Chapter 15: The Promise

The sky had already darkened when a lamplighter passed by outside the café, dressed somewhat like a cleric in uniform. With a long pole, he precisely tapped the top of a streetlamp, and a gas lamp flared to life.

The warm yellowish light spilled through the window, mingling with the café’s own glow—not as dim and flickering as candlelight, nor as relentlessly illuminating as electric light would later become.

Watching Leonard’s profile deepen in the lamplight, Sophie’s heart skipped a beat, but she did not agree. “My mother has already prepared dinner for me at home… I must return early to keep her company. She would be lonely without me.”

Leonard showed a look of regret but did not insist. Instead, he called the waiter over. “May we have our dinners packed to go, please? One for each of us.”

The waiter answered promptly, “Of course, sir. However, we are not a full-service restaurant, only offering light meals. Today’s menu includes ‘Normandy Soft Cheese,’ ‘Olive Paste Bread,’ ‘Country Baked Chicken with Herb Butter,’ and ‘Passion Fruit Mille-Feuille,’ each portion costing one franc.

“If you wish, for an additional five sous, we offer a pairing of ‘Soft Red Wine’ from Bordeaux, bottled for takeout…”

Truly, in the financial district, even a ‘light meal’ cost a franc.

Sophie panicked, “No, no, that’s unnecessary…”

But she could not refuse Leonard’s kindness and accepted.

Only then did they move to the main topic of the day.

Sophie took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Leonard. “I checked all the ‘Emils’ in the company, excluding those who are too old, those who work daily in Paris, and those without travel records… In the end, only two Emils remain possible.

“One is Emil François Dubois, 35, a clerk at the South American branch; the other is Emil Alexander, 29, newly hired last year as secretary to the overseas business department manager.

“But neither likely has time to conduct business in the Alps. Although we have a small office there, its scale is modest, with very fixed agricultural and goods procurement. Mail sent there is almost always regular, requiring no one to be stationed there.

“Moreover, you said your hometown is not ‘Gap’ (the capital) or ‘Embrun,’ but ‘Laragne,’ which doesn’t even have a railway connection…”

Listening to Sophie’s orderly explanation, Leonard thought she was truly remarkable—not only proactive in filtering information but also capable of basic analysis, saving him much effort.

Was this difficult? Perhaps not for a 21st-century professional woman, but in the 19th century, women were generally considered ignorant, lacking judgment, and prone to emotional impulse.

Although Sophie had received some education, her family background suggested it was not profound.

Leonard had met a few “educated women” like her in this era, but most appeared reserved and dull, while Sophie’s clarity and composure impressed him greatly.

After Sophie’s lengthy analysis, Leonard remained silent. She looked up to find him gazing at her with gentle eyes, her cheeks flushing. “Did I say something wrong?”

Leonard shook his head. “No, you did very well. We can now be fairly certain that this ‘Emil’ is a fraud.”

Sophie hesitated, then nodded. “Definitely a fraud. Although Obier has tens of thousands of employees worldwide, every manager-level person is busy. None would have time to idle in the Alps.”

“That reassures me!” Leonard pocketed the paper Sophie had brought. “It’s getting late. Where do you live?”

Sophie glanced at Leonard, then lowered her head. “In the 10th arrondissement, on Longchamps Street.”

Leonard smiled. “Then we’re neighbors—I’m in the 11th, on Aubocamp Street.”

Sophie was surprised, for Sorbonne students seldom lived in the 11th arrondissement, an outlying, mixed district. But considering Leonard’s family background and his attire, it made sense.

At that moment, the waiter brought their packed meals. The two put on their coats, each carrying a paper bag as they left the Sunset Seine café.

Snow began to fall lightly. All the street lamps lining Paris’s broad avenues were lit, stretching endlessly and bathing the Stock Exchange, the Paris Opera House, and other buildings in radiant, picturesque light.

Yet, if one looked further—toward the 10th and 11th arrondissements where they were, near the bustling 2nd and 3rd—the scene was noticeably dimmer.

Near the café was a public carriage stop. After a brief wait, a carriage bound for Longchamps Street arrived, with only a few passengers aboard.

Sophie politely declined Leonard’s offer to escort her home and boarded alone. But as the conductor closed the door, she couldn’t help but glance back. “If you want to know anything more, just ask me.”

Leonard nodded, as if agreeing to a pact, then watched the carriage disappear into the glowing night.

Half an hour later, the carriage stopped at Longchamps Street. Sophie got off and followed a narrow alley lit only by faint kerosene lamps, winding through twists and turns until she stood before an old wooden-framed, mud-walled cottage.

She took out a key and opened the door to a cold, dark room.

Lighting a candle, she illuminated a corner, revealing the rough, heavy shapes of table and chairs and a long-unused fireplace.

But tonight, Sophie felt a warmth there that had never before been present.

From the paper bag, she took out the Sunset Seine’s light meal and gazed at the exquisitely made passion fruit mille-feuille, unable to resist taking a bite...

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“This is delicious, Mr. Sorel! The best thing I’ve ever tasted! What is it called?”

Petite’s eyes sparkled like twin stars in the flickering candlelight of the dim hallway.

“Seems it’s called ‘Passion Fruit Mille-Feuille’?” Leonard ruffled Petite’s hair. Though ten years old, she looked no more than seven or eight, with a thin, fragile frame and a head disproportionately large for her slender shoulders.

Petite looked at the bitten mille-feuille, reluctant to eat it all, and asked, “I want to save some for Lyon; he’ll be back Sunday.”

Lyon was Petite’s eight-year-old brother, apprenticed to a cobbler by their parents, returning home infrequently.

Leonard shook his head. “If you keep it until Sunday, it’ll spoil—but don’t worry, I’ll bring something even better then.”

Petite nearly leapt with joy. “Really?”

Leonard nodded earnestly. “Really!”

After making this promise to Petite, Leonard returned to his small attic room. Remarkably, Mrs. Martin did not sneer at him today.

Rumors had spread throughout the shabby apartment about the “country bumpkin from the Alps” who had struck it rich by skipping the landlord’s meals and instead bringing back ‘big feasts’ from outside.

Though Mrs. Martin did not believe Leonard would turn his fortunes around, she was noticeably more cautious.

“Ties to this world grow ever tighter,” Leonard mused silently.

Whether it was Petite, with whom he shared a teacher-student bond; Sophie, who had offered her help; or the Sorel family in the Alps, whom he had not yet met in person but for whom he had already labored these days—all these connections were binding him ever more firmly to this world.

Sometimes, he entertained a fleeting doubt: Was the brief life of a young man from 21st-century China merely a wild dream dreamed by Leonard Sorel?

But now was no time for such philosophical musings. He had to write a letter to his family to send by telegraph tomorrow!