An hour later, Lionel arrived punctually on Rue Lecourbe in the 10th Arrondissement, a bouquet of sweet peas in his hand.
Following his memory, he navigated a series of turns through the alleyways, finally stopping before a small courtyard with a fig tree planted by the entrance.
This was Sophie Deneuve's home.
Despite having a small courtyard, the house was only a single story and quite old; the walls were plastered, but many cracks had appeared in the mortar between the bricks, where moss and creeping vines now grew.
The roof was a steep-pitched wooden gable structure, covered with aged slate tiles, and the windows were old-fashioned wooden dormers with peeling paint on their frames.
The surrounding environment, while not as harsh as Rue Oberkampf, wasn't much better.
The last time Lionel had brought her home, he'd only reached the doorstep, and it had been night, so he hadn't seen it clearly.
Thus, he was somewhat surprised now.
The neighbors had evidently noticed this young man, who seemed out of place in their surroundings.
Their eyes peered at him, and whispers rose like a swarm of bees collecting honey nearby.
Lionel paid no mind.
He saw a rope hanging above the courtyard gate, indicating an old-fashioned pull-cord doorbell.
As the crisp chime of the doorbell echoed through the small courtyard, the door of the little house soon opened, and Sophie's figure appeared before Lionel.
She was wearing a casual light-colored dress, revealing her fair neck and delicate collarbones.
Seeing Lionel, she was both surprised and a little flustered, but a smile couldn't help but bloom on her face:
"What brings you here?"
Lionel handed her the sweet peas:
"I have a ball to attend, and you're the only dance partner I could think of."
After he explained the situation, a shy yet proud glint first appeared in Sophie's eyes, then dimmed:
"That's the Count's ball. I don't have a suitable dress, I'll only embarrass you if I go..."
Lionel couldn't resist a joke:
"While you may not have one, 'Printemps Department Store' certainly does... just don't borrow a diamond necklace from 'Madame Forestier'."
Sophie didn't know who "Madame Forestier" was, but she still shook her head:
"You don't need to worry about it, I'll prepare my own dress."
Lionel knew her character and didn't press further.
Instead, he extended another invitation:
"Do you have any other plans today? I'd like to go to a dance lesson with you..."
He then offered an embarrassed smile:
"I can't dance. Albert introduced me to a teacher..."
Sophie couldn't help but cover her mouth and chuckle, a hint of mischief flashing in her eyes:
"So, the renowned Monsieur Lionel Sorel has something he can't do?"
Lionel admitted self-deprecatingly:
"On the dance floor, I might be clumsier than Benjamin Button's first steps."
He then made an exaggerated stumbling motion, making Sophie laugh out loud.
The two took a taxi carriage to the second floor of an elegant apartment building on Boulevard des Italiens.
This was the Rohan family's etiquette classroom, Mademoiselle Odette Deville's private studio,
"The Academy of Poise and Grace."
A faint scent of incense hung in the air.
The room was spacious and bright, with polished hardwood floors, and a huge full-length mirror occupied an entire wall.
Mademoiselle Odette Deville was a woman of about forty, impeccably poised, wearing a well-tailored dark grey silk dress, her hair meticulously pinned up at the back of her head.
Her face was not strikingly beautiful, but her demeanor was calm and noble.
Whether walking or standing, every movement seemed calculated, fluid, silent, and graceful.
"Monsieur Sorel, and Mademoiselle, welcome,"
Mademoiselle Deville's voice carried just the right amount of warmth and distance.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she got straight to the point:
"Time is of the essence, so we'll begin directly with the most basic social dance steps. Polka and waltz are indispensable for the Rohan Count's ball.
Today we'll practice the polka first; its rhythm is livelier and relatively easier to master."
She gestured for them to stand in the center of the room, facing the large mirror.
Mademoiselle Deville stood before them, demonstrating the starting stance for gentlemen and ladies, and the placement of hands, particularly emphasizing the word "lightness":
"Monsieur, your hand is a guide, not a vice; Mademoiselle, your reliance is trust, not a burden.
Keep your body upright, but not stiff like a guard. Imagine yourselves as... well, a willow tree swaying in the wind."
Next, she began to break down the basic polka steps, a sprightly 2/4 time skipping-sliding step:
"One, two, slide! One, two, slide! Pay attention to the rhythm, it's 'hop-cha-cha,' not 'thump-thump-thump'!"
She clapped out the rhythm, her feet gliding lightly across the polished floor like a weightless feather.
The demonstration seemed simple, but when it was Lionel and Sophie's turn to practice, the situation was entirely different.
Lionel felt his hands and feet were like newly fitted prosthetics, stiff and unresponsive.
He couldn't find the quick "hop-cha-cha" rhythm, his steps heavy as if he were dragging the floor, and he nearly tripped himself and Sophie when turning.
Mademoiselle Deville's voice remained calm:
"Monsieur Sorel, relax your shoulders. You are not taming a wild horse, but... inviting a gentle breeze to dance. Your center of gravity should shift naturally with your steps, like this..."
She demonstrated the sliding step again, enviably fluid.
Sophie, meanwhile, tried hard to follow Lionel's clumsy lead, her cheeks slightly flushed from holding back laughter and nervousness.
She had a good sense of rhythm and had already mastered the steps, but under Lionel's guidance, which was sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, she also appeared somewhat flustered.
Mademoiselle Deville turned to Sophie, her smile encouraging:
"Mademoiselle Deneuve, you follow very well. But remember, in the polka, the gentleman is the commander, even if this commander...
...is still getting to know his army. Trust him, give him your hand, give him your center of gravity, and let him bear the responsibility of leading.
You just need to remain light and enjoy the feeling of gliding."
The practice continued. The room echoed with Mademoiselle Deville's clear instructions, Lionel's heavy footsteps, Sophie's occasional couldn't help but light laughter, and Lionel's frustrated murmurs...
...
Stepping out of the apartment, the evening breeze brushed against their sweaty foreheads.
Lionel looked at Sophie beside him; they exchanged glances and couldn't help but laugh.
This half-day of "torment" had subtly brought them closer.
Lionel self-deprecatingly said:
"It seems I'll be the one to embarrass you at Count Rohan's ball."
Sophie smiled:
"It's alright, we aren't nobles anyway..."
————
"So, you already have a dance partner?"
Madame Rothschild's tone held a hint of disappointment.
Lionel sat opposite her, under a dazzling crystal chandelier, surrounded by exotic decor.
He even saw an ink wash painting; the air was filled with a sweet, cloying scent.
Madame Rothschild leaned languidly against the cushions, clad only in light silk loungewear, a ribbon loosely tied at her waist, a lace chemise vaguely visible underneath; the hem of her skirt casually cascaded to the floor.
She held an ivory-handled feather fan, gently wafting it, occasionally directing her scent towards Lionel opposite her.
She had invited Lionel to her mansion on Saint-Germain Boulevard today because she had heard he would be attending the Rohan family's ball, and wished to invite him as her dance partner, to officially present her status as Lionel's patron to Parisian society.
Unexpectedly, Lionel said he already had a dance partner.
Lionel's tone was calm:
"Her name is Sophie, a perfectly ordinary girl who helped me out before..."
Madame Rothschild almost said,
"I helped you too..." but immediately restrained the impulse.
Though unwilling to concede, Lionel, who didn't blindly curry favor with her, fascinated her even more—suddenly, she somewhat understood why Baroness Alexeyevna had been deceived by that imposter.
But hers was an act, while mine is real.
Madame Rothschild offered an enigmatic smile:
"An ordinary girl? Then wait a moment..."
With that, she rose and left the living room, returning shortly with a silk-covered wooden box in her hand:
"Open it."
Lionel inwardly cursed, but took it and opened it nonetheless:
Inside lay a breathtakingly exquisite and luxurious diamond necklace, its dazzling radiance making one feel dizzy.
"She certainly doesn't have suitable jewelry, does she? Take this necklace to her. On the day of the ball, she won't be outshone by any lady."
Madame Rothschild's tone held an unquestionable determination.
A line of sweat beads appeared on the back of Lionel's neck.
(End of Chapter)
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