Chapter 24: Invitation for a Commission

Lionel couldn't help but cough, drawing everyone's attention. Like rabbits spotting a hawk, they quickly retreated into their own rooms.

Downstairs, the tenant who had been making unreasonable demands of Petty also fell silent, scurrying into his room on tiptoe.

Seeing Lionel appear at the kitchen door, Petty let down her guard. With a tearful yet proud voice, she said, "Master Sorel, I didn't let anyone touch your chicken soup."

Lionel nodded. "Well done, Petty!"

He then lifted the lid of the pot, and an aroma, several times richer than before, wafted out, nearly spilling over the confines of the small apartment.

Lionel couldn't help but exclaim, "The flavor of a free-range hen is truly incomparable to those forty-five-day white-feathered chickens!"

As the white steam dispersed, translucent radish chunks and snow-white mushroom slices floated in the thick, golden broth. The grey hen had offered its ultimate kindness to the world—the golden skin had turned translucent, and the succulent meat beneath was barely contained, calling out to any hungry stomach to partake.

Petty suddenly swayed, nearly fainting, as a loud and long "rumble" emanated from her small stomach.

She watched as Lionel took the stewed onions and celery, which had nearly dissolved, out of the chicken's cavity and tossed them into the trash without a second thought. She almost blurted out, "Master, you could give those to me."

Then, she saw Lionel drop a handful of pasta into the soup.

Ten minutes later, two bowls of fragrant chicken noodle soup sat on the dining table, the meat in each piled high above the rim.

Petty looked at the table in shock, unable to fathom how her master would manage to eat two bowls of noodles.

Lionel twirled a few strands of pasta with his fork, then looked up, surprised to see Petty still standing to the side. "Sit down and eat with me!"

Petty stared at Lionel in disbelief, then looked at the chicken soup on the table—*is this for me?*

She knew that when she and her parents ate the meal plan provided by Mrs. Martin, they were only given the scraps the adults didn't want, often leaving her half-starved.

In all of France—no, all of Europe—there was no such thing as a servant sitting at the same table as their master, eating the same food.

Even Mrs. Martin, who was warming herself by the fire in the living room, was stunned by Lionel's words. As a local woman over sixty, she had witnessed the rise and fall of Paris for over half a century.

She had heard plenty of speeches from revolutionaries and politicians shouting beautiful slogans like "everyone is equal," but she had never seen anyone who, once wealthy, didn't hire a bunch of servants to wait on them, let alone see a rich man allow a servant to sit at the table with him.

Yet, Lionel’s words were so natural, without a hint of affectation, as if this were the most righteous thing in the world.

Petty sat down hesitantly, her bottom barely touching the edge of the chair, ready to scramble back to her place should Lionel say, "I was only joking."

But Lionel was busy slurping his noodles, not looking up at her at all.

Petty mustered her courage, picked up her fork, twirled the noodles, and put them in her mouth. An indescribable fragrance filled her palate; her tongue felt as if it were melting.

Then, with a trembling heart, she took a bite of the meat. The exquisite, chewy texture and the intense savoriness left her mind blank.

It took Petty a full twenty minutes to finish the bowl, which she licked clean.

Setting the bowl down, she saw Lionel looking at her with concern. "Are you full? If you want more, go help yourself to the pot..."

Petty opened her mouth to say, "No thank you, Master!"—but instead of words, a long, satisfied burp escaped.

Another Monday morning, and Lionel arrived at the Sorbonne right on time.

The entrance was still a hub of carriages, but now that he jumped down from a public coach, no one dared to mock him.

It wasn't just fear of his sharp tongue; it was because the campus bully, Albert de Rohan, had suddenly changed his ways. Not only did he stop bullying Lionel, he even warned others not to touch him.

The students generally speculated that Lionel must have caught the eye of some countess, which was why the arrogant Albert was so wary. They cast looks of envy and jealousy in his direction.

The naive and oblivious youth from the Alps, Lionel, had no idea what was going on, only feeling that the air around him was filled with a strange, warm, and ambiguous atmosphere.

The first class was, as usual, Professor Taine's "Origins of French Literature." The old professor, who had missed a week due to a cold, was in full form today. He asked Lionel three questions in a row the moment class started, breaking him out in a sweat.

Although he managed to handle them thanks to the knowledge he had accumulated in his previous life, Lionel still felt something was off—he hadn't been late today, nor had he argued with Albert in class, so why was Professor Taine so hard on him?

After finally making it through the class, Professor Taine, having failed to stump Lionel, glared at him in frustration and huffed off.

Something even stranger happened in the afternoon. As soon as class ended, Lionel was summoned to the office of Mr. Duane, the registrar, which triggered a wave of gossip among his classmates.

"The poetry reading before Easter—you're aware of it, right?" Mr. Duane asked the tall, handsome young man before him, secretly praising the Dean for his keen eye.

Lionel nodded. "Of course." The Sorbonne's poetry reading was famous in the Parisian academic world, with a large number of tycoons and nobles attending each time.

Mr. Duane asked with concern, "Why haven't I seen you participate before?"

Lionel searched his memories before answering, "I submitted work, but wasn't selected."

For a Sorbonne student to participate in the poetry reading, one either had to be a second-generation elite like Albert, whose parents would attend, or one had to submit to the Sorbonne Literary Journal and show enough talent to be chosen.

Lionel’s predecessor had once submitted a "Hymn to the Virgin" to the journal, which naturally went nowhere.

Mr. Duane patted Lionel on the shoulder encouragingly. "This year, we hope—no, you must submit to the journal. I believe in your talent!"

Lionel was even more confused, wondering if the mushrooms in yesterday's chicken soup had been bad, causing these hallucinations.

But since the registrar had spoken, how could he refuse? He could only bite the bullet and agree, "Alright, I will definitely submit something this year!"

Mr. Duane finally relaxed. "Good—the sooner the better. You can hand the manuscript directly to me once it's written."

At that moment, Lionel felt that the bald, stooped old man was like an NPC in a game, and he had inexplicably accepted a side quest.

That evening, after finishing the oxtail soup that Petty had poured all her energy into making, Lionel wrote a confirmation letter to Gabriel, laid out fresh manuscript paper on his desk, and began to ponder, clutching his quill.

He wanted to complete Mr. Duane's task as soon as possible—whatever the motive behind his participation in the poetry reading might be—lest it interfere with the writing of *The Decadent City*.

But the more he thought about it, the more interesting it became.

The Sorbonne Literary Journal was quite well-known in the literary circles of Paris.

Though not as famous as the major newspapers with wide public circulation, it was subscribed to by most Parisian literary critics and professors from the various colleges of arts, philosophy, and theology.

Regardless, the Sorbonne remained the face of humanities in French universities, and the journal occasionally featured works that were truly eye-opening.

Thinking of this, Lionel discarded his desire to just slap something together and became more serious than ever.

Not until the candle had burned halfway down did he write the first line on the page:

[The layout of the tavern in the Alps is different from those elsewhere:...]