Under the dim, yellowish light of a gas street lamp, Oscar Wilde's smile was fleeting, and his gray-blue eyes were exceptionally deep.
"No need to be nervous, handsome sir. I'm just an Englishman with an accent, not a robber."
He didn't know why Lionel had taken a step back, presumably out of wariness towards a stranger, so he decided to lay his cards on the table:
"I've met Monsieur Renoir at Monsieur Mallarmé's salon—hmm, I just saw him acting as your guide?"
Lionel smiled helplessly.
"Is that so? Good evening, Mr. Wilde. I am Lionel Sorell."
"Lionel Sorell? The Lionel Sorell who wrote A Letter from an Unknown Woman? Ha! So this is the biggest surprise tonight!"
Wilde let out a short, pleasant laugh.
Wilde looked towards the noisy entrance of the Louvre.
"Sir Cavendish, he invited me to Paris, intending for me—a young man from London with a rather insignificant opinion on beauty—to witness firsthand how his 'electric light miracle' would illuminate the temple of art, so that I could return and compose a hymn to technology for him in the newspapers, proclaiming to the world: 'Behold, this is the dawn granted by Great Britain to France!' How sublime! How pragmatically Victorian!"
Wilde's tone was full of sarcasm.
"I must thank those ill-fated light bulbs; they delivered the most brilliant review for me in advance—with explosions, chaos, and darkness, instead of my poor ink."
Lionel couldn't help but chuckle at Wilde's biting wit.
Wilde's gaze focused on Lionel, as if appreciating a fine piece of porcelain.
"However, putting aside this farce, Monsieur Sorell, you are my true discovery tonight...
Oh, don't misunderstand, I mean your works—both A Letter from an Unknown Woman and your recent serialization in Le Petit Parisien—have left me... captivated."
"You'd better be talking about my novels..."
Lionel muttered inwardly, while politely saying aloud,
"...You flatter me."
Wilde's gray-blue eyes sparkled.
"I must say, your writing, especially The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, is refreshingly new.
It doesn't merely pursue the bizarre in its plot—though 'growing backwards' is astounding enough in itself.
What moves me is your poetic reflection on 'existence' itself, your keen capture of life's essence, and the profound, pure aesthetic you unearth beneath a seemingly grotesque exterior.
You allow a baby born old to experience love, loss, and solitude, touching the eternal nature of humanity in a journey through time in reverse; this itself is an adventure with a profoundly 'Aestheticism' spirit!"
"It's like a butterfly encased in amber, heartbreakingly beautiful.
It proves that beauty can exist independently, can be pursued for its own radiance, without having to descend into the handmaiden of morality or didacticism.
This is what I believe in—Art for Art's Sake!"
His praise was fervent and direct, his language ornate and deeply penetrating.
Lionel felt a slight relief; discussing literature was acceptable to him—however, Wilde's subsequent invitation made his heart race.
"A soul as interesting as yours should be seen by more people."
Wilde leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice with an intimate allure.
"I know a place... more private, more free, and more... appreciative of unique beauty and thought. It's where truly interesting people gather—artists, poets, souls unconstrained by worldly norms..."
Wilde's gray-blue eyes gazed deeply into Lionel's.
"Tomorrow night, on Montmartre, there's a small gathering in the back room of the 'Le Chat Noir' gallery.
I believe you'll find inspiring insights there. Would you care to honor us with your presence?"
Lionel subtly shifted half a step back, evading Wilde's close breath.
"Thank you very much for your invitation, Mr. Wilde.
But unfortunately, my year-end exams are approaching, and my evenings are reserved for Latin and philosophy lectures!"
His refusal was swift and decisive, leaving no room for reconsideration.
A flicker of swift disappointment crossed Wilde's eyes.
Just as he was about to say something more, the voices of Georges Charpentier and Renoir carried over, clearly calling out to Lionel.
Wilde sighed.
"I'll be in Paris until next Thursday. I hope to see you again at Monsieur Mallarmé's salon."
With that, he bowed slightly and departed with an air of nonchalance.
Lionel watched his retreating figure, let out a long sigh of relief, and then temporarily crossed "Mallarmé's Tuesdays" off his list of salons to visit.
————
Sunday, the apartment at 64 Rue Laffitte was, as usual, filled with the aroma of coffee and fresh bread early in the morning.
Alice, returning from her walk, placed a still ink-scented copy of Le Petit Journal on the breakfast table, pointing at the headline with lingering trepidation.
"Léon, look quickly! The night before last was truly terrifying! Luckily, you weren't hurt—I told you those 'electric lights' were no good!"
Lionel's headline was unusually prominent:
Electric Light Disaster! "Paris Salon" Night of Terror!
The report detailed the immense chaos caused by the series of electric light explosions, particularly highlighting the discomfiture of the British sponsor, Sir Morton Cavendish, whose carefully planned "electric light" spectacle had completely devolved into a farce.
Even more striking was the latter half of the report:
[...After the accident, Sir Cavendish displayed "generosity" befitting his status, promising full compensation for all artworks damaged by the electric light explosions or subsequent chaos, and bearing all losses from the Louvre's exhibition halls being closed for two days due to the incident.]
[Sir Cavendish angrily declared that the accident was by no means accidental, but a "vile conspiracy"!
He suspected that his commercial rivals had secretly sent people to sabotage his power generation equipment, deliberately increasing the output voltage.
Sources indicated that both the London and Paris gas companies were very concerned about "electric lights," believing this new form of illumination would replace gas lamps.
"This is murder against science!"
Sir Cavendish stated. Currently, there is no evidence to support his accusations, and the police have initiated an investigation...]
Alice's voice trembled slightly.
"I told you those things are too dangerous! Flickering on and off, and even exploding!
Gas lamps are much better, so steady and reliable. Those flashy contraptions the British come up with are completely untrustworthy!"
Lionel put down the newspaper and smiled gently.
"Alice, fear often stems from the unknown.
Last night's accident was indeed frightening, but that doesn't mean electric lights themselves are bad.
When we first saw a locomotive roaring past, puffing smoke, didn't we also think it was like a man-eating steel monster?
But what about now?
Trains connect cities and bring prosperity—electric lights are the same.
If there's an opportunity in the future, I'll install electric lights in the apartment to make the night as bright as day."
Alice was startled, finding it hard to understand why Lionel, after experiencing an explosion, would still trust electric lights so much.
Lionel smiled, shook his head, and ended the topic.
After breakfast, he told Alice and Petit,
"No need to prepare lunch or dinner for me; I might not be back until late tonight."
(End of chapter)
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