Chapter 35: Entry Point for "The Decadent City"

When Léonard re-entered Mrs. Martin’s apartment building, he was greeted with a mixture of flattery and awe from everyone. Petty’s mother even went so far as to address him as "Monsieur Sorel."

"A pathetic, fragile barrier," Léonard muttered to himself, while informing Mrs. Martin of his plans to move out.

Mrs. Martin seemed to have anticipated this day; she showed no surprise, settling the rent with a cold, impassive face. Unlike the others, she felt no need to hold him in such reverence. After all, in Paris, an old widow who owned an entire building to rent out was never short of money, and for thirty years, she had witnessed the rise and fall of countless strangers in this city of desire. Many of them had risen faster and more brilliantly than Léonard, only to have their obituaries appear in the newspapers within a few years.

When Léonard had come to Paris for university, he brought only two suitcases—containing clothes, blankets, and books. He left with those same two, along with the pots and pans purchased before Petty fell ill. He packed his meager belongings quickly, leaving behind odds and ends like the half-burned candles, paper-thin slivers of soap, and the iron rack used for heating food.

Back on the ground floor, Jacques Petet, the building's groom, eagerly approached him. "Monsieur... Monsieur Sorel, shall I transport you to your new residence? For just two francs, I can take you anywhere in Paris."

Jacques drove a small, single-horse carriage meant for both people and cargo. However, the old horse’s haunches were as gaunt as two stale loaves of bread, leaving it highly doubtful whether he could actually "take anyone anywhere in Paris."

Léonard shook his head. "I have already hired a carriage."

No sooner had he spoken than the crisp sound of hooves echoed outside, followed by the "clang-clang" of a copper bell—the unmistakable sound of a high-quality carriage that would cost at least fifteen francs a day. Léonard felt no reluctance to leave. He exchanged a few words with Petty’s parents, climbed into the "cabriolet" waiting outside, and vanished into Rue Oberkampf to the rhythm of galloping hooves. The tenants of Mrs. Martin’s building stood under the eaves, gossiping for a long time before finally dispersing.

Léonard first stopped at the bank to withdraw 500 francs in cash. Of this, 270 francs went toward the two-month deposit and current month's rent for his new apartment, and 50 francs covered his meal plan for the month. The rest was meant for basic necessities and his living expenses for the near future.

Seeing his bank balance plummet from four digits to three made Léonard wince; truly, one does not know the scarcity of money until they arrive in Paris. Fortunately, he still held a 1,500-franc bill of exchange. Theoretically, it could not be cashed for three months, but if he were truly desperate, he could sell it on the market for a lump sum. Combined with his remaining savings and his weekly column fees from *The Clamor*, he could afford a decent life in Paris for another year or two.

By evening, Léonard had settled into his new home on the fifth floor of 12 Rue d'Antin. The manager, Enzo Roy, meticulously explained every detail of the room before handing over the keys and bowing his way out. Only then did Léonard collapse onto his large bed, savoring a softness he had never known in Mrs. Martin’s attic, and began to dream of his future.

Suddenly, an ill-timed knock sounded at the door. Léonard quickly straightened his clothes and went to the foyer. Standing there was an extraordinarily handsome man, slightly taller even than the already lanky Léonard. His hair and mustache were pomaded and combed with such precision that they shone like glass.

As soon as Léonard opened the door, the man broke into a brilliant smile. "Good evening, neighbor. I am Lucien de Pancey, from room 505."

Léonard’s room was 502. Room 505 was at the end of the corridor—a "corner unit," as they might say today, the largest and most luxurious room on the floor. Uncertain of the man’s intentions, Léonard returned the greeting politely. "Léonard. Léonard Sorel. Good evening."

Lucien’s smile remained charming. "You were the one looking at the apartment today, weren't you? I was right next door in 503 and heard the commotion. If it weren't for Petit clinging to me, I would have come out to greet you sooner! You know how it is—the legs of a woman lost in passion are harder to escape than the chains of the Bastille."

Lucien spoke of his romantic escapades to a total stranger with such lack of restraint—and even a hint of boastfulness—that Léonard was left speechless and embarrassed. Lucien, however, didn't care in the slightest. He continued cheerfully, "It is marvelous to have a young man like you move in. This building is full of boring merchants, engineers, and accountants who won't even go to the opera house nearby to see my performance—oh, forgive me, I am an actor at the opera, and I shall be the lead performer very soon..."

Léonard had never met anyone so brazenly familiar in Paris. Watching the man gesticulate with such flair, he struggled to find a way to interrupt. Fortunately, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a breathless, middle-aged, portly man appeared in the corridor. Lucien immediately turned, greeting him with equal exaggeration. "Oh, my esteemed Monsieur Greenhait, good evening! May God bless you!"

Greenhait the portly man tipped his hat in return. "Good evening, Lucien. Thank you for your blessing, and may God bless you as well."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries with Léonard, the door to 503 opened, and a sweet, cloying female voice drifted out: "Darling, welcome home!"

Greenhait’s face lit up. He stretched out his arms and stepped inside, presumably to embrace the woman, and kicked the door shut behind him.

Lucien turned back, his expression unchanged, and sighed with genuine admiration. "They are the model couple of this building. Greenhait is a salesman for Schneider Electric and earns 5,000 francs a year. Petit is a good woman; she cooks for her husband every night—mm, absolutely delicious..."

Léonard truly wanted to ask if "absolutely delicious" referred to Petit’s cooking or to Petit herself.

Lucien suddenly extended an invitation: "Have you signed up for the meal plan? The time is just right; shall we head down to the dining hall on the ground floor?"

Léonard looked at the social butterfly before him, and a spark of inspiration ignited in his mind. For days, he had been struggling to find a good opening for his novel, *The Decadent City*. The original *Jin Ping Mei* began with Wu Song’s revenge from *Water Margin*, which certainly wouldn't work in France. But here, before him, was this dissolute, silver-tongued opera actor—was he not the perfect entry point for his story?

With that thought, Léonard flashed a brilliant smile. "It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Pancey."