In September in Paris, the summer heat finally retreated, ushered away by several drizzling autumn rains.
Parisian social life began to stir once more.
Not only did the opera and comedy theaters update their autumn programs, but various gatherings also became more frequent.
At the mansion of the Marquise de Laverneuil on Faubourg Saint-Germain, an autumn salon was held as scheduled.
The Marquise de Laverneuil was nearing fifty.
Her husband had died in Sedan, leaving her an inheritance of tens of millions of francs and several profitable estates.
Her salon was renowned for its avant-garde topics, almost a symbol of whether a woman had entered Paris's top socialite circle.
Tonight's salon was no exception.
Under the crystal chandeliers, there was an array of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen.
Soft laughter intertwined with the crisp clinking of porcelain, and the air was filled with the luxurious scents of cigars, perfume, and fine pastries.
Madame Éléonore de Rothschild arrived late as usual, but her appearance always drew admiring gazes.
Especially in the past year or so, this banker's wife had added another title to her lineage, wealth, and beauty: Paris's most literary woman.
Tonight, she wore a deep sapphire velvet gown, with lace trim on the neckline and an emerald necklace around her neck.
As was her custom, she offered languid smiles and nodded to acquaintances, her demeanor composed yet with a faint hint of distance.
But Madame Rothschild soon saw a surprising figure—Sophia, the daughter of Baroness Alekseyevna.
The Russian noblewoman wore a bright red taffeta gown, like a moving flame;
Intricate patterns embroidered with gold thread adorned the wide skirt, making her particularly ostentatious and dazzling.
When Madame Rothschild arrived, Sophia was socializing among several wealthy individuals eager to enter high society and some young aristocrats, her French still fluent and pure, almost perfect.
Since her mother became a laughingstock because of that absurd masquerade ball, Sophia's attempts to penetrate Paris's top social circles had repeatedly been frustrated.
And Madame Rothschild was widely considered one of the key figures in excluding the Sherbatov family.
Usually, salons would not invite both of them simultaneously, but today seemed to be an exception.
Madame Rothschild glanced at the Marquise de Laverneuil, who smiled back, seemingly unaware of any issue.
Sophia also saw Madame Rothschild but did not go to greet her, remaining engrossed in her own socializing.
Madame Rothschild, of course, would not seek her out either.
Instead, she found a corner to sit in and slowly sipped a glass of wine.
Initially, the salon's atmosphere was harmonious; however, when the topic inevitably turned to "A Study in Scarlet," the balance was broken.
Sophia was the first to speak:
"My dear sirs and ladies, do you truly believe in such... such almost witchcraft-like speculation?"
She raised her chin, her gaze sweeping over everyone, pausing briefly on Madame Rothschild:
"Inferring where someone has been from a speck of dust on their cuff?
Determining a profession from palm lines?
This is simply a fantasy, a trick street magicians use to fool idiots!"
The drawing-room was silent for a moment.
Seeing no one spoke, Sophia continued her opinion:
"Monsieur Sorel has figured out the British palate, to pander to them, and for pounds sterling!
That's why he fabricated such a seemingly profound thing. He writes such things merely to make his purse fatter."
Several glances immediately fell on Madame Rothschild; almost everyone knew she was Lionel Sorel's initial and only patron.
She slowly put down her cup, the smile on her lips unwavering, as if she had heard an inconsequential joke.
She did not look at Sophia, but spoke almost to herself:
"I, however, find Monsieur Holmes's 'deductive method' to be an extremely practical wisdom.
It teaches us not to be misled by grand appearances, that insignificant details are more worthy of our attention, as they reveal the truest essence."
Sophia's voice held sarcasm:
"Details? Essence? Madame Rothschild, it's as if you've truly learned something from this nonsense!
Can you also perform a so-called 'deduction' like the detective in the book?"
Madame Rothschild smiled slightly:
"Oh? Miss Sherbatova seems to think I'm boasting?
Actually, this doesn't require extraordinary talent, just a little attention to detail."
She scrutinized Sophia from head to toe, her bright red dress, meticulously styled coiffure, and jewel-encrusted ears and neck.
After a moment, she continued:
"For instance, I have observed some interesting details about you, Miss Sherbatova."
The salon instantly fell silent, everyone held their breath, and Sophia subconsciously took half a step back.
Madame Rothschild slowly rose:
"Miss Sherbatova, your right lace glove is slightly torn. This mistake would certainly not have happened before you left home, would it?"
Sophia instinctively wanted to hide her right hand behind her back, then restrained the impulse, lifting her head to look at the other woman.
Madame Rothschild paused:
"And look at the lower right hem of your skirt, near the ankle, where some scattered brownish spots are splashed.
The color is somewhat similar to the dress, but on closer inspection, it doesn't look like mud, nor red wine or coffee. It rather resembles, dried bloodstains?"
Sophia's voice trembled slightly:
"Nonsense!"
Madame Rothschild was unmoved, her tone still calm:
"This is also a mistake a lady of your standing would not make before leaving home.
Therefore, I deduce that shortly before coming to this salon, you had just severely punished a servant, hadn't you?
The glove was snagged and torn by the rough handle of a whip; the spots on the skirt hem are the blood of some unfortunate servant.
I don't know what mistake he committed, but he must have been whipped while kneeling on the ground—am I right?"
A deathly silence.
Everyone looked at Madame Rothschild in disbelief, even Sophia forgot how to retort, her face pale, her lips trembling slightly.
Madame Rothschild finally concluded:
"In France, if servants make a minor mistake, a reprimand is sufficient.
Though their status is lowly, they are not serfs without human rights, to be arbitrarily whipped or killed.
Miss Sherbatova, your French is purer and more fluent than most French people, but ultimately, ha, you are a Russian."
This was Sophia's second public humiliation of this kind!
New grudges and old hatreds, mingled with shame and indignation, instantly broke through the dam of Sophia's reason.
Her chest heaved violently, mad fury burned in her beautiful blue eyes, and she could no longer maintain any composure.
She trembled with rage:
"You... you..."
Under the astonished gaze of everyone, Sophia suddenly raised her right hand and ripped off the delicate lace glove!
Immediately after, she used all her strength to hurl the glove fiercely at Madame Rothschild's still calm and unperturbed face!
The soft glove traced an arc in the air, landing lightly on the carpet at Madame Rothschild's feet.
But in the eyes of everyone present, this seemingly light toss was like a thunderclap!
Someone gasped in alarm:
"A duel!"
(End of Chapter)