Chapter 12: The Rat (Please Continue Reading!)

Lionel had no idea that the few jokes he casually adapted from the “Monks and Taoists” section of *Laughing Forest Chronicles* had already sparked the most serious “bloodshed” in Notre-Dame since Quasimodo pushed Claude Frollo from the high tower.

At that moment, he stood facing an arrogant doorman at the entrance of a five-story Haussmann-style building opposite the District Two Stock Exchange.

“Sorry, sir!” The doorman, clad in a black overcoat, white gloves, a tall top hat, and knee-high leather boots, stood like a mountain before Lionel. “Entry is by invitation only.”

Lionel sighed helplessly. “I’m just here to see someone; do I really need an invitation?”

The doorman gave him a thorough once-over and snorted softly. “Sorry, sir, the policies at Orby Trading Company are very strict.” He didn’t budge an inch.

Lionel watched as an elderly gentleman in fine clothes, top hat in place and cane in hand, linked arms with a young woman and strolled casually into Orby Trading Company’s lobby. The doorman didn’t even question them.

As one of France’s largest overseas trading firms, Orby Trading Company saw many visitors daily, most arriving by carriage and dressed with some degree of elegance.

Such people passed freely.

Visitors like Lionel, who exuded the unmistakable aura of “poverty,” were precisely those the doorman was tasked to guard against.

No matter that Lionel was a top student at the Sorbonne, a future elite—when he couldn’t afford a private carriage or a finely tailored suit, the doorman saw him no differently than a vagrant or beggar.

Outside the university, Lionel felt more keenly the chasm carved by class distinctions in this era.

He couldn’t, as he once did with Albert, simply slip inside with a few witty remarks.

Left with no choice, Lionel retreated from Orby Trading Company’s entrance, turned a corner, and found a café to sit and contemplate his next move.

A waiter soon approached. “Sir, may I take your order? We’ve just launched an afternoon tea set—includes a standard espresso, a slice of Provencal cream mousse, and a…”

Lionel cut him off. “Just a black coffee, no sugar.”

The waiter’s face fell, but he bowed slightly. “Very well, sir, as you wish.”

When the black coffee arrived, Lionel grabbed a copy of *The Little Daily* from the café’s news rack and began to read while sipping.

*The Little Daily* was France’s first newspaper sold individually rather than by subscription. It was also the country’s first affordable paper, priced at half the cost of other papers, hence the “Little” in its name.

As a cheap paper for the masses, it avoided heavy political content. Although it printed important government news on the front page, its main draw was serialized literature, social curiosities, and gossip.

Having finished the headlines, Lionel noticed a somewhat furtive young man sitting across a small round table. He appeared to be in his twenties, dressed in a short jacket common among the working class, with a beret revealing brown hair around its edges. His eyes were gray-brown, his nose sharp and slender like a knife, and a faint smile played at his lips.

Looking around, Lionel saw the café was nearly empty, with many vacant tables, and so he asked, “Good afternoon. You…?”

The young man’s smile blossomed. “Good afternoon. I’m Noah. Noah Dupont.” He extended a hand.

Lionel didn’t shake it; instead, he leaned back warily.

Noah seemed unfazed, retracting his hand without embarrassment. “You want to get into Orby Trading Company’s building?”

Lionel said nothing but asked, “How do you know?”

Noah lounged against his chair, wearing a wry, world-weary grin. “I was making a deal across the street. I’m right, aren’t I? Arthur—the bear blocking your way—is a complete snob.”

Lionel relaxed slightly, sensing Noah’s intentions. “So, you have a way to get past him?”

Noah leaned forward, raising a finger. “Two francs. Give me two francs, and I’ll get you inside.”

Lionel scoffed. “Two francs? Are you crazy, or did I mishear? I might as well give that bear Arthur the money directly!” Two francs was nearly a day’s wage for a laborer.

He had almost tried that earlier but refrained because there were too many people coming and going.

Noah hadn’t expected such a blunt refusal and having his plan uncovered, but giving up was not in his nature. “Too expensive? Then there’s another way—one and a half francs, no less.”

Lionel’s expression stayed neutral. “One franc, no more.”

Without hesitation, Noah agreed. “Deal.”

Lionel was momentarily stunned, then added, “I’ll pay once I’m inside.”

Noah smiled. “No problem! Finished your coffee yet?”

Lionel tilted his head back and downed the rest of the coffee, placed the newspaper on the table, and rested a copper sou coin on top before following Noah.

The waiter quickly cleared away the coin and paper, watching the two depart with a sneer. “Poor rat and mouse…”

Noah led Lionel through several twists and turns down side streets to the back of Orby Trading Company’s building—a filthy, foul-smelling alley.

Noah held out his hand. “Five sous.”

Lionel looked bewildered. “I haven’t even gotten inside yet!”

Noah grinned. “Consider it an advance. Can’t expect me to pay out of my own pocket, can you?”

Having just received twenty francs in manuscript fees, Lionel had some cash on hand. After a brief hesitation, he handed over five sous.

Noah pocketed the coins. “Wait here.”

He walked to a door, knocked a few times. Moments later, a fat, large-eared head poked out. Seeing Noah, the man scowled, “You con…”

Noah quickly pulled the five sous from his pocket, handed them over, breaking the man’s spell, then whispered a few words.

The man glanced at Lionel, scrutinized him briefly, turned back to Noah, said something, then withdrew.

Noah beckoned Lionel over. “You’re to pretend you were rejected by Arthur, then snuck around to the back alley, found this door unlocked, and entered the building unauthorized. You passed through the kitchen and laundry, arriving at the office area. Got it?”

Lionel nodded. Noah beamed, removed his hat, turned it inside out, and held it out.

Lionel promptly tossed in the remaining fifteen sous. Noah bowed. “Good luck, sir! If you ever need access anywhere else—even the countess’s bedroom—you know where to find me. ‘Noah the Mouse,’ that’s me!” Then whistling, he left.

Lionel shook his head and pushed open the door.

True to Noah’s description, the entrance led first to a smoke-filled kitchen, then a steam-clouded laundry. The busy cooks and laundresses ignored him completely, as if he were invisible.

Knowing better than to speak, Lionel slipped quietly past them and through a swinging door. Suddenly, the scene transformed—

A lavish corridor carpeted thickly, gas lamps brightly lit even in daylight, every corner gleaming with brilliance. Well-dressed office workers hurried past clutching documents; laughter and shouts echoed from offices.

For a moment, Lionel felt as if he’d stepped into a twenty-first-century central business district.

Commerce, indeed, was forever the most vibrant part of the world.

But there was no time for reflection. He needed to find the office where he could inquire about “Emile” quickly; otherwise, his shabby attire here would stand out too much, and he’d soon be thrown back out the door.