Chapter 9: Lady Rothschild

"I want the two of you to understand that the incident this morning was of a very serious nature!" Dean Henri Patin sat behind his massive desk, speaking sternly to the two students standing before him.

The Dean’s office, a converted aristocratic prayer chamber from the days of the Sorbonne Theological College, was vast, with soaring vaulted ceilings and rows of icons. The winter afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, transforming into elusive, kaleidoscopic colors.

Dry firewood crackled in the fireplace, and the flickering light cast a heavy, oppressive shadow over Henri Patin’s grim face.

Lionel and Albert both hung their heads, hands at their sides, not daring to utter a sound.

Henri Patin leaned forward slightly. "Do you know who else was sitting in my carriage today?"

The two looked up at the Dean.

It was no wonder such a trivial matter had alarmed him—otherwise, even when students from the "Royalist" and "Republican" factions had brawled in the past, it had been handled internally by the dean of students without ever reaching his desk. He hadn't even made an appearance then.

Dean Henri Patin’s voice grew agitated. "It was Madame Rothschild! One of our college’s primary benefactors! She intended to make a low-profile visit today, but you two..."

He sighed. "Fortunately, she was inside the carriage and her ears were not polluted by your ramblings! But your ugly faces and the chaos of the crowd watching the spectacle left a 'deep impression' on her. Good God, look at what you have done."

Only then did the two realize why the Dean was so furious.

"Rothschild..." The name was, of course, thunderous to Lionel.

In the 21st-century Chinese internet sphere, the "Rothschild family," along with the "Freemasons" and the "Illuminati," were categorized as "super-organizations" in pulp literature that secretly controlled the world. These organizations shared common traits: on one hand, they were "incredibly mysterious" and "those who know the truth are in mortal danger"; on the other, they were publicized so exhaustively that everyone knew of them. Their evil plans were invariably grandiose—such as eliminating 98% of the world's population to leave only 2% of the elite, who would then cheerfully take over the jobs left behind by the departed.

Lionel, of course, did not believe these urban legends, so he felt no particular shock. He wasn't entirely sure what the Rothschild family of this era was doing, but judging by the fact that this Madame Rothschild could fund the Sorbonne, she was surely wealthy, likely still involved in the old trade: finance.

As a national university, the government provided funds to cover basic operations, but for further research, the college relied heavily on such generous benefactors.

Every year before the Easter holidays, the Sorbonne held a grand campus poetry recital, inviting patrons to gather with the college's most outstanding students. On stage, young, handsome students would recite poems praising the benefactors and their families; if they pleased the guests, it might result in extra funding for the college.

A Dean’s competence was measured not by his "prestige," but by how much funding he could bring to the school.

Now that the two had scared away a major benefactor, the consequences were dire.

Lionel was not about to argue with the Dean, nor would he resort to the foolishness of saying, "Albert insulted me first." Instead, he apologized sincerely: "I am truly very sorry, Mr. Patin! I apologize to you, to Madame Rothschild, and to all the faculty and students of the Sorbonne for my recklessness and bitterness! If there is an opportunity, I wish to offer my apologies to Madame Rothschild in person! I trust she will understand that this was merely an unintentional prank between impulsive, ignorant young men and does not represent the essence of the 'Sorbonnards'!"

Dean Henri Patin’s expression softened slightly. He then turned his gaze toward Albert, his eyes filled with expectation.

To everyone's surprise, Albert muttered under his breath, "...that snobbish Jewish hag, back when my father was still a Deputy Minister..."

Though the voice was low, Dean Henri Patin certainly heard it, and a look of visible panic crossed his face.

Lionel sensed something was wrong and immediately kicked Albert in the shin. Albert, stung by the pain, turned with wide, furious eyes: "You..."

In a flash, Lionel pulled a piece of dry, hard bread from his coat and shoved it into Albert’s gaping mouth with lightning speed.

He then said calmly and composedly, "Mr. Dean, Albert spoke too much during class earlier, and his throat is a bit hoarse. He was just saying that when his father was a Deputy Minister, he had often praised the Rothschild family’s significant contributions to France. I believe he also harbors a deep apology for Madame Rothschild and for you. We already reconciled on the way to the office! Isn't that right, Albert?"

As he spoke, he stared intensely at him.

Albert, coming from an aristocratic family, was a pampered wastrel, but he possessed enough wit to read the room. Seeing the reactions of the Dean and Lionel, he knew something was amiss. With his mouth plugged by the hard bread, he could only nod repeatedly.

Lionel stepped forward and threw his arms around Albert, slapping him on the back so hard he nearly made him cough up blood. "Albert, we are all 'Sorbonnards,' we are family! Right?"

With the bread in his mouth and a heavy blow to his back, Albert’s vision blurred, but he had no choice but to play along with Lionel’s performance.

Dean Henri Patin finally exhaled and waved his hand. "Go back! I will have the Registrar report your status at any time. If this happens again, you are not worthy of being called 'Sorbonnards'!"

Hearing this as a reprieve, the two bowed to the Dean and hurried out of his office.

In the hallway, Albert "pulled" the hard, salty bread from his mouth, threw it into the courtyard, and spat several times before looking up at Lionel with a fierce glare.

Lionel did not change his expression. "That was my lunch; you need to buy me another."

Albert’s face was dark. "You had better explain yourself!"

Lionel glanced back at the closed door of the Dean's office to ensure no one was following, then whispered, "If I am not mistaken, Madame Rothschild was in the office, even if we couldn't see her."

Albert froze, his mouth agape, not knowing what to say.

After a long while, he said to Lionel, his face expressionless, "This time... I owe you one." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a 10-franc note, and handed it to Lionel. "Your lunch money... that should be enough for a decent set meal at the Grand Hotel du Louvre."

Lionel accepted it with peace of mind. "Helping you is, in truth, helping myself... though you would certainly have suffered worse than me."

Albert knew it was the truth. If his complaint had been heard by Madame Rothschild, Dean Henri Patin would have been forced to impose harsh punishments, and neither of them would have escaped.

As the two talked, Madame Rothschild, dressed in exquisite casual wear, sat opposite Dean Henri Patin, asking with a smile, "What did that Rohan boy just say?"

The wealthy noblewoman looked no older than thirty, with golden hair as bright as early summer sunlight and emerald eyes that looked like jewels, as if she had just stepped out of a Baroque portrait.

Dean Henri Patin smiled slightly. "Whatever he wished to say has already been articulated by Lionel, and I believe that was his intention as well."

Madame Rothschild’s smile turned ambiguous. "Is that so? That doesn't sound like his temper at all... but that Lionel is quite interesting. Will he be participating in this year’s poetry recital?"

Dean Henri Patin chuckled. "Of course, he is excellent! You shall see his wonderful recitation at the recital..."

Madame Rothschild’s eyes lit up instantly.