After dinner, Lionel politely declined Lucien's suggestion to take him for a stroll near the opera house, and couldn't wait to return to his new apartment, ready to turn his fresh inspiration into words.
The apartment had a small study, just big enough for a desk and a chair, with a modest bookshelf, gas lamps on the walls, and a candelabra on the desk.
Under the dual lighting, Lionel had a writing experience close to that of electric lights in his previous life—of course, it would have been even better if the quill pen and rough, deckle-edged manuscript paper could be replaced with a keyboard and screen...
For The Decadent City to win the approval of readers in Paris, France, and even Europe, it couldn't simply be an accumulation of erotic descriptions.
One must know that by this time, the readership in France was no longer limited to intellectuals and the bourgeois class, but had expanded to include workers, farmers, and even rural women, with the gradual popularization of education.
In Paris alone, there were over 500 officially licensed public reading rooms where readers could borrow newspapers and novels for a very low price; and in the countryside, "mobile libraries" were also common, providing entertainment for bored housewives.
The protagonist, "Emma," in Madame Bovary developed fantasies of romantic love through the books from mobile libraries.
And now, in 1879, French readers' tastes were becoming increasingly discerning, and a certain level of literary quality was still necessary to attract them to buy.
At the same time, it was important to note the characteristics of readers in this era:
Many young readers in the 20th, and especially the 21st century, often complain when reading 18th and 19th-century novels, complaining that the literary masters of the time often indulged in lengthy descriptions of scenery and local customs before the plot even began, especially Balzac, who could write several pages on local conditions and customs at the opening.
Lionel hadn't understood this originally, but after coming to this world, he understood—readers of this era didn't have a wealth of film, television, or art to fill their minds, and if there weren't enough words to create the setting for them, it would be difficult for them to get into the novel, and the reading experience would naturally be poor.
Ancient Chinese novels also had a similar phenomenon, where protagonists would have a meticulously detailed description every time they entered a new environment or met a new character.
So, it wasn't that writers of the time didn't realize these descriptions were too lengthy, but rather a specific style that formed out of accommodating readers.
But who said that to make readers feel immersed, the beginning had to be an environmental description?
Lionel thought long and hard, and then wrote the first paragraph of The Decadent City on paper—
[Lyon, the city gaped its blood-red maw, exhaling air thick with damp crypt moss and rusted nails from coffins, pouring into Louis Pincé's lungs.
On a late autumn night, the air was bone-chillingly cold, fine rain pricked his face like needles, then slid down his neck into the collar of his expensive shirt, already soaked with cold sweat.
Louis Pincé, the "rising star" of the Royal Opera House, was now like a skinned stray dog, cowering deep in a narrow, filthy alley in the Saint-Jean quarter, reeking of strong urine and rotting vegetable leaves.
His back pressed tightly against the cold, rough stone wall, each ragged breath tore at his lungs, each heartbeat thumped heavily against his eardrums, as if to shake the glinting saber—Count de Lorraine's saber, which had almost kissed his throat—out of his mind.]
Lionel changed the name of Lucien de Pincé, whom he had just met today, to "Louis Pincé."
After all, in an era of monarchy, members of the nobility with "de" in their names usually wouldn't "stoop" to becoming opera singers.
The opening he arranged for "Louis Pincé" possessed both suspense and urgency, while shifting the focus of environmental description from local customs and conditions to more relatable sensory perceptions like "temperature" and "smell."
The "fleeing 'rising star' of the Royal Opera House" was also enough to attract readers' attention, as there had been virtually no works depicting this group in the past.
He even utilized a bit of the "golden first three chapters" technique from online novels, to set up suspense as early as possible in the opening, allowing readers to quickly enter the situation—something often considered a "taboo" in 19th-century and earlier European novels.
As for the reason this "rising star" fell into misfortune in Lyon, Lionel didn't hide it, but quickly provided the answer—
[Less than a week ago, Louis Pincé's world was made of velvet, crystal chandeliers, and the sweet, cloying scent of perfume...
He reveled in being the center of all this chaos.
His voice, his figure, the charm that flowed from his eyes and brows, were enough to make the jewel-laden ladies in the private boxes clutch their fan ribs tightly, and cause the seemingly proper gentlemen's Adam's apples to bob involuntarily.
Until he met Émilie.
Or rather, until Émilie met him.
Émilie was Count de Lorraine's new darling, a delicate rose freshly transplanted from the provinces into a Parisian hothouse, carrying the naiveté of her first entry into the world of glamour and an irrepressible curiosity.
The Count's box was in an excellent position, directly facing the center of the stage.
Louis Pincé could clearly see Émilie's dark brown, fawn-like eyes, how they shifted from an initial shy evasion to gradually being ignited by his singing and performance, becoming fervent and daring.
Her gaze was like a hook; each time it swept across the stage, it landed precisely on him.
This silent invitation, for a hunter who delighted in conquest, was more powerful than any beautifully worded love letter.
In the shadows of a backstage corridor one midnight after a performance, her skirt brushed against Louis Pincé's leg, leaving behind a dizzying scent of intertwined rose and musk.
Émilie slipped Louis Pincé a note emitting the same fragrance; it contained only an address and a time.
Everything that followed was a natural progression, sensual and enchanting.
In her secret small apartment, Émilie, like a tuberose blooming under the moonlight, shyly yet passionately opened all her petals for him, [CENSORED].
Her skin gleamed with a pearlescent luster in the dim candlelight, her soft moans like the most captivating aria, [CENSORED].
Louis Pincé indulged deeply, like drinking the finest Bordeaux vintage, [CENSORED].
He completely forgot that this rose had long been marked as owned—belonging to Count de Lorraine, infamous in court for his volatile temper and possessiveness.]
Although The Decadent City needed to emphasize literary quality, it was still essentially an erotic novel designed to stimulate the senses.
Lionel wasn't prepared to hide what readers most wanted to see too deeply—after reading refined, decent, orthodox literary descriptions, their patience would last for at most two pages, otherwise, they would furiously confront the bookseller.
So, what needed to be given had to be given early to entice readers to continue.
In Lionel's writing, "Louis Pincé," having slept with Count de Lorraine's woman, was hunted by the Count and forced to flee to Lyon to hide.
It was in Lyon that he met the protagonist of the entire novel,
"Gérard Simmons."
"Louis Pincé" soon, with his charm and amorous skills, became a popular "retainer" in "Gérard Simmons'" manor, and the entire novel gradually unfolded through his perspective.
Lionel kept writing, not turning off the lamp and going to sleep until late into the night.
The next morning, Lionel went downstairs again to eat breakfast—this was also the first time he had eaten "breakfast" since being reborn into this era.
"Three meals a day" began with royalty and 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 more decades to have "breakfast."
After breakfast, Lionel returned to his apartment and continued writing The Decadent City.
There was no other way; although the creation deadline was four months, writing efficiency was really not high, and it wasn't suitable to sneakily write this kind of novel in class, so he had to write as much as possible on the weekend.
However, after dinner, Lionel did not continue writing.
Instead, he picked up the gas lamp he had prepared earlier and a dozen francs in cash, and took a public carriage to "Hell Street" in the 14th arrondissement.
By then, the sky was as dark as ink, and in most parts of the 14th arrondissement, only a few sporadic streetlights were still on; the long, narrow "Hell Street" had no streetlights at all, only the windows on the walls lining the street emitted light, barely illuminating the eerie and terrifying street.
When Lionel arrived, Albert de Rohan and his followers had also arrived, each carrying a gas lamp.
Seeing the "transformed" Lionel, Albert was somewhat surprised and couldn't help but want to make a sarcastic remark, but then remembering their previous encounter, he forcibly shut his mouth.
Lionel raised his gas lamp a little, shone it on Albert and the others, and noticed a stranger among his followers:
"Oh, are there new people joining today?"
Albert saw that Lionel had noticed the newcomer, suddenly puffed out his chest, and said with considerable pride,
"This is my new friend, from Amiens."
Only then did the "new friend" introduce himself in a languid tone:
"My name is Michel, Michel Jean-Pierre Verne!"
(End of this chapter)
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