The train from Vienna to Paris traveled through the twilight at the foot of the Alps.
The luxurious compartment was filled with the smoke of cigars and the scent of leather.
Professor Theodor Meynert, gray-haired and stern-faced, was carefully perusing a stack of case briefs about Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve and excerpts from "The Decadent City" by the dim light.
Beside him sat an equally focused young student, who constantly took the documents the professor had finished reviewing, then devoured them eagerly, his eyes filled with a thirst for knowledge.
After a long while, Professor Meynert put down the documents and commented in German with a strong Austrian accent:
"Interesting, very interesting, Freud. This swindler possesses superb deceptive skills and an extremely precise grasp of human weaknesses.
As for his literary works... let's just call it a catharsis of some kind of morbid imagination."
Freud nodded:
"Édouard-Benoît not only chose to exploit women's emotions as a means of accumulating wealth in his scams, but also enthusiastically depicted erotic scenes in his novels...
This suggests that he has been in a state of 'sexual repression' since childhood!"
Professor Meynert frowned.
His student was good in every other aspect, but too keen on those abstruse psychological theories, rather than studying mental illnesses from rigorous anatomical and pathological perspectives.
But this was not accepted in the orthodox research of psychiatry, and he didn't want to be ridiculed by Jean-Martin Charcot in Paris.
He reminded him:
"The church accuses him of being 'demon-possessed.' This is actually a typical case, mixing crime, hysteria, and religious delusions.
The day after tomorrow, all of Paris will be watching how we diagnose him. You must be careful with your words and not give anyone ammunition."
Freud nodded, and just as he was about to speak, there was a knock on the compartment door.
Before Professor Meynert could respond, a tall, blonde woman pulled open the door, walked in assertively, and sat opposite the two men.
Then, several other tall women followed, standing behind her.
Freud cautiously shielded his teacher.
The woman paid them no mind, first introducing herself:
"Professor Meynert? Please forgive my abrupt intrusion. I am Sophia Ivanovna Durova-Sherbatova, daughter of Baroness Alexeeva."
She spoke German, her voice intentionally softened and urgent.
"Baroness Alexeeva" was a name that had appeared in the case files, and Professor Meynert and Freud breathed a slight sigh of relief.
Sophia's voice trembled slightly:
"I implore you, give me a few minutes. It concerns the survival of my family's honor!"
Although Professor Meynert was quite displeased by the interruption, he still nodded slightly, signaling her to continue.
Sophia took a deep breath and hastened her speech:
"Professor, I know you are going to Paris to conduct a psychiatric evaluation for that swindler, Villeneuve.
I beg you, in your professional report, no matter what, you must diagnose him as a severely mentally ill patient!
A complete madman! The more severe, the better... any diagnostic name will do!"
As she spoke, she took out a pre-prepared bank draft from her expensive handbag and gently pushed it onto the small table in front of Professor Meynert.
The amount on it was enough to make anyone gasp – 50,000 francs.
Sophia's voice was seductive:
"This is a small token of gratitude for your professional efforts, Professor. This is just the beginning if you provide the diagnosis we need.
The Durova-Sherbatova family has deep connections and resources in Vienna, in Saint Petersburg, and throughout Europe.
University of Vienna? That's too small!
We can establish a dedicated research institute for you, provide unimaginable financial support, and make you the undisputed king of European psychiatry!
Your achievements will surpass..."
Professor Meynert coldly interrupted her enticing promises:
"Miss, you seem to have misunderstood two things..."
His voice was not loud, but it scraped like cold metal against glass, making Sophia's heart clench.
Professor Meynert stood up, looking down on her:
"First, I, Theodor Meynert, am a doctor, a scientist, not a shyster or a court jester who can be bought.
My diagnosis is based only on observation, examination, and medical knowledge, on my reason and learning, not on anyone's wallet or the title before their surname."
Sophia's face turned pale.
She was about to say something, but Professor Meynert's solemn tone pressed her into silence:
"Second, you are here right now, attempting to bribe a scholar with money to falsify scientific conclusions...
This act itself has already stained the 'honor' you and your family claim to uphold with an indelible mark."
Professor Meynert picked up the bank draft and, as if brushing away a speck of dust, scornfully pushed it back in front of Sophia:
"Now, please leave my compartment, madam.
Do not defile the air here. Freud, see this lady out for me."
Professor Meynert sat back down, picking up Villeneuve's case files again, as if nothing had just happened.
Sophia's face instantly turned ashen, humiliation and anger making her tremble slightly.
She stared fiercely at Professor Meynert's indifferent profile, her gray-blue eyes seeming to spit fire.
Finally, she abruptly bent down, picked up the bank draft, and without a word, turned and left the compartment.
The tall maids also hastily followed their mistress, fleeing the scene.
Freud didn't even have time to "see her out."
He could only get up and silently close the compartment door, then turn back to his mentor, his eyes full of respect.
Professor Meynert didn't even raise his head, his voice returning to calm:
"Do you see, Freud? This is the other end of human nature – both greedy and full of fear, wanting to trample all principles with money and power.
Remember, never compromise with such baseness, even if it is draped in velvet and mink, and carries pockets full of money."
Freud nodded profoundly.
Outside the window, the dark shadows of the Alps rapidly receded, and the lights of Paris vaguely emerged ahead.
————
The last Sunday of July, Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.
This Gothic giant standing on the banks of the Seine was the most watched focal point in all of Europe.
The nave, capable of holding thousands, was packed to the gills.
The air was a mix of sweat, perfume, the scent of burning candle wax, and the strong aroma of incense...
The huge rose window, illuminated by countless candles and gas lamps, reflected ever-changing halos.
The soaring rib vaults and grim statues of saints cast vast, swaying shadows over the crowd in the multiple lights, as if the entire building was breathing restlessly.
Seated in the front rows were elegantly dressed invited "spectators" – serious-faced government officials and high-ranking church clergy in splendid vestments.
Then came the newspaper reporters, like sharks smelling blood, their pencils rapidly scratching across their notepads, eyes wide open, afraid of missing any detail.
In the back rows and beneath the side columns were representatives of the citizenry who had squeezed in through various channels, craning their necks, their faces etched with a longing for supernatural spectacles.
Several cameras were even set up on site, solely to record this special ceremony today.
(End of Chapter)
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