With a roar, the door of the golden carriage was roughly pushed open, and Guy de Maupassant was disdainfully thrown onto the hard road like a sack of sprouted potatoes.
He fell sprawling, his head, elbows, and knees stinging, and he couldn't help but cry out.
"Get out!!! Never speak of tonight's events again!!!"
Sophia Ivanovna Durova-Shcherbatova's furious roar came from inside the carriage, so sharp it could tear open the Parisian night.
Maupassant immediately fell silent, not daring to shout again.
The coachman cracked his whip, the horses immediately sprang forward, and the golden carriage quickly disappeared around the street corner, leaving Maupassant sitting dazed on the ground.
He rubbed his aching head, grimaced, and got up from the ground, patting the dirt off his clothes.
The night wind blew, and he shivered, a wave of regret welling up inside him.
He smacked his lips, savoring the brief but intoxicating warm scent in the carriage, and the Russian noblewoman's burning breath.
If only he hadn't groggily removed his hood, tonight might have been a different story...
"I'm French too! Why am I not a literary giant?"
Maupassant roared internally.
Just then, the sound of a carriage came from behind him again, hooves clattering on the cobblestones, particularly clear in the silent night.
Maupassant's heart tightened, and he no longer cared about regret, quickly scrambling into the dense holly bushes by the roadside, holding his breath.
He only breathed a sigh of relief after several chasing carriages had passed.
Then he limped along the main road towards Paris...
——————
On the other side, the entirely black four-wheeled carriage delivered Albert de Rohan to the gate of Count Edmond de Rohan's mansion.
The carriage door opened, and Albert stepped onto the ground, still unsettled.
The woman inside the carriage spoke, her tone steady:
"Monsieur Rohan, please convey Madame Rothschild's regards to your father!
Thank him for his warning and kindness! And thank you for your courage!"
Albert nodded, bewildered, watching the black carriage silently drive away, blending into the night.
Albert dragged his tired body into the brightly lit hall and found his father wearing a dressing gown, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace.
He held a glass of brandy, seemingly waiting for him specifically.
Albert's ears felt a bit hot as he realized he hadn't told his father about running back from Algeria; but one look at his father's expression told him it hadn't been a secret.
Seeing his younger son's disheveled appearance, Count Rohan showed little surprise, only asking,
"You're back? How is Sorel?"
Albert was still quite shaken.
He poured himself a drink, gulped it down, and then said, "He should have already left Villeneuve.
Maupassant and I left separately, taking almost all their carriages.
The remaining people were also entangled by the veterans..."
Count Rohan "tsk"-ed, then said, "Is that so?
Then some people are really lucky!"
Albert was perplexed.
He felt he had suffered greatly tonight; how could he be considered lucky?
He couldn't help but complain,
"Father, why do you say that? I almost didn't make it back! Is that still considered lucky?"
Count Rohan took a small sip of his drink, a smile playing on his lips:
"You foolish boy, I wasn't talking about you."
Albert was even more surprised, almost blurting out,
"Could it be Lionel? Isn't he unluckier? He just wrote a novel..."
Count Rohan's smile vanished instantly, and his voice deepened:
"The lucky one is Monsieur Jules Ferry, and of course, Lionel's luck isn't bad either—
Alright, don't ask so many questions. Look at you, all disheveled, go take a bath and rest!"
Albert was completely confused by his father's cryptic words, but seeing that his father didn't want to elaborate, he could only bow and excuse himself, full of doubts.
He vaguely felt that the "luck" his father spoke of was far from being as simple as its literal meaning.
He needed to get some sleep quickly, then go to Meudon.
————————
Unbeknownst to them, the sky gradually brightened, and the faint morning light filtered through the rough canvas gaps, falling on Lionel's face.
He slowly regained consciousness from his stupor, but the back of his head still throbbed faintly, reminding him of last night's heavy blow.
He found himself not on the boat, but lying in a dry and warm pile of straw, with the sounds of rolling wheels and hooves in his ears.
He suddenly opened his eyes and instinctively looked around.
The first thing that met his eyes was a pair of beastly eyes glowing faintly in the dimness, staring straight at him!
Lionel startled, almost cried out, and instinctively recoiled backward.
Composing himself, he finally saw clearly that it was a tiger confined in a huge iron cage.
It lay lazily in the cage, its yellow pupils indifferent and lifeless, only occasionally sweeping over him, the uninvited guest.
Where was this?
A circus?
Fragmented memories of last night emerged—the riverbank, the tall strange man, the dwarf, the pale boy...
While he was still confused, a deep, resonant voice came from another corner of the carriage:
"Awake? Don't be afraid, Monsieur Sorel, that fellow is quite docile."
Lionel looked in the direction of the voice.
With the increasingly bright morning light, he saw a giant, the one who had thrown him onto the boat before he lost consciousness.
Even sitting, the man was like a small mountain, his shoulders incredibly broad, almost bursting his jacket.
The giant introduced himself:
"I am Baptiste, you can also call me 'Wryneck.' Don't worry, we are here to rescue you."
Lionel opened his mouth, but before he could process the information, the cover at the back of the carriage was lifted, and a small, agile figure squeezed in.
Immediately after, another figure also climbed in from a compartment behind—it was the dwarf and the pale-skinned boy.
The dwarf had a wrinkled face, like a miniature old sailor.
He gave Lionel a comical bow:
"Good morning, great writer! I'm 'Littlefoot' Jeannot from Toulouse, I train monkeys and tell jokes, though my existence itself is like a joke, haha!"
His voice was high-pitched but pleasant.
The pale-faced boy was much quieter; he curled up in the corner, like a hazy moonlight.
He spoke softly, his voice ethereal:
"They call me 'Moonlight' Luc... because I don't look like someone who should appear during the day."
He gave Lionel a shy and fragile smile.
Baptiste concluded:
"We are all from 'Leprince Brothers Circus'."
Lionel looked at these three "saviors," diverse in form, as if they had stepped out of a fantasy novel, and for a moment didn't know how to react.
'Littlefoot' Jeannot saw his bewilderment.
He sat cross-legged on the straw, his head not even reaching Lionel's elbow.
He said seriously,
"Monsieur Sorel, we've read your The Curious Case of Benjamin Buton, in Le Petit Parisien, we haven't missed a single issue."
He then pointed to Baptiste and Luc:
"People like us are born with our shapes twisted by fate; we live under the scrutiny and mockery of others. Sometimes we even feel like we are mistakes ourselves."
'Moonlight' Luc gently interjected, his voice as soft as a whisper:
"But your line, 'A freak is merely a line of poetry written incorrectly by fate, and love will set it right with clumsy rhymes'. It was like a light that shone into the hearts of us whose forms were written incorrectly by fate."
Baptiste nodded vigorously:
"Many people cried when the ringmaster read it to us. We never thought that a gentleman of your renown would be willing to speak up for people like us."
Lionel was speechless.
When he created The Curious Case of Benjamin Buton and that letter, he never imagined it would manifest as such a concrete "salvation" at a moment like this.
After a brief silence and exchange, Lionel finally asked the crucial question:
"Thank you... but where are you taking me?"
'Littlefoot' Jeannot replied cheerfully:
"We'll be in 'Calais' soon! There are people there to meet you, everything's arranged. They'll send you to England to lie low!"
Lionel was stunned:
"England? I didn't plan to go to England! I still have to appear in court for my defense! September 1st, Palace of Justice in Paris, I must be present!
Can you take me back to Paris? I want to go back to Paris!"
At his words, the other three in the carriage froze, exchanging glances, their faces filled with disbelief.
'Littlefoot' Jeannot jumped up:
"Appear in court?! My great writer, have you had your head knocked silly?
We went through all this trouble, taking advantage of the chaos to get you out from under the noses of the cadets, not to send you back to walk into a trap!"
'Moonlight' Luc also said with concern:
"Yes, Monsieur Sorel, leaving is the best option. Many of us... many of us are like this; if we can't stay in one place, we move to another."
Lionel was momentarily speechless, unsure how to respond to their kindness.
(End of chapter)