The morning mist of Parisian spring, besides carrying the moisture and coal smoke from the Seine River, also held a faint, almost imperceptible scent of decay—a product of pollen mixed with the smell of feces.
It clung to Victor Dourouet's face with a sticky persistence, but he paid no mind, instead breathing it in with a sense of contentment.
He stood on the balcony of the "noble floor" on the second story of a respectable apartment building on Boulevard Saint-Germain, looking down at the bustling city below; in the distance, the towering spires of churches defiantly pierced the grey sky.
A familiar, subtly flirtatious smile once again played on Victor's lips.
The dazzling sun of Nice, the songs of Marseille, and the ancient cobblestone alleys of Lyon… the innocence and greed in the living rooms of those provincial middle-class families seemed like a lifetime ago.
The girls in their overly starched dresses, with eyes gleaming with blind adoration for the aura of the "Orby Trading Company manager," along with their fathers' francs, hidden in safes and easily enticed by "Panama Canal bonds," all became stepping stones for him to stand here.
Victor Dourouet still remembered the desperate girl at the foot of the Alps half a year ago, her generous dowry and her family's savings—a full five thousand francs—one of the most beautiful notes in his symphony of success.
He had only met the girl and her family three times and shared two meals with them before he had them all in the palm of his hand—all it took were some not-too-shabby fake jewels and a torrent of extravagant promises.
Oh, they even wanted him to find a job for their son, who was studying in Paris, with an annual salary of 3,000 francs—haha, that Poor Léonard probably rolled back to the Alps to be a copyist by now—he could earn 90 francs a month!
However, the provinces were just a minor key; Paris, on the other hand, was the true symphony.
Of course, here in Paris, using the name "Orby Trading Company" and fake jewels to deceive those Parisian noblewomen, those queens of the salons, was no longer effective.
Their horizons, cultivated by literature, art, politics, and the latest scandals, had become incredibly discerning.
They didn't want promises of money; they wanted spiritual opium, a thrilling leap to break the monotony of their lives, a "private collection" that could adorn their vanity and incite jealousy among their circle of friends.
Victor held a manuscript filled with writing, and the top line bore a name: "Poor Léonard."
He recalled the night he first heard that name in a tavern—
"That Sorbonne freak!" A big-bearded man, his cheeks flushed with wine, scoffed with a mix of jealousy and incomprehension in the smoky haze: "Heaven knows what possessed those noble ladies!
'Poor Léonard,' ha! That's what they call him. They say he lives in some rat hole in the Eleventh District, his coat elbows are so shiny they could be mirrors! Every day he squeezes into a stinky public carriage to the Sorbonne to pore over his Latin and philosophy."
Victor Dourouet elegantly flicked the ash from his cigar: "Only that? Parisian noblewomen are used to talented men; a poor student wouldn't make them so enthusiastic."
The big-bearded man pursed his lips: "Of course not just that! This fellow even wrote a famous novel called 'the old guard'—I don't understand that stuff, anyway.
This guy even scoffs at the gilded salon invitations they send him! I heard a lady personally sent someone to invite him, wanting to meet this 'unconventional' young man, but what happened? He was directly turned away.
The reason? Absolutely absurd! He said he wanted to attend the salons of Flaubert and Zola. Listen to that, how foolish! Just imagine how boring those salons must be!"
But then, the words of another small-bearded drunkard struck Victor's mind like lightning: "Ha, you fool, no wonder you can only attend those 'meat feasts'.
You see, it's precisely this 'unobtainable' quality that's so alluring! What rare treasures haven't these noble ladies seen? Why is it this poor student, like a stinky, hard rock, that makes them so restless?
They discuss his poverty as if discussing a rare, hidden antique!
Mystery, mystery is Paris's most expensive perfume!"
Victor's heart suddenly clenched, then expanded with wild joy.
"Lionel"! A name no more unusual than "Pierre"—but now it was a living symbol, collectively imagined and yearned for by the noblewomen!
Poor, arrogant, brilliant, disdainful of power, unapproachable… he hadn't even appeared in the noblewomen's salons!
All of this perfectly aligned with the pathological pursuit of "dangerous yet pure" spiritual stimulation by those pampered, emotionally empty noblewomen.
They were tired of flattery; they needed an idol to conquer, a "charity project" to prove their charm and generosity, a "moral medal" to adorn their salons!
At this thought, Victor Dourouet raised his glass high: "All the drinks tonight are on me!"
A cheer erupted in the tavern.
In just two days, two weeks before Easter, Victor Dourouet rented an attic in the Eleventh arrondissement. Besides being too small, too smelly, having a landlord with too shrill a voice, and terrible cooking, it was practically flawless.
Anyway, he would only come here to put on a show when "necessary."
Next were the props, the most important prop—that "coat with shiny elbows."
Victor Dourouet didn't just pick up a random one from a flea market; instead, he went to the best men's tailor shop on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and bought a dark wool coat of excellent material and perfectly tailored fit.
Upon returning, he found several pieces of old woolen cloth of similar texture but slightly lighter color, carefully cutting them into patches of varying sizes.
He didn't directly sew on these patches; instead, he first used sandpaper to gently and repeatedly abrade the areas where the patches would go, until the fibers were almost broken.
Then, he used good quality horse oil paste, patiently rubbing these areas to give the worn spots a natural sheen from within, as if from long-term friction.
Finally, he had a tailor stitch on those carefully treated old woolen patches with the finest stitches, making them look completely natural from a distance, as if these patches had accompanied the coat's owner through countless nights of arduous study.
This was by no means the sloppiness of destitution, but a meticulously designed, poetic shabbiness, an elegance of the "poor aristocrat" type.
His other attire was also impeccable: several faded but good-quality linen shirts, a pair of dark trousers that were also old but not dirty, yet still maintained a sharp crease, and a pair of clean but noticeably worn-down old leather shoes.
No tie, his collar casually open, hinting at an intellectual's unconventional spirit.
He even wandered around Sorbonne University for a few days, observing the demeanor and gestures of truly poor students.
Victor Dourouet practiced every day in front of the mirror. He reined in his usual flirtatious curve, replacing it with a smile that blended aloofness, indifference, and a faint weariness, as if he were tired of all the world's superficiality.
He practiced emptying his gaze, looking into the distant void, as if his soul were immersed in deep thought, oblivious to the mundane things before him.
He also practiced his walking posture—small steps, with a touch of intellectual refinement, yet subtly conveying an inner sense of strength, never dragging, never faltering.
"Remember, Victor!" he whispered to his reflection: "You are not begging, not flattering. You are bestowing. Bestowing upon those pampered canaries a dream, a dream of spiritual salvation, of dangerous love, of conquering a rebellious soul.
They yearn to be 'seen' by 'Poor Léonard,' to become the 'light' in his meager life, to prove that their charm is enough to melt this 'ice.'
What you must do is become that magic mirror reflecting all their fantasies.
Money? That's merely the admission ticket they willingly pay for this beautiful dream, their pathetic attempt to grasp you and prove their worth.
You must make them feel that accepting their money is a 'favor' to them, a ticket allowing them to approach the sanctuary of your soul."
He walked to the window, looking out at the brightly lit world: "Paris, are you ready to welcome 'Poor Léonard'?"