Chapter 34: Clothes Make the Man

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Lionel glanced at the old coat he was wearing and the worn leather shoes on his feet. Without wasting time arguing, he turned and walked away from the apartment building.

In this era, no matter the country, people wore their class on their backs. There was no such thing as “keeping a low profile.”

The Haussmann Building was generally inhabited by the middle class, the affluent middle class, and small merchants and minor aristocrats newly arrived in Paris. Naturally, they kept a close watch on someone as shabbily dressed as Lionel.

Even when the building advertised apartments for rent in the newspapers, not everyone could use that as an excuse to enter.

But Lionel had his own “private difficulties.” At least for the time being, he did not want his classmates to know that he had come into a modest fortune. After all, it would be difficult to explain where the money had come from.

He had chosen the Ninth Arrondissement precisely because it was separated from the Fifth, where the Sorbonne stood, by the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Arrondissements. Nor was it one of the Sixth or Seventh Arrondissements, where university students liked to gather and amuse themselves. The chances of running into someone he knew were therefore small.

Yet after thinking it over, Lionel realized that if he intended to live in the Haussmann Building, continuing to dress like this would only make him more conspicuous. He might as well buy some new clothes. At worst, he could change back into his old ones whenever he went to the Sorbonne for class.

Since the Ninth Arrondissement was home to the opera house, it naturally attracted actors and men of letters, and there was no shortage of clothing shops. The ground floors of many apartment buildings were lined with stores, much like the commercial units found beneath modern residences.

Lionel wandered around near the opera house and eventually found Dusse Tailors, whose sign bore neither gilded trim nor aristocratic ornamentation. He felt the two hundred francs he had set aside in his pocket, then strode inside.

Fifteen minutes later, Lionel emerged exactly as he had entered, accompanied by the clerk’s courteous, “Please come again.”

Because his former self had spent two years in Paris without buying so much as a new waistcoat, Lionel had little idea of Parisian clothing prices.

The clerk at Dusse Tailors was not snobbish. On the contrary, he eagerly explained the prices of a complete outfit suited to middle-class tastes:

An overcoat of medium length, made of wool broadcloth, cost eighty francs; a fitted single-breasted wool jacket, forty; a double-breasted waistcoat, twenty; a shirt, likewise twenty; a pair of narrow-legged trousers currently popular among university students, thirty; and a pair of genuine leather shoes, thirty.

The total already came to two hundred and twenty francs, more than the cash Lionel carried. And these were only the prices for standard garments. Custom alterations cost extra—for instance, adding an inner pocket to the coat would require another three francs.

Then there were the necessary accessories: a cravat, a hat, a walking stick, gloves...

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In short, to make himself look like a respectable commercial manager, engineer, or moderately renowned writer or actor, Lionel would need at least three hundred francs.

Once again, he experienced the dreadfulness of what the French called the “Paris tax.” Three hundred francs was enough to rent a room in Madame Martin’s apartment for an entire year.

Lionel simply could not bring himself to spend that much.

Fortunately, the “thoughtful” clerk quietly slipped him a business card and told him to visit a secondhand clothing shop on Saint-Antoine Street. They would have what he needed there.

An hour later, Lionel had changed into a “new” outfit for one hundred and twenty francs:

A deep ink-blue wool short coat, finely cut, with naturally shaped shoulders. The cuffs and collar were slightly worn, but they had been washed until they were clean and bright. Beneath it was an ivory shirt, its buttons still in the old style of the Second Empire. There were faint creases across the chest, like a sheet of paper turning in the wind.

Over the shirt he wore a finely patterned navy wool waistcoat, buttoned neatly to the top. His trousers were made of gray-green twill, their lines crisp and clean. Only the knees showed slight wear, and after pressing, it was scarcely visible.

On his feet were black leather shoes. They were not new, but they had been polished until they shone, and only a few faint creases marked the leather.

He did not choose gloves or a walking stick. Instead, he selected only a round felt hat, which kept him from looking too old-fashioned.

The owner of Second Life Clothing told Lionel that the coat, waistcoat, and trousers had all once belonged to a down-and-out aristocrat. That was why the workmanship was so fine; the owner had merely removed the family emblems.

Lionel naturally did not believe the story, but he was quite pleased with the clothes.

The owner had cleaned everything thoroughly. There were no strange odors or suspicious stains. By secondhand standards, the garments were excellent. More importantly, wearing them to school would not make him stand out as sharply as a completely new outfit would. At most, a few bored classmates might sneer at him.

Now properly dressed, Lionel returned to the apartment building at No. 12 Rue d’Antin, beside the Paris Opera.

This time, he only had to briefly explain his purpose before the doorman stepped aside and gave a slight bow.

“Welcome, sir. The building manager is to the left of the lobby on the ground floor. I hope I may continue to be of service to you!”

His tone was devout, as if he had never seen Lionel before—even though only two hours earlier he had barred him from entering.

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Lionel was long accustomed to such things. He merely nodded without the slightest change of expression and went straight to the building manager to ask about the available apartments.

The manager was an old man with a full head of white hair and sharp eyes. A huge handlebar mustache extended into his sideburns and completely concealed his mouth, making his speech sound thick and indistinct, as though he were speaking with water in his mouth.

He looked Lionel up and down.

“Our apartments are most expensive on the second floor and cheapest on the fifth. Which floor would you like to see, sir?”

Since elevators had not yet become common in Parisian buildings, the second floor was generally the most expensive in a residential building. It had the highest ceilings and projecting balconies enclosed by iron railings.

From the second floor upward, the rent decreased with each level. The sixth floor consisted of servants’ rooms and single attic chambers, usually rented by young maids or students. Even so, such rooms cost forty to fifty francs a month.

Lionel briefly explained the rent he could afford and the sort of accommodation he required. After a moment’s thought, the manager led him straight up to the fifth floor. He then removed a ring of keys from his belt and opened the door of an apartment.

“This apartment has two bedrooms and a small study. It also has a kitchen, a sitting room, and a parlor. The lavatory uses a direct-flush toilet. And here—”

As he spoke, the manager opened the window of the inner balcony.

Lionel went to the window and happened to see the golden dome of the opera house gleaming through the mist in the distance.

“The floor has just been waxed, and all the furniture is new. The rent is a very reasonable ninety francs a month, with an additional five francs per month for running water.

“If you require meals included, delivery to the apartment is eighty francs a month. Dining together in the restaurant on the ground floor costs fifty francs a month.”

While the manager rambled on with his detailed explanations, Lionel inspected the apartment from one end to the other. He was fairly satisfied with it. Although the fifth floor was high, the rent was somewhat lower than he had expected. The location was convenient, the furniture was new, and there were even gas lamps, so he would not need to purchase them himself.

Considering the average rent in the Ninth Arrondissement’s Haussmann Buildings, the manager was not making up the figures. After thinking for a moment, Lionel decided to rent the apartment. Once he had paid a forty-franc deposit, he signed a one-year lease.

When he stepped outside, he looked down at his clothes, then turned to look back at the towering apartment building. For the first time, he felt that fate had quietly begun to change direction.

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