Chapter 36: "New Friends," Verne

After dinner, Léonard politely declined Lucien’s invitation to stroll around the opera house, eager to return to his new apartment to transform his fresh inspiration into prose.

The apartment featured a small study that could barely accommodate a desk and a chair, along with a modest bookshelf. A gas lamp hung on the wall, and a candelabra stood on the desk. Under this dual lighting, Léonard enjoyed a writing experience close to that of the electric lights of his past life—though, of course, it would have been better if he could swap the quill and rough, frayed manuscript paper for a keyboard and screen.

For "The Decadent City" to win the approval of readers in Paris, France, and even Europe, it could not simply be a collection of erotic descriptions. By this time, the French readership had expanded beyond intellectuals and the bourgeoisie; with the gradual spread of education, it now included laborers, farmers, and even women in the countryside. In Paris alone, there were over 500 officially licensed public reading rooms where readers could borrow newspapers and novels for a nominal fee. Similarly, in the rural areas, "mobile libraries" were common, providing a respite for bored housewives. Emma, the protagonist of "Madame Bovary," had fueled her romantic fantasies through books from such libraries.

Now, in 1879, the tastes of French readers were increasingly sophisticated; a certain literary quality was essential to entice them to make a purchase. At the same time, one had to consider the characteristics of readers in this era. Many young readers of the 20th and 21st centuries often complain when reading 18th and 19th-century novels about the lengthy descriptions of scenery and folklore that the masters of the time insisted upon before the plot truly began—Balzac, in particular, could spend several pages on local customs in his openings.

Léonard had not understood this originally, but after coming to this world, he realized that readers of this era lacked the abundance of film, television, and paintings to fill their minds. Without sufficient text to build the scene for them, they struggled to immerse themselves in the story, leading to a poor reading experience. Ancient Chinese novels shared a similar phenomenon, where protagonists would undergo meticulous descriptions every time they entered a new environment or met a new character. Thus, it was not that the writers of the time were unaware that these descriptions were long-winded, but rather a specific style adopted to accommodate the readers.

However, who said that to create a sense of immersion, one must begin with environmental description? After much deliberation, Léonard wrote down the first paragraph of "The Decadent City":

Lyon, the city, bared its bloody maw, exhaling a breath that smelled of damp, tomb-grown moss and the rusted nails of a coffin, pouring it all into Louis Poncet’s lungs. On the late autumn night, the air was bone-chillingly cold, and the drizzling rain felt like needles pricking his face, sliding down his neck to soak into the collar of his expensive shirt, which was already drenched in cold sweat. Louis Poncet, the "rising star" of the Royal Opera House, was now curled up like a skinned stray dog in the depths of a narrow, filthy alley in the Saint-Jean district, a place reeking of a potent mixture of urine and rotting vegetable scraps. His spine was pressed tightly against the cold, rough stone wall; every sharp intake of breath tugged painfully at his lungs, and every heartbeat hammered heavily against his eardrums, as if trying to jar that gleaming sword—the Count de Lorraine’s blade, which had nearly kissed his throat—out of his mind.

Léonard had changed the name of the man he met today, Lucien de Poncet, to "Louis Poncet." After all, in the age of monarchy, a nobleman with "de" in his name would rarely "fall" so far as to become an opera singer. The opening he arranged for Louis Poncet combined suspense with urgency, shifting the focus of environmental description from local customs to "temperature" and "smell," which were easier to perceive. The "fugitive rising star of the Royal Opera House" was enough to capture the readers' attention, as there had been almost no works depicting this group before. He even employed a bit of the "Golden Three Chapters" technique from web novels, setting up suspense at the very start to draw readers into the situation—a practice often considered a "taboo" in 19th-century European literature.

As for why this "rising star" had fallen into such dire straits in Lyon, Léonard did not hold back, providing the answer almost immediately:

Less than a week ago, Louis Poncet’s world had been composed of velvet, crystal chandeliers, and the sweet, cloying scent of perfume... He enjoyed being the focal point of all this chaos. His voice, his physique, the allure in the corners of his eyes—it was enough to make the bejeweled noblewomen in the boxes clutch their fans, and the hypocritical gentlemen in the audience feel their Adam's apples bob involuntarily.

Until he met Émilie. Or rather, until Émilie met him. Émilie was the new lover of the Count de Lorraine, a delicate rose just transplanted from the provinces to the greenhouse of Paris, carrying with her the naivety and irrepressible curiosity of a newcomer to the glitzy world. The Count’s box was perfectly positioned, facing the center of the stage. Louis Poncet could clearly see how Émilie’s deep brown, deer-like eyes, initially flickering with shyness, were gradually ignited by his singing and performance, becoming burning and bold. Her gaze was like a hook; every time it swept across the stage, it landed precisely on him. This silent invitation was more powerful than any beautifully worded love letter to a hunter who took pleasure in conquest.

At midnight after one performance, in the shadows of the backstage corridor, her skirt brushed against Louis Poncet’s leg, leaving behind the dizzying scent of intertwined roses and musk. Émilie slipped Louis Poncet a note that carried the same fragrance, containing only an address and a time. Everything that followed happened as naturally as water flowing into a channel, exquisite and erotic. In her secret little apartment, Émilie, like a night-blooming cereus opening under the moonlight, shyly and passionately unfolded all her petals for him... Her skin glowed like pearls in the dim candlelight, and her soft moans were like the most moving aria...

Louis Poncet indulged in it, as if he had drunk the richest Bordeaux wine... He had completely forgotten that this rose had already been marked with ownership—belonging to the Count de Lorraine, who was famous in the court for his volatility and possessiveness.

Although "The Decadent City" needed to emphasize literary quality, it was, at its core, an erotic novel intended to stimulate the senses. Léonard was not prepared to hide the content readers most wanted to see too deeply—after finishing the refined and proper literary descriptions, their patience would last at most two pages before they would furiously seek out the bookseller to settle scores. Therefore, what needed to be given had to be given early to hook the readers and keep them reading. Through Léonard's pen, Louis Poncet was forced to flee and hide in Lyon after sleeping with the Count de Lorraine’s woman. It was there, in Lyon, that he would meet the protagonist of the entire novel, Gérard Simmons. Louis Poncet would soon use his natural charm to become a popular "guest" at Gérard Simmons’ estate, and the entire novel would gradually unfold through his perspective.

Léonard wrote on until late at night before extinguishing the light to sleep. The next morning, he went to the first floor for breakfast—the first time he had ever eaten "breakfast" since his rebirth into this era. The "three meals a day" routine had started with royalty and the nobility, and was now gradually spreading to the middle class. As for the commoners and the poor, who made up the majority of Paris’s population, they would have to wait several decades before they could afford such a luxury.

After breakfast, Léonard returned to his apartment to continue writing "The Decadent City." There was no helping it; although he had a four-month deadline, his writing efficiency was not high, and this type of novel was not something he could sneakily write during class, so he had to take advantage of the weekend to write as much as he could.

However, after dinner, Léonard did not continue writing. Instead, he grabbed his prepared gas lamp and a dozen francs in cash, boarding a public carriage to "Hell Street" in the 14th District. The sky was as black as ink by then; most parts of the 14th District had only sporadic streetlights still shining. The narrow "Hell Street" had no streetlights at all, with only the light filtering from the windows on the walls flanking the street barely illuminating the gloomy and terrifying alley.

When Léonard arrived, Albert de Rohan and his lackeys were already there, also carrying gas lamps. Seeing the "brand new" Léonard, Albert was somewhat surprised and could not help but want to make a sarcastic remark, but upon remembering his previous encounter, he forced himself to stay silent.

Léonard raised his gas lamp slightly to illuminate Albert and his group, noticing a stranger among the lackeys. "Oh? Is there a newcomer joining us today?"

Seeing that Léonard had noticed the newcomer, Albert puffed out his chest, saying with pride, "This is my new friend, from Amiens."

The "new friend" introduced himself in a lazy tone: "My name is Michel, Michel Jean-Pierre Verne!"