The "Paris Salon" usually only opened for visits during the day, closing in the evening—because without natural light, gaslights alone could not meet the demands of viewing paintings.
However, tonight was different.
With the sponsorship of a British merchant, a new type of lighting using "electricity" had been installed in the Louvre.
According to a reporter from Le Petit Journal who had seen the real thing, it was "brighter than daytime!"
Such novelties were usually very expensive, and it was naturally unsuitable to display them during the crowded daytime.
So, it was arranged for the evening, with only a very select group of people invited.
Lionel, of course, knew what it was better than anyone else in this era, having even caught a glimpse of it at the "Orbi Trading Company."
Yet, he couldn't help but be curious and requested an invitation through Monsieur Charpentier.
By the time he arrived, the colonnade of the Louvre's North Wing was already filled with carriages: four-wheeled landaus, two-wheeled phaetons, open-top Portos...
Wheel-shafts intertwined with wheel-shafts, horse bits and copper bells jingled, and the air was a sweet mixture of leather, horse sweat, and perfume.
Although it was an "exclusive invitation," it seemed that everyone in Paris who owned a carriage had come tonight.
Lionel looked up and saw two new rows of "electric lights" above the main entrance, like two rows of small suns, illuminating the Louvre's stone reliefs with meticulous detail, leaving no tiny fold in the goddess's skirt to hide.
Presenting the gilded invitation Monsieur Charpentier had given him to the doorman, Lionel smoothly entered the exhibition.
Amidst the aromas of expensive perfume, cigar tobacco, oil paints, and the characteristic warmth of a dense crowd, Lionel stepped into the grand hall, instantly captivated by the sight before him.
In the immense exhibition hall, where natural light from skylights once reigned, it was now as bright as day, illuminated by countless electric bulbs suspended and embedded in the walls.
Crystal chandeliers, too, had been given new souls, each facet reflecting dazzling light under the electricity, illuminating the oil paintings hanging beneath them for all to see.
Gentlemen in exquisite evening dress and ladies in floor-length gowns, adorned with jewels, moved through, conversed, and paused to admire in this artificial "daylight."
Low male voices, clear female voices, French and English accents intertwined into a buzzing background sound, punctuated by occasional restrained laughter or exclamations of awe.
The allure of "electric lights" this evening even surpassed that of the outstanding artworks!
However, while others were curious and awestruck, Lionel felt as if he had stepped into another time and space.
"Léon! Over here!"
Monsieur Charpentier's voice cut through the crowd, startling Lionel from his reverie.
He turned and saw Georges Charpentier standing before a colossal painting depicting a scene from Greek mythology, accompanied by his wife and a slender man in a suit.
Lionel squeezed through the crowd and reached the trio.
Georges Charpentier introduced them:
"Léon, this is Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who illustrated 'The Curious Incidents of Benjamin Bouton'; Pierre, this is Lionel Sorel."
The two quickly shook hands, exclaiming:
"Pleased to meet you!"
Lionel carefully studied the renowned Impressionist painter, who wore a brand-new, well-tailored dark formal coat over a light-colored waistcoat, his hair and beard clearly groomed and trimmed, exuding an air of respectability.
He was nothing like the struggling, disheveled painters in the self-portraits Lionel remembered.
Georges Charpentier clearly wanted the two artists he valued to become better acquainted:
"Let Pierre show you around, though he has quite strong opinions on these paintings..."
With that, he left with his wife to socialize with others.
"Lionel, look here!"
Renoir was very enthusiastic, not at all shy with Lionel.
"Doesn't it look like a giant gilded birdcage? Full of brightly feathered parrots who only mimic calls? What's there to introduce, really?"
Renoir did not deliberately lower his voice; instead, he spoke with a hint of his usual mockery, his gaze sweeping over the academic masterpieces that gleamed golden under the electric lights.
Other spectators nearby cast strange glances, successfully drawing attention to the two of them.
Lionel had no desire to participate in artistic disagreements where "painters belittle each other," so he smiled and changed the subject:
"Pierre, you look radiant, different from what I imagined."
"Thanks to you, young man!"
Renoir's voice was full of emotion:
"Those small illustrations! My God, I never thought the ladies and wealthy merchants from the salons would get to know me because of them, and then bought all my consigned works from the gallery!"
He patted Lionel's shoulder, his eyes shining:
"Sold out! Completely empty! Money for paints, money for canvases, I even moved into a studio that doesn't leak! I owe you a huge favor, Lionel!"
Lionel smiled and said,
"That's because your paintings are excellent to begin with!"
Renoir looked Lionel up and down:
"You're such a good model... When are you free to come to my studio? I'll paint your portrait!"
Lionel smiled and agreed.
The two strolled through the exhibition hall, Renoir still scornful of the exhibited works:
"Look at these 'Bouguereau legions,' how smooth, how sweet, how... empty! Like wood coated in thick frosting. Their canvases only have 'correctness,' no 'life'!"
William-Adolphe Bouguereau was the chairman of this year's judging panel, and many of the exhibited works were by his students.
As he spoke, the crowd suddenly surged in one direction, accompanied by a louder commotion.
In the center of the exhibition hall, a tall man in a well-tailored tailcoat stood before a colossal painting depicting a fierce cavalry charge from the Napoleonic era.
Renoir whispered:
"That's tonight's 'sponsor,' Sir Morton Cavendish from England; these 'electric lights' are his."
Sir Cavendish held a glass of champagne, his voice resonant, speaking in French with a British accent:
"Ladies and gentlemen! This painting, 'The Emperor Napoleon in 1814,' with its unparalleled detail and magnificent grandeur, has deeply moved me.
Therefore, I have decided to acquire it for my collection at a price of forty thousand francs!"
"Forty thousand francs!"
A gasp and a murmur of discussion erupted from the crowd; even in art-loving Paris, this was an astonishingly high price.
Sir Cavendish's face broke into a satisfied smile as he raised a hand to point at the dazzling electric lights on the ceiling:
"And all of this, presented so clearly, so splendidly before our eyes tonight, is thanks to the great light of progress—electricity!
Sir Joseph Swan's invention, this pure, stable, artificial light surpassing the sun! It dispels the ignorance of night, allowing artistic treasures to shine at any moment!
This, is the future..."
The gentleman's impassioned speech abruptly stopped!
Directly above his head, in the center of the most ornate crystal chandelier, several light bulbs suddenly burst with blinding white light, immediately followed by—
"Bang!"
"Crash—!"
A series of harsh explosions rang out! The fragile glass casings of the light bulbs scattered like hail!
"Ah—!"
"My God!"
Gasps and women's screams instantly replaced praise and discussion! The crowd instinctively covered their heads and dodged backward.
Sir Cavendish was in the direct line of fire; several glass shards splattered on his expensive suit, even drawing a trace of blood on the back of his hand, and his champagne glass shattered to pieces.
A chain reaction began! Several electric lights in different parts of the exhibition hall flickered intermittently, emitting "sizzling" electrical sounds, and then a few more "popped"!
The previously elegant and composed crowd instantly plunged into chaos.
Ladies' dresses were trampled, gentlemen pushed others, and screams, shouts, and curses filled the entire space.
Lionel soon lost Renoir and was squeezed out of the Louvre's main entrance by the surging crowd.
The cool air invigorated him; behind him was the still noisy and chaotic palace, and before him lay the quiet Tuileries Garden.
On the street, rows of gas streetlights emitted a soft glow, outlining the trees and buildings in the night.
Just then, an unusually tall young man emerged from the nearby shadows, stopping beside Lionel.
Lionel, at 180 centimeters, was already considered tall for his era, yet he had to look up to see the man's face—
Shoulder-length dark wavy hair, a square jaw, a straight nose, grey-blue eyes, and a lazy, cynical gaze.
The young man took out a silver cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, then fumbled in his pockets for a moment, revealing an annoyed expression, before turning his gaze to Lionel:
"Excuse me, sir. Might I trouble you for a light?"
Lionel took out a matchbox from his pocket and offered it to him.
The young man took the match, lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled smoke:
"Thank you very much."
He nodded slightly, then with unconcealed curiosity and scrutiny, observed Lionel carefully, and after a moment, spoke:
"My name is Wilde, Oscar Wilde. This chaotic night has finally produced some surprise."
Lionel subconsciously took a step aside.
(End of chapter)
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