Chapter 56 Paris Bends Down
In March, Paris still held the chill of winter in its air, and the trees along the Seine River had just put forth timid, tender buds.
Near Saint-Michel Boulevard on the Left Bank, an inconspicuous mobile bookstall was quietly set up in a corner, its owner a small man wrapped in an old overcoat, with watchful eyes.
His stall seemed ordinary, piled with old newspapers, popular novels, and a few historical biographies. But if a regular customer approached, with just a specific look or a vague code word, he would, as if by magic, carefully pull out plain-printed booklets from a locked old leather case beneath the stall.
Transactions were swift and silent, coins making a dull thud as they landed in his palm, and the booklets were quickly tucked into the buyer's inner coat pocket or deep inside their briefcase.
But today, the stall owner was unusually different—the booklets in the old leather case were divided into two batches, one thick and one thin; the thick one sold for only 15 sous, while the thin one cost 1 franc.
A bank clerk, a regular customer, carrying a briefcase, frowned upon hearing the price and asked, "Pierre, have you lost your mind?"
The stall owner, named Pierre, first pulled out the thick booklet and handed it to him: "Don't rush, just read a couple of pages."
The bank clerk took the book, glanced around, saw no one he knew, and so began to read at ease.
After only five minutes, the bank clerk's eyes widened, and he cursed, "Damn it, what does '20 lines deleted here' mean? The scoundrel should go to hell! I don't think he's honest at all!"
The stall owner, Pierre, then offered the thin booklet with a lewd smile: "Now take a look at this one."
The bank clerk took the thin booklet, and this time, after only 30 seconds, he bent over, then clutched the thin booklet to his chest: "The scoundrel who deserves to be roasted in the furnace by Satan! …How much?"
The stall owner Pierre's smile was lewd yet simple: "Buy both together, 1 franc 10 sous, you save 5 sous. I'll tell you—the thin one is single-sided print, you can cut it out with scissors and paste it into the corresponding places in the thick one…"
The bank clerk made the sign of the cross over his chest: "Oh God, please forgive me, a sinner…"
He then pulled out 1 franc 10 sous in coins and tossed them over, then stuffed both books into his briefcase and left, hunched over.
— — — — — —
Deep within an old mansion in the Latin Quarter of the 5th arrondissement, a room converted into a "private reading room" was filled with smoke, making the already dim light even more obscure.
The facilities here were rudimentary, with only a few rows of hard wooden tables and chairs and dim gas lamps. At one of these rows, several men huddled together, almost head to head, greedily reading the same book spread out on the table—these were a few rare editions the reading room owner had obtained at great risk, charged by the hour, and quite expensive.
They turned pages cautiously, afraid of making any sound that might attract unnecessary attention. The room was filled only with heavy breathing, an occasional suppressed cough, and the rustle of coins being gently pushed across the table—a signal to extend reading time.
The shadows of the lamp light reflected on each man's face, their expressions so focused they were almost contorted. Someone would suddenly stop reading at a certain point, look up, their eyes staring blankly into the smoky air, as if their soul had been deeply pierced by a scene or a phrase in the book, falling into a momentary trance.
The air was stuffy and murky, mixed with the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and an indescribable, peculiar excitement born from sharing a forbidden secret.
Others were waiting in line behind them, anxiously watching the clock on the wall; every 20 minutes, someone would step forward to pull one of the Onlookers away from the book, then squeeze in themselves.
The person pulled away would often let out a wail, then quickly bend over as if realizing something, drawing a burst of laughter.
— — — — — —
In a luxurious villa at "Montmartre Hill," a resort on the outskirts of Paris, a private salon was about to begin in a "gentlemen's club" adorned with velvet drapes and permeated with a strong perfume scent.
The waiting gentlemen were not, as usual, focused on appreciating the artworks on the walls or conversing in low tones; instead, each was slumped deep in a soft sofa, in various postures, but all with their heads bowed, their minds firmly captivated by a thick booklet with a plain cover, lacking even a title, in their hands.
A strange quiet filled the air, broken only by the occasional crackle of wood in the fireplace and the rustle of turning pages.
Someone unconsciously licked his dry lips, his Adam's apple bobbing; someone else frowned deeply, as if undergoing some inner struggle; and still another had an inexpressible smile on his lips, mixed with excitement and a hint of unease.
A waiter walked by with a tray, the crisp clinking of crystal glasses failing to disturb their concentration. Here, time seemed to stretch, the waiting bought with money replaced by another, stronger attraction emanating from the pages.
After a long while, an old, white-haired gentleman suddenly blurted out, "Damn it, I also have a vineyard, why didn't I think of that…"
He then realized this wasn't his private study and that others were present, so he awkwardly quieted down, intending to go to the restroom—but he quickly noticed something and immediately bent over.
He furtively glanced around, finding that no one had noticed him, as they were all focused on the thick booklet before them, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.
— — — — — —
Father Bertrand, known in the parish for his strictness, piety, and fairness, was hurrying through a dimly lit alley, dressed in a black robe.
Clutched tightly to his chest was not his daily Bible and breviary, but the "forbidden book" he had just acquired with half a month's stipend.
Father Bertrand felt the book like a burning coal, scorching his chest.
Fragments he had glimpsed before buying it echoed repeatedly in his mind—about how Simmons used the greed of the parish doctor to cover up his crimes, about those rituals performed in the chapels of opulent mansions, which were more blasphemous than prayer.
And of course, those women in the book… those women… Oh, God, even thinking a single word felt like a sin.
But those words, and the sentences formed by those words, were like the sharpest sewing needles, drilling into the deepest parts of his brain, ceaselessly, drilling deeper and deeper.
"This is to understand the devil!"
"Only by understanding the devil can one defeat the devil!"
"Lord, please grant me the strength to defeat the devil!"
Father Bertrand muttered to himself, but then he suddenly saw a young woman from near his church approaching, smiling and greeting him: "Good afternoon, Father Bertrand, may God bless you!"
Father Bertrand looked at the girl's youthful face and suddenly recalled a scene from the book—[Ilena opened the window, sweeping away the petals and leaves that had accumulated on the windowsill overnight, scattering them on Gérard Simons's head…]
He immediately felt something was amiss, and in the girl's surprised and fearful gaze, he bowed to her.
— — — —
In the soft sofa of the bank manager's office, the respectable Mr. Reynal, a banker known for his prudence and piety, was enjoying his lunch break with a book in hand.
But what his secretary, who served him tea, didn't know was that Mr. Reynal was experiencing unprecedented torment.
On the pages, the description of Old Master Simmons's elaborately designed "game" under the grape arbor, its vivid details and alluring atmosphere, far surpassed his meager imagination.
He felt the collar of his stiffly starched shirt become unusually tight, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He wanted to close the book, but the explicit hints and tension-filled scenes magnetically held his gaze.
A strong sense of moral guilt gripped him—as a father of four children and a model donor to the parish, he should not be exposed to such "degenerate" writings.
He remembered his dissolute, mischievous friend's sly, mysterious smile when he handed him this book.
However, his body's honest reactions and the deep-seated, long-dormant heat ignited within him made him unable to resist the temptation of the next page.
He fretfully loosened his tie, his Adam's apple again bobbed violently, and finally, his fingers betrayed his reason, trembling as they turned to a new page. He felt as if he stood on the edge of an abyss, knowing the danger, yet unable to retreat.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the office door, and his secretary's voice sounded: "Mr. Paris is here."
Reynal instinctively stood up, preparing to greet the client—but immediately bent over and sat back down on the sofa: "Please ask him to wait a moment…"
— — — — — —
And by night, the busiest and liveliest places in all of Paris were no longer the various salons and balls, but the brothels, large and small.
Whether it was the courtesans living in villas, where a night of pleasure cost thousands of francs; or the mid- to high-end brothels scattered in upscale neighborhoods and near churches, requiring dozens or hundreds of francs for an overnight stay; or even the low-end dens where one could get a quickie for 10 sous—all were overflowing with people.
Even madams who had been out of the front-line work for years were forced to return to employment.
Even stranger, these continuous streams of customers made all sorts of bizarre requests, some of which even made the seasoned ladies blush.
The only thing they had in common was that, even without mummy powder, they were exceptionally vigorous tonight, so they all left hunched over, leaning against walls…
A virus called "the decadent city" was spreading through Paris, and even France, at an unprecedented rate…