Chapter 37: Where Did Lionel Go? (Please Vote for This Novel)

In this era, few people in France introduce themselves by their full names. It is as if, when Léonard introduces himself, he says only "I am Léonard Sorel," rather than "I am Léonard Joseph Étienne Sorel."

However, this surname caught Léonard’s attention, and he asked with a hint of curiosity, "Are you related to Monsieur Jules Verne...?"

Upon hearing this, Michel Verne did not answer. Instead, he let out a scoff of disdain and turned his head away.

Albert, however, began to boastfully explain, "Michel is Monsieur Verne’s only son and will soon be our classmate as well. Monsieur Verne thinks that we at the Sorbonne..."

Michel Verne interrupted Albert, "Don't talk about that old bastard who only cares about money! I don't care at all where he wants me to go! Sending me to Paris with only 300 francs a month—he just wants me to starve to death here!"

Léonard fell silent. In Paris, 300 francs was enough to support an entire family, living in a decent apartment with a maid from Brittany to serve them.

It seemed that the relationship between Jules Verne and his only son was strained. While 300 francs a month was a fortune to an ordinary person, it was a mere drop in the bucket for Verne.

Jules Verne had entered the literary circle under the mentorship of Alexandre Dumas, thanks to a connection through Dumas fils. Consequently, his creative philosophy was entirely derived from the elder Dumas—in the eyes of Dumas, "What is history? It is merely a nail upon which to hang my novels!"—whereas for Verne, it could be summarized as "What is science? It is merely a nail upon which to hang my novels!"

Regardless, his writing was immensely successful. In 1863, he signed a twenty-year contract with the renowned publisher Hetzel, providing three books a year in exchange for a monthly stipend of 500 francs. As his fame and sales figures soared, that sum had increased tenfold. By the 1870s, the sales of Jules Verne’s novels were rivaling those of his mentor, Dumas, making him one of the most beloved and, naturally, wealthiest novelists in France.

It seems that the struggle of how to raise children is a shared sorrow for famous people throughout history, thought Léonard. Since this young man was clearly not his father, he was merely a spoiled heir. Léonard stopped asking questions and turned to Albert. "Are you all ready?"

Albert gave a strange, mischievous chuckle and took the lead, guiding the group into the narrow Rue de l'Enfer.

Rue de l'Enfer originated in the 13th century, developing from fortifications built during the reign of King Philip Augustus. Having survived numerous wars, fires, and the large-scale land seizures of the 1860s, it had stubbornly persisted to this day. It was one of the few streets in Paris still dominated by wooden architecture. Many of the building facades were pitch black, unlit by any lamp, which only added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Most mischievous Parisian students had visited this place to satisfy their "thirst for adventure," but none had ever come this late at night. The group moved in a line, like a glowing centipede snaking through Rue de l'Enfer. Many of those conducting business in the dead of night saw them coming and either hid themselves in their cloaks or lowered their hat brims and turned up their collars.

Not far into the alley, Albert stopped beneath a window. He reached out and tapped on the glass. The window was quickly pushed open, and a pale, withered hand emerged.

Albert pressed a 10-sou coin into the hand and added, "We want to go down into the catacombs."

The pale, withered hand withdrew. A moment later, it handed out a slip of paper, accompanied by a raspy, gender-neutral voice: "Take this note to Number 109. Knock twice slowly, wait a few seconds, then knock three times quickly."

Following these instructions, Albert led the group forward for a few more minutes until they spotted a narrow door marked "109." Albert knocked as directed, and soon a small window on the door opened. Albert handed over the note; about half a minute later, the door finally creaked open.

A gaunt, stunted man who looked like a goblin looked up at Albert, Léonard, and the others, revealing a lewd grin. "University students?"

Before they could respond, he stepped aside. "Come in. As long as you aren't the police, I don't care who you are."

Léonard took a deep breath and followed Albert and the others through the narrow door. To his surprise, the space inside was quite large, albeit empty and devoid of furniture. Gas lamps were lit on the walls; although the light was dim, it was far less eerie than the street outside.

The "goblin" held out his hand. "Two francs per person to go down. If you need a guide, it’s four francs per hour. The entrance will be open for you for one hour. If you aren't back in an hour, you'll have to wait for the next group or pay an extra two francs each. If you don't take a guide and get lost or run into any trouble, I take no responsibility."

Albert looked back at Léonard, who shrugged. "I don't mind, but I’m certainly not paying those two francs."

Albert was momentarily choked for words, then turned back to the goblin and handed over 12 francs. "We don't need a guide."

The goblin took the money, nodded, and grabbed a crowbar from the corner of the room. He pried at the edge of the floorboards, revealing a pitch-black hole. He dragged over a ladder, lowered it into the opening, and instructed, "There are only three main tunnels down there. No matter how far you go, as long as you follow the widest path, you will definitely find your way back here. Of course, if you encounter something else... well, I can't guarantee you'll be coming back at all." He let out a sinister, cackling laugh.

Albert felt a chill run down his spine. Just as he was about to say something, he saw that Léonard had already begun climbing down the ladder. He had no choice but to shut his mouth and follow, bracing himself for the descent.

The vertical shaft was not deep—only about five meters—and they quickly reached the bottom. It was pitch black, with no light save for the gas lamps they carried.

The air within the catacombs instantly seized them. It was not the coldness of the surface, but a viscous, frigid stillness, heavy with ancient dust and an indescribable, sweet, rotting scent of decay.

As Albert’s feet touched the ground, the goblin above quickly pulled the ladder away. The last faint sliver of light from the surface was swallowed whole, as if a tomb door had slammed shut above their heads.

The darkness was absolute—thick, impenetrable, coating their eyes, noses, and throats like cold grease. All that remained were their own ragged, nervous breaths echoing in the narrow shaft, sounding jarringly isolated and helpless.

"Light it up! Quickly!" Albert’s voice trembled, sounding unnaturally sharp in the absolute dark.

The others hurriedly huddled their lamps together and raised them high, finally illuminating their surroundings. They stood at the entrance of a low-vaulted tunnel barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The walls and ceilings were not made of earth or stone, but of dense, layered, infinite human bones.

Femur bones were stacked neatly like firewood to form the base of the walls; tibiae, fibulae, and humeri were crisscrossed to fill the gaps. Most chilling of all—the sight that made one's scalp crawl and soul tremble—was the dense mosaic of skulls embedded into the walls, like wallpaper from hell.

Thousands upon thousands, endless and vast.

It was not the first time Albert and his lackeys had visited the catacombs; some of them had even been "recruited" by Albert in this very place. But at ten o'clock at night, through a private entrance, without a guide... it was a first for all of them. Seeing the scene before them, they couldn't help but swallow hard.

The sound of their Adam's apples bobbing seemed deafeningly loud.

Suddenly, Michel Verne’s voice broke the silence: "Wh-where did Léonard go?"