in a suit and leaning on a cane, was the first to approach, cutting a rather dashing figure.
Lionel clearly saw his and his companions' appearances; they were evidently all of South Asian descent.
The young man spoke:
"Mr. Lionel Sorel?"
His English was very pure, almost without a discernible accent.
Lionel stopped:
"I am… May I ask who you are?"
He maintained basic politeness, but was clearly wary—had someone betrayed his whereabouts?
The young man slightly raised his chin, introducing himself with a sense of superiority:
"Vikram Singh. My father is Sir Raja Singh. We are the hereditary Thakurs of Jaipur (Note 1), loyal subjects of Her Majesty the Queen. I myself graduated from King's College."
Lionel, however, grew more confused.
An Indian nobleman's son, coming to his door with clear dissatisfaction?
But he was more concerned with how the other party found him:
"Mr. Singh, may I ask how you knew I live here?"
Vikram Singh showed a mocking expression, and his tone became even sharper:
"Mr. Sorel, that's not difficult to guess. The whole world knows that when Frenchmen get into trouble, the first refuge they think of is London—especially people like you.
So, after the news of your villa being enthusiastically visited by 'patriotic youths' was published, I realized that you would very likely have set foot on British soil.
We only needed to patiently keep an eye on Good Words magazine… Sure enough, before long, you appeared!"
After hearing this explanation, Lionel's tense nerves actually relaxed a bit.
As long as it wasn't official tracking or betrayal from those around him, this level of attention was still within an acceptable range.
At least Norman McLeod and those close to him should be reliable, otherwise the other party would have come calling much sooner.
However, his change in mood seemed to be misinterpreted as disdain by Vikram Singh.
The Indian nobleman's son's face darkened.
He said no more, deftly removed the glove from his right hand, and then threw it at Lionel's feet.
Lionel was stunned.
A duel?
It was well known that Britain was the strictest country in Europe regarding dueling, having enacted a decree as early as 1819 prohibiting officers or civil servants from participating in duels.
By 1845, Queen Victoria again strengthened the punishment for dueling, defining death by duel as murder.
Even notaries, doctors, and even coachmen would be brought to court.
Although France also prohibited dueling, the authorities generally turned a blind eye; Britain had actually brought nobles to court for it.
So, there were almost no public duels in Britain; those who truly wanted to duel usually went to Belgium or France.
Here he was in London, and someone was challenging him in this way?
And with journalists present?
Was he tired of not eating prison food?
Moreover, he couldn't recall having any interaction with this heir to the Thakur of Jaipur, let alone any deep-seated grudge requiring a duel to the death.
Lionel did not pick up the glove, indicating that he did not accept the duel invitation.
He asked in confusion:
"Mr. Singh, what does this… mean? I hope to get a reasonable explanation."
Vikram Singh watched Lionel not pick up the glove, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, immediately replaced by anger.
He raised his voice, ensuring the surrounding journalists could hear clearly:
"What do I mean? Mr. Sorel, have you forgotten?
Your malicious article titled 'The Glorified and the Castrated'! And your sensational book, 'The Sign of Four'!
These two works not only wantonly slandered the order and civilization established by the British Empire in India, but also deeply insulted us Indians!
You depicted those Indian elites who were loyal to the Empire and dedicated to modernization as pitiful wretches whose spirits had been castrated!"
At this point, his voice began to tremble due to excessive excitement:
"Do you think all Indians should be like the hateful rebels in your writings?
You don't understand India at all! You understand even less about us Indian gentlemen who, under the protection of Her Majesty's laws, are able to display our talents and serve our people!
You sit comfortably in your Parisian apartment, relying on imagination and prejudice, daring to criticize us!
I, Vikram Singh, as a representative of Indians in London, absolutely cannot stand by and let you slander the honor of the British Empire and the dignity of Indians like this! Since words cannot awaken you, then let sabers and pistols settle it! I demand a duel with you!"
After hearing these impassioned accusations, Lionel was momentarily speechless.
He looked at Vikram Singh's flushed face, which carried an almost devout sense of honor, and what surged in his heart was not anger, but a sense of absurdity.
He remembered the phenomenon he criticized in his article.
Those local elites in colonies, shaped by colonial education, revered the colonizers' values, and would even more actively maintain the colonial order than the colonizers, feeling profoundly proud of it.
At this moment, Vikram Singh was practically a living embodiment walking out of his article.
He couldn't help but sigh inwardly, the British "educational" work in India was truly "remarkably effective".
To be able to make a noble youth willing to fight an foreign writer over it.
Compared to the British, the French colonial standard was simply beyond words.
But he still did not bend down, did not touch the glove.
He just responded calmly:
"A duel? Mr. Singh, you seem to have forgotten, this is Great Britain. Dueling is explicitly illegal in the UK! Since you claim allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen, are you going to openly violate the laws promulgated by the Queen you serve?"
However, when Vikram Singh heard this, he did not shrink back; instead, a triumphant sneer appeared on his face.
Lionel's words seemed to have been anticipated by him, and he was clearly prepared for this.
Vikram Singh slowly said:
"Law? Mr. Sorel, you are right, British law indeed prohibits its citizens from dueling. But that law protects British gentlemen. And you, hah, I'm afraid you are not qualified to receive the protection of that law, are you?"
His voice became triumphant:
"Besides, you didn't enter through normal diplomatic channels or port inspections, otherwise the news would have reported it long ago!
In a legal sense, you, Mr. Lionel Sorel, do not exist on British soil at all. How can a non-existent person, who is also not British, be protected by British law? So, this is a 'private matter' between us."
Lionel was completely taken aback, he hadn't expected the other party to approach it from this angle.
Using his illegal entry status to circumvent Britain's ban on dueling?
This argument was so cunning, with an almost rogue reasonableness, that for a moment he didn't know how to refute it.
He stood in the thin mist of the London evening, looking at the white glove at his feet, not feeling the slightest panic.
He looked at Vikram Singh in front of him and asked leisurely,
"Then could you please tell me, with whom am I dueling?"
Note 1: Refers to a group of Rajput minor feudal nobles with hereditary territories and the title of 'Thakur' within the Jaipur princely state.
They belonged to collateral branches or meritorious families of the Kachwaha royal family, ranking second only to the Maharaja.
They constituted a fixed feudal hierarchy within the state, where their privileges, fiefs, and ceremonial status could be inherited from father to son, hence they were called 'hereditary Thakurs'.
(End of chapter)