Chapter 13: Sincerity is the Ultimate Trump Card!

Lionel did not dare hesitate and began searching the building for any office where he might inquire about a man named "Emile."

"Translation Department," "Insurance Affairs," "Shipping Routes and Mapping," "Export Department," "Procurement," "Customs Affairs"...

These were the major departments operating with open doors, and Lionel saw quite a few interesting novelties.

For instance, at a large desk in the "Procurement Department," a man with a small mustache inserted a transparent glass bulb into the top of a black box and pulled a lever. With a sizzle, the glass bulb lit up, emitting a dazzling, incandescent glow that rivaled the gas lamps on the walls.

"Wow!" a chorus of gasps filled the office.

"This is called an 'electric lamp'!" the mustachioed man explained triumphantly. "It uses electricity to bring light to humanity. No foul odors, no choking smoke, and no need to add gas every day..."

Before he could finish his sentence, the "electric lamp" suddenly surged in brightness, flickered twice, and with a final "wail," plunged into darkness.

"No need to add gas every day, but you do need to replace the bulb every day..." a clerk quipped.

The others laughed, and the office was filled with a lighthearted atmosphere.

The man with the mustache felt no embarrassment; instead, he pushed his sales pitch even harder. "That was just due to current instability... In Professor Joseph Swan’s London laboratory, it has already been able to glow steadily for hundreds of hours. I believe that number will soon double..."

(Joseph Swan was one of the early inventors of the electric light, later forming a joint venture with Edison.)

Lionel suppressed the urge to shout, "It’s not the current, it’s not the current; it’s the vacuum, it’s the vacuum!" and continued on his way.

Passing by the "Sales Department," he heard a man pushing a strange two-wheeled vehicle and chattering incessantly: "Believe me, the Brits have fitted this 'bicycle' with a chain and sprocket; it rides light and effortless. The bicycles postmen use now are as heavy as a dying old horse. The government will replace them soon... provided 'Orby' is the first to procure a batch..."

The clerk in the "Sales Department" was hesitant: "Too expensive, too expensive. You want to sell it for 600 francs just for adding two devices? The government won't agree to issue them..."

Lionel again suppressed the urge to yell, "It’s still missing rubber tires! It’s still missing rubber tires!"

He suddenly had the feeling that although 1879 France was a full 150 years away from the era he was familiar with, in a sense, it was only a "final kick" away from the "modern life" he knew.

Whether it was the modern concept of the "electric lamp" or the "bicycle," they were both British inventions. However, for these novelties to be accepted by the markets of Europe, or even the Americas and Asia, their success in France and Paris was a crucial prerequisite.

If London was the "capital of creation" in this era, then Paris was the "capital of consumption." Every inventor and adventurer longed to be the first to have their new gadgets used by the sophisticated, vain, and pleasure-loving Parisians.

As he was thinking this, the sign for the "Colonial Communications Office" appeared before him. Thinking of how "Emile" boasted about owning a farm in Guiana and coerced his family into investing in the Panama Canal, it suggested that his "business" was primarily overseas.

Lionel smoothed his clothes, wiped his hair back with his hand, steeled himself, and walked inside.

It was a small office with only a single desk. Behind the desk, three walls were lined with tall, wide cabinets, each filled with small pigeonholes, each labeled with a brass plate.

A young woman sat behind the desk, perhaps in her twenties. Her long black hair was pulled into a low bun, held firmly in place by a brown hairnet and silver pins. She wore a stiff, ironed, grayish-blue bodice, the cuffs washed thin and pale. The buttons were fastened from her throat to her chest, more secure than a border defense line.

She looked up, saw a stranger, and asked in a tone devoid of ripples, "Good afternoon."

Lionel offered a harmless smile. "Good afternoon—I would like to ask about sending a letter to Mr. 'Emile'..."

The woman's reply remained as flat as a lake. "Mr. 'Emile'? Our company has many Mr. Emiles. Which one are you looking for?"

"Emile" was a common name in France, and since Lionel truly did not know his surname or middle name, he had to try to muddle through using information from the family letter. "It’s the Emile who was a manager at the... South American branch. Recently, he might have gone to the Alpine region..."

The woman was clearly suspicious of his hesitation. "Did he not give you a business card?" As the headquarters of one of France's largest trading companies, this building managed millions of francs in wealth every day, and she was no stranger to the grifters who tried to scheme here.

She turned to the side, vigilant, her hand hovering over the call button.

Lionel took a breath and studied the woman before him. He noticed the stitching on the left shoulder of her jacket was slightly crooked, evidently sewn by herself or her mother. In this era, it was still a rare phenomenon for literate women to "show their faces" in public.

They usually came from middle-class families, having learned to read under their father's tutelage or attended convent schools, and only sought work due to poor family finances or the need to save for a dowry. Most of this group became governesses for wealthy merchants or nobles; working in a place with such high traffic was rare indeed.

After all, the prevailing expectation for women in this era remained that of the "virtuous wife and mother," and the Napoleonic Code (the Civil Code) granted husbands absolute legal authority over their wives.

Lionel steeled his heart, put away his social smile, and said with sincere gravity, "My name is Lionel, Lionel Sorel, a man from the Alps, and currently a student at the Sorbonne."

Hearing this, the woman relaxed her guard slightly. "And what do you want?"

Lionel looked into her eyes with as much gentleness and sorrow as he could muster. "Actually, I am here for my family in the Alps."

He then laid out the entire situation regarding "Emile," his family's circumstances, and his own worries. Finally, he said earnestly, "I apologize, I did lie just now... but I did it for my family. For my father, who is nearly blind from copying documents all day; for my mother, whose back is bent from daily labor; and for my sister, my poor sister Yvanna, who is so desperate for love that she has been led astray..."

As he spoke, he keenly noticed the shimmer of moisture in the woman's eyes. He quickly added, "I don't want any benefit from Orby. I only want my family in the Alps to be safe... Besides, if this 'Emile' is truly a fraud, it would only tarnish the reputation of Orby, don't you agree?"

After listening to Lionel's explanation, the woman pondered for a moment before whispering, "There are too many people here now... After I get off work, wait for me at the 'Sunset on the Seine' café."

Lionel nodded wisely, not pressing further. He smiled again. "I thank you for your kindness on behalf of my family. Oh, by the way, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are beautiful? Like the waters of Lake Geneva..."

The woman blushed deeply, lowered her head, and murmured, "...Someone has said that before. How did you know?"

Lionel did not answer, but asked, "I still don't know your name."

The woman looked up, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling. "My name is Sophie, Sophie Deneuve."