Chapter 56 Paris Bows Its Head

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In March Paris, a lingering winter chill still lingered in the air, and the trees along the banks of the Seine were just beginning to push forth timid, tender buds.

Near the Saint-Michel Boulevard on the Left Bank, an inconspicuous mobile bookstall was quietly set up in a corner. The vendor was a small, sharp-eyed man wrapped in an old overcoat.

His stall looked ordinary enough, piled with old newspapers, popular novels, and a few historical biographies. But if a regular customer approached, needing only a specific look or a vague code word, he would, like a magician, cautiously draw out plainly printed booklets from a locked old leather suitcase beneath the stall.

The transaction was swift and silent; coins dropped into his palm with a dull thud, and the booklets were quickly stuffed deep into the buyer's overcoat inner pocket or briefcase.

However, today's vendor was remarkably different—the booklets in the old leather suitcase were divided into two batches, one thick and one thin. The thick booklet sold for only 15 sous, while the thin one cost a full franc.

A bank clerk clutching a briefcase, a regular customer here, frowned upon hearing the price and asked, "Pierre, have you lost your mind?"

The vendor, named Pierre, first drew out the thicker booklet and handed it to the other man: "Don't rush, read two pages first."

The bank clerk took the book, looked around to both sides, and seeing no acquaintances, began to read with peace of mind.

Barely five minutes passed before the bank clerk widened his eyes and cursed, "Damn it, what does '20 lines deleted here' mean? The damned bastards! I see he is not honest at all!"

Vendor Pierre promptly handed over the thin booklet, wearing a leering smile: "Take a look at this one, too."

The bank clerk took the thin booklet. This time, after looking for only thirty seconds, he hunched over and then clutched the thin booklet to his chest: "A bastard who deserves to be shoved into Satan's furnace! ... How much?"

Vendor Pierre's smile was both leering and folksy: "Buy both together, 1 franc and 10 sous, you save 5 sous. Let me teach you—this thin one is printed on a single side, you can cut it out with scissors and paste it into the corresponding position in the thick one..."

The bank clerk crossed himself: "Lord, please forgive me, a sinner..."

With that, he fished out the coins totaling 1 franc and 10 sous, tossed them over, stuffed both books into his briefcase, and left hunched over.

——————

Deep inside an old mansion in the Latin Quarter of the Fifth District, a room converted into a "private reading room" was filled with a haze of smoke, making the already dim light even gloomier.

The facilities here were crude, consisting only of a few rows of hardwood tables and chairs and dim gas lamps. In one of the rows, several men squeezed together, their heads almost touching, greedily reading the same book spread out on the table—rare copies that the owner of the reading room had risked obtaining, charged by the hour at a hefty price.

They turned the pages with utmost care, terrified of making a sound that might attract unwanted attention. The room was filled only with heavy breathing, occasional suppressed coughs, and the friction of coins being gently pushed across the tabletop—the signal to request extended reading time.

The shadows of the lamps were cast upon everyone's faces, their expressions of concentration bordering on ferocious. Upon reading a certain passage, someone would suddenly stop, lift his head, and gaze with hollow eyes into the smoke-filled air, as if his soul had been deeply pierced by a scene or a sentence in the book, falling into a brief trance.

The air was sultry and turbid, mingling the smell of tobacco, sweat, and an indescribable, peculiar excitement born from sharing a taboo secret together.

Others were waiting in line behind, anxiously watching the wall clock. Every twenty minutes, someone would step forward to pull one of the readers away from the book and squeeze in himself.

The person pulled away would often let out a moan and then, as if realizing something, quickly hunch over, provoking a burst of mocking laughter.

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——————

In a luxurious villa in "Montmartre," a resort area on the outskirts of Paris, inside a "Gentlemen's Club" adorned with velvet drapes and permeated with a strong scent of perfume, a private salon was about to take place.

The waiting gentlemen were not, as usual, absorbed in appreciating the art paintings on the walls or conversing in low tones. They sank deep into the soft sofas, in various postures, yet all lowered their heads, completely captivated by a thick booklet with a plain cover and no title whatsoever.

A strange silence filled the air, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood in the fireplace and the rustle of turning pages.

Someone unconsciously licked his dry lips, his Adam's apple bobbing; another furrowed his brow, as if undergoing some inner struggle; yet another wore an indescribable smile mixed with excitement and a trace of unease.

A waiter walked by with a tray, but even the crisp sound of colliding crystal glasses failed to disturb this concentration. Here, time seemed to be drawn out, and the anticipation bought with money was replaced by an even stronger attraction originating from the paper pages.

After a long while, an elderly man with completely white hair suddenly blurted out, "Damn it, I also own a wine estate, why didn't I think of that..."

Immediately realizing this was not his own study and that others were present, he awkwardly hushed himself and prepared to stand up to visit the restroom—but he quickly noticed something and immediately hunched over.

He glanced around stealthily and, seeing that no one was paying attention to him and all were engrossed in the thick booklets before them, he let out a sigh of relief.

——————

Father Bertrand, dressed in a black robe and renowned throughout the parish for his strictness, piety, and fairness, was walking briskly through a dim alley.

Clutched tightly against his chest was not the Bible and Liturgy of the Hours he read daily, but the "forbidden book" he had just traded half a month's stipend for.

Father Bertrand felt the book was like a burning coal, scorching his chest.

Echoing repeatedly in his mind were the fragments he had caught a glimpse of before buying it—regarding how that "Simons" used the greed of the parish doctor to cover up crimes, and regarding those ceremonies conducted in the small chapels of magnificent mansions that were less like prayers and more like profanities.

And of course, the women in the book... those women... Oh, Lord, merely thinking of a single word was a sin.

Yet those words, and the sentences formed by those words, were like the sharpest sewing needles, boring into the deepest parts of his brain, never stopping, burrowing deeper and deeper.

"This is to understand the devil!"

"Only by understanding the devil can one defeat the devil!"

"Lord, please grant me the strength to defeat the devil!"

Father Bertrand muttered to himself, but suddenly saw a young girl from near his church walking ahead, smiling and greeting him: "Good afternoon, Father Bertrand, may God bless you!"

Looking at the girl's youthful, vibrant face, Father Bertrand suddenly recalled a scene from the book—[Elena opened the window, sweeping away the flower petals and leaves that had accumulated overnight on the windowsill, scattering them right onto the head of Gérard Simons...]

Feeling something was terribly wrong, amidst the girl's astonished and frightened gaze, he bowed to her in greeting.

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In the soft sofa of the bank manager's office, the respectable Mr. Renard—a banker known for his caution and piety—was holding a book, enjoying his lunch break.

Yet the secretary serving him tea had no idea that Mr. Renard was undergoing unprecedented torment.

On the pages, the depiction of the carefully orchestrated "game" played by Master Simons beneath the grape trellis, with its vivid details and seductive atmosphere, far surpassed his impoverished imagination.

He felt the collar of his heavily starched, pristine shirt become exceptionally tight, and fine beads of sweat oozed from his temples. He wanted to close the book, but the explicit hints and tension-filled scenes drew his gaze like a magnet.

A fierce sense of moral guilt seized him—as a father of four and a model donor to the parish, he ought not to be exposed to such "depraved" literature.

He recalled the roguish, prank-loving friend who had handed him this book with a sly, mysterious smile.

However, his body's honest reaction and the long-suppressed, rekindled heat deep within his heart made him unable to resist the temptation of the next page.

Irritated, he loosened his bowtie, his Adam's apple rolled violently once more, and finally, his fingers betrayed his reason, trembling as they turned to a new page. He felt himself standing at the edge of an abyss, knowing the danger, yet unable to retreat.

Suddenly, the office door was knocked, and the secretary's voice rang out: "Mr. Paris has arrived."

Renard instinctively stood up, preparing to welcome the client—but immediately hunched over and sat back down on the sofa: "Ask him to wait a moment..."

——————

When night fell, the busiest and most lively places in all Paris were no longer the various salons and balls, but the brothels, large and small.

Whether it was courtesans living in villas where spending a night cost thousands of francs, or medium- and high-end brothels scattered around noble neighborhoods and churches costing dozens or hundreds of francs for the night, or even low-class dens charging a mere 10 sous a fling—all were packed to capacity.

Even madams who had retired from frontline work for years were forced back onto the job market.

Stranger still, these endless streams of clients made all sorts of bizarre demands, some of which made even battle-hardened women blush.

The only commonality was that, even without taking mummy powder, they were exceptionally vigorous tonight, causing all of them to leave hunched over, leaning against the walls...

A virus named "The Decadent City" was spreading across Paris, and even France, at an unprecedented speed...

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