The train from Vienna to Paris traveled through the twilight at the foot of the Alps, with the luxurious compartment filled with the smell of cigar smoke and leather.
Professor Theodor Meynert, white-haired and stern-faced, was carefully reviewing a stack of case briefs on Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve and selected excerpts from "the decadent city" under the dim light.
Beside him sat a young student, equally focused, who continuously took the documents the Professor had finished reading and devoured them eagerly, his eyes filled with a thirst for knowledge.
After a long while, Professor Meynert put down the documents and commented in German with a heavy Austrian accent: "Interesting, very interesting, Freud. This swindler possesses superb deceptive skills and a precise grasp of human weaknesses.
As for his literary works… let's call them a catharsis of some kind of morbid imagination."
Freud nodded: "Édouard-Benoît not only chose to deceive women's emotions as a means of accumulating wealth in his scams, but also enthusiastically depicted erotic scenes in his novels…
This indicates that he has been in a state of'sexual repression' since childhood!"
Professor Meynert frowned. His student was good in every way, except that he was too keen on those abstruse psychological theories, rather than studying mental illnesses from a rigorous anatomical and pathological perspective.
But this was an anomaly not accepted in orthodox psychiatric research, and he didn't want to be laughed at by Jean-Martin Charcot in Paris.
He reminded him: "The Church accuses him of being 'possessed by the devil,' which is actually a typical case, mixed with crime, hysteria, and religious delusion.
The day after tomorrow, all of Paris will be watching how we diagnose him. You must be careful with your words and not give anyone an excuse."
Freud nodded, and just as he was about to speak, there was a sudden knock on the compartment door.
Before Professor Meynert could respond, a tall, blonde, blue-eyed woman pulled open the door, walked in imperiously, and sat down opposite the two men.
Subsequently, several other tall women followed her in and stood behind her.
Freud vigilantly shielded his teacher.
The woman, unconcerned, introduced herself first: "Professor Meynert? Please forgive my abrupt intrusion. I am Sofia Ivanovna Durova-Sherbatova, daughter of Baroness Alekseyevna."
She spoke in German, her voice deliberately softened and urgent.
"Baroness Alekseyevna" was a name that appeared in the files, and Professor Meynert and Freud slightly relaxed.
Sofia's voice trembled slightly: "I beg you, give me a few minutes. It concerns the honor and survival of my family!"
Although Professor Meynert was quite displeased by the interruption, he still nodded slightly, indicating that she could continue.
Sofia took a deep breath and quickened her pace: "Professor, I know you are going to Paris to conduct a psychiatric evaluation for that swindler, Villeneuve.
I implore you, in your professional report, no matter what, you must diagnose him as a severely mentally ill patient!
A complete madman! The more severe, the better… any diagnostic name will do!"
As she spoke, she took out a pre-prepared bank draft from her expensive handbag and gently pushed it onto the small table in front of Professor Meynert.
The amount on it was enough to make anyone gasp – 50,000 francs.
Sofia's voice was seductive: "This is a small, insignificant token of gratitude for your professional efforts, Professor. As long as you provide the diagnosis we need, this is just the beginning.
The Durova-Sherbatova family has deep connections and resources in Vienna, in Saint Petersburg, and throughout Europe.
The University of Vienna? That's too small! We can establish a dedicated research institute for you, provide unimaginable financial support, and make you the undisputed king of European psychiatry!
Your achievements will surpass…"
Professor Meynert coldly interrupted her tempting promises: "Miss, you seem to have made two mistakes…"
His voice was not loud, but it was like cold metal scraping glass, making Sofia's heart clench.
Professor Meynert stood up, looking down: "First, I, Theodor Meynert, am a doctor, a scientist, not a bought shyster or a court jester.
My diagnosis is based only on observation, examination, and medical knowledge, on my reason and scholarship, not on anyone's wallet or the title before their surname."
Sofia's face turned ashen, and she was about to say something, but Professor Meynert's solemn tone suppressed her from speaking: "Second, you are here now, trying to bribe a scholar with money to falsify scientific conclusions…
This behavior itself has already stained the 'honor' that you and your family claim to uphold with an indelible mark."
Professor Meynert picked up the bank draft and, as if brushing away a speck of dust, contemptuously pushed it back in front of Sofia: "Now, please leave my compartment, madam.
Do not defile the air here. Freud, escort this lady out for me."
Professor Meynert sat back down, picking up Villeneuve's case file again, as if everything that had just happened had never occurred.
Sofia's face instantly turned pale, and humiliation and anger made her tremble slightly all over.
She stared intently at Professor Meynert's indifferent profile, her gray-blue eyes seemingly about to spew fire, and finally, she bent down sharply to pick up the bank draft, said nothing, and turned to leave the compartment.
The tall maids also hurriedly followed their mistress, fleeing the scene.
Freud didn't even have time to "escort" her, so he could only stand up and silently close the compartment door, turning back to his mentor, his eyes full of respect.
Professor Meynert didn't lift his head, his voice returning to calm: "Do you see, Freud? This is the other side of human nature — both greedy and full of fear, wanting to trample all rules with money and power.
Remember, never compromise with such baseness, even if it is draped in velvet and mink, and carrying a pocket full of money."
Freud nodded deeply.
Outside the window, the dark shadows of the Alps rapidly receded, and the lights of Paris faintly appeared ahead.
——
The last Sunday of July, Notre Dame Cathedral.
This Gothic behemoth, standing on the banks of the Seine River, was the most prominent focal point in all of Europe.
The nave, capable of holding thousands of people, was packed to the brim, the air a mixture of sweat, perfume, the scent of burning candle wax, and the strong aroma of incense…
The enormous rose window, illuminated by countless candles and gas lamps, refracted an unpredictable halo of light.
The towering rib vaults and the solemn statues of saints cast huge, swaying shadows on the crowd in the multi-layered light, as if the entire building was breathing uneasily.
Seated in the front rows were the elegantly dressed invited "audience" — stern-faced government officials and high-ranking church officials in splendid vestments.
Then came the newspaper reporters, who, like sharks smelling blood, rapidly scribbled with their pencils on their notepads, their eyes wide open, afraid to miss any detail.
In the back rows and beneath the side columns were representatives of the citizens who had squeezed in through various channels, craning their necks, their faces filled with a craving for supernatural spectacle.
Several cameras were even set up on site, solely to record this special ceremony today.