Vikram Singh was visibly startled by the sudden question, seemingly not expecting the other party to ask this.
He immediately grew somewhat irritated and repeated with a heavier tone:
"With me! Vikram Singh! You are going to duel me!"
Lionel's expression remained unchanged as he continued to press:
"This 'I' you mentioned? Who is it?"
Vikram Singh was even more enraged:
"Lionel Sorel! What exactly do you mean? Are you trying to escape?"
Lionel shook his head, a subtle smile appearing on his face, but his voice was calm:
"No, what I mean is, do you really know who 'I' am?"
Vikram Singh felt his sanity being provoked:
"Of course I know! You are Lionel Sorel, the French writer who slandered us Indians and the British Empire!"
Lionel interrupted him, his gaze calmly fixed on the other party:
"No, you don't. 'Who are you?' — Vikram Singh?
That is just a name, an appellation. Anyone can be called Vikram Singh, I can, any Indian on the street can.
But, what happens after that appellation is removed? You, who are you?"
Vikram Singh was completely bewildered.
He opened his mouth, feeling his brain struggling to comprehend.
The question sounded simple, yet it unexpectedly touched upon a level he had never deeply considered.
He almost instinctively repeated his previous declaration of identity:
"I am the son of Sir Raja Singh, the hereditary Thakur of Jaipur, a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen!"
As if these titles were an indestructible armor, capable of fending off any form of questioning.
Lionel went along with it, immediately steering the question to the core:
"Very well, you said you want to duel me for 'the honor of the British Empire and the dignity of the Indians.'
Then, may I ask, which of the titles you just mentioned—'son of a Sir', 'Thakur', 'subject'—can legally represent 'the British Empire'?"
Vikram Singh froze, as if pinned to the spot by the question.
His lips moved a few times, but he couldn't immediately produce a sound.
Represent the British Empire?
He had never considered his position from this angle.
His father was a Sir, an honor bestowed by the Queen, and he was proud of it, but could this honor equate to the power to represent the Empire?
He spoke hesitantly:
"My father is a Sir, personally conferred by Her Majesty the Queen... this itself is a manifestation of imperial honor!"
Lionel immediately pressed:
"A Sir conferred by Her Majesty the Queen? That's good. Then, may I ask, with this conferment.
Can your father, or you yourself, participate in British elections and vote for the administrators of this country? Or be elected as an administrator?
Or can you, with this status, enter the Parliament of Westminster, become a Member of Parliament, and participate in formulating the laws of this country?"
Vikram Singh felt as if struck by lightning, his face instantly turning pale:
"This..."
Of course, he knew the answer.
Elections?
These were rights belonging to British citizens, irrelevant to them, the colonial nobility.
They were granted honors, invited to banquets, praised as "loyal pillars of the Empire," but were never allowed to step into the Empire's inner circle.
He stood with his mouth open, his throat seemingly blocked by something, unable to utter a single word.
His Indian companions behind him also fell into a dead silence, the previously passionate and indignant emotions seemed to have been doused with cold water, leaving only speechless shock and bewilderment.
Lionel looked at his speechless opponent and lightly shrugged:
"You see, you don't even have the most basic civil rights!
So how can you claim to represent 'the British Empire' to duel me? Where is your qualification to represent?"
Vikram Singh's face turned from white to red, clearly mortified by Lionel's questioning.
He struggled, trying to grasp another straw:
"Then I... I represent the dignity of the Indians! That must be acceptable!"
Lionel immediately took the cue and continued to ask:
"Indians? At this very moment, in 1881, is there a country named 'India' in this world?"
At this, not only did Vikram Singh freeze, but all the young Indian elites behind him burst into an uproar!
Their faces showed extreme anger, some excitedly wanted to step forward to argue, but then realized they couldn't find any words to refute this fact.
No country of India?
There was only British India, a jewel in the Queen's crown, a large area on the Empire's colonial map.
The scene was filled with chaotic whispers and suppressed anger, yet no one could step forward with an answer.
Amidst the commotion, Lionel merely let out a soft scoff:
"Since there is currently no country called 'India' in this world—
Then may I ask, where are these 'Indians' you speak of? And how can you represent a non-existent group? Your qualification to represent is equally out of the question."
Vikram Singh felt a wave of dizziness, the two cornerstones he relied on—representing the Empire, representing India—were so fragile.
The immense humiliation from his crushing defeat almost made him lose his mind, and he shouted uncontrollably:
"Then I represent myself! Vikram Singh himself!
My personal honor has been insulted by you! That must be acceptable! I want to duel you for myself!"
Lionel remained calm in the face of this almost roaring declaration, and shrugged:
"Then, we return to the very first question. Who is this 'I' you speak of? Who am I to duel?"
...
A long, suffocating silence.
Vikram Singh stood there blankly, like a sculpture from which the soul had been drawn.
The flush on his face gradually faded, leaving only an empty pallor.
He looked at the solitary glove at Lionel's feet, then at the consistently calm French writer...
Finally, he bent down with difficulty, picked up the glove, and clutched it tightly in his hand.
He did not look at Lionel again, nor did he say another word.
He simply turned around in silence, stumbled through his companions, and walked towards the other end of the street.
The other young Indians exchanged glances, their faces a mix of anger, humiliation, confusion, and bewilderment, but then they lowered their heads and slinked away, following him.
Soon, they disappeared into the twilight and fog of London's streets.
The previously tense atmosphere thus quietly came to an end.
The group of reporters who had been waiting for a long time immediately seized the opportunity and quickly swarmed over.
They surrounded Lionel, and a barrage of questions rained down on him.
"Mr. Sorel! Do you believe that India's elite class is completely unable to represent their own people?"
"Mr. Sorel, does your questioning of Mr. Singh just now represent your fundamental rejection of all colonial policies?"
"You are exiled in London, how do you plan to deal with the lawsuit in Paris next? Will you return to stand trial?"
"The serialization of 'The Sign of the Four' is about to end, what will the next 'Sherlock Holmes story' be about?"
Just then, a sharp whistle sounded, and several policemen jogged over from the street corner, rushing towards them.
(End of chapter)