Chapter 30: A Peculiar Request

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Lionel glanced into the laboratory. “Professor Bobze isn’t here?”
Pierre Curie replied cautiously, “The professor went to dinner. He might be back soon...”
Lionel smiled—“Might” usually meant unlikely to return anytime soon.
He lowered his voice and asked, “Mr. Curie, I heard that here you can get some experimental supplies that are hard to find on the market, like chemical reagents...”
Pierre Curie’s expression visibly tightened as he hurriedly denied, “That’s a rumor... Besides, this is the ‘Physics Laboratory.’ Didn’t you see the sign?”
Lionel quickly reassured him, “Don’t be nervous, I’m just asking...”
Pierre Curie was not only a prodigy who earned his master’s degree at eighteen but also an eccentric who loved to challenge traditional research methods.
He often conducted experiments beyond his professor’s assignments, even maintaining a small private lab in his apartment. The result was that his funding was always insufficient.
Occasionally, he took on “side jobs,” helping Sorbonne students tinker with odd but harmless biological contraptions.
Of course, this was intolerable to his mentor and superior, Professor Bobze, who believed Pierre Curie should not waste his talents on such fringe activities.
Lionel presented his badge and student ID.
Seeing that Lionel was indeed a Sorbonne student, Pierre Curie relaxed. “Alright, but why are you here? If Professor Bobze sees us, we’ll both be in trouble.”
Lionel seized the opportunity to invite him, “Shall we go have a coffee at Procope?”
Procope was a café next to the Faculty of Science, frequented by masters like Voltaire, Rousseau, and Hugo, and a beloved spot for Sorbonne faculty and students.
Pierre Curie hesitated briefly but nodded, “Wait for me.” He returned to the lab to tidy up and carefully checked that all instruments were switched off, to avoid the million-franc lab exploding while they enjoyed coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, the two sat at a small round table in Procope, each sipping a cup of coffee.
Now, Lionel was no longer in a hurry; he observed this both fortunate and unfortunate scientist with keen interest, reflecting on the stories of him and his wife, immortalized in scientific history, becoming somewhat lost in thought.

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Pierre Curie couldn’t help but ask first, “What exactly do you want?”
Lionel came back to himself. “I want to get some copper chloride. Can you help me obtain it?”
Pierre Curie was taken aback. “What do you want to do with it?”
Though a physicist by training, his brother Jacques Paul Curie had once been a chemistry assistant at a medical school, where Pierre had helped organize lecture notes.
Moreover, geniuses like him had excelled in both physics and chemistry during basic education, though he later specialized in physics.
A sly smile appeared on Lionel’s face. “I want to make burning flames turn green.”
...
After parting with Pierre Curie, it was already eight in the evening. The two had a simple meal at the café, which doubled as dinner.
Though Lionel had previously studied liberal arts, he had the foundation to enter Yenching University and retained some basic physics and chemistry knowledge, along with memories of interesting experiments his teachers had done.
His conversation with Pierre Curie was lively; they occasionally exchanged strange knowledge and fanciful theories that amazed each other.
Pierre Curie thought these were all nonsense, but after all, Lionel was the first Sorbonne liberal arts student he had met with such a deep understanding of natural science.
What puzzled him more was why Lionel specifically reminded him when they parted, “Be sure to watch out for passing carriages when crossing the street.”
Lionel could not explain directly: you see, you met your fate in your second year after your success because you didn’t look before crossing and were crushed by a carriage wheel.
Back at Mrs. Martin’s apartment, the aroma of stew was gone, as were Petty’s star-like eyes and her crisp greeting, “Master Sorel.”
All that remained were the dark hallways, cold air, and an unrelenting stench lingering in every corner.
Lionel knew discussing moral education with these poor souls struggling to survive was not just foolish but inherently immoral.
He could only save himself, Petty, and the Sorel family far away in the Alps.

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That weekend, he must find a suitable home— not only to escape the risk of infection but to provide a clean environment for Petty’s recovery after discharge.
Such residences were generally available only in the newly renovated Haussmann-style apartment buildings, mostly located in the first through ninth arrondissements, where nobles, wealthy citizens, and the middle class lived.
There, an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and private bathroom typically rented for no less than 100 francs per month, excluding meals.
Additionally, there would be costs for furnishing personal belongings after moving in.
Six thousand francs seemed like a lot but was merely an entry ticket to middle-class life in Paris—leaving little after family debts.
If he failed to continuously earn sufficient wealth, within two years at most, he would live in progressively worse conditions, like the protagonist in Balzac’s Old Goriot.
Lionel’s desire for “fame” and “fortune” burned hotter than ever.
He lit a candle, took out writing paper, and extravagantly brewed himself a cup of black coffee. Then, like a recently bankrupt Balzac, he wrote furiously by candlelight, copying the novel he had just completed today, The Old Guard.
At that moment, he even felt that every letter he wrote rang like the clinking of bronze pennies and silver francs colliding.
The next morning, Lionel arrived at the Sorbonne twenty minutes earlier than usual and waited outside Dean Duen’s office.
It was nearly nine o’clock when Dean Duen arrived, surprised to see Lionel there. “What are you doing here?”
Lionel took out the manuscript he had copied and handed it to the dean, speaking in an unusually polite tone, “Here is the manuscript you requested. I have finished it and am submitting it today.”
Dean Duen frowned, doubting whether the student had been too hasty, having completed a novel in just a few days, fearing it was half-hearted.
But since the task assigned by the dean was completed, it was no longer his concern. He accepted the manuscript and nodded, “Very good. You may go to class.”