December 20th, 1880, Paris.
The air was filled with an atmosphere unique to the year-end, scents of pine, roasted chestnuts, mulled wine...
Lionel Sorel stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting his cravat.
The young man in the mirror wore a well-tailored black evening suit, which accentuated his broad shoulders and upright posture.
Sophie's voice came from behind him:
"Do you need my help?"
She walked over, dressed in a simple yet perfectly body-hugging dark blue velvet evening gown.
Small pearls adorned the neckline, complementing the simple pearl earrings on her earlobes.
Lionel turned around, admiring her:
"You look beautiful."
He reached out and gently smoothed the hair from her forehead:
"Ready, my lady? Tonight we have to deal with a bunch of Englishmen."
Sophie smiled slightly, taking his arm:
"Just as long as you don't get trapped by all those ladies again, like you did last time at Count Rohan's."
Lionel picked up the invitation from the table and waved it:
"I promise!"
It was an invitation to the Christmas ball from the British Embassy in France.
The British Embassy, an imposing mansion on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, was their destination.
The carriage stopped at the entrance, and a uniformed attendant stepped forward to open the door.
In the brightly lit foyer, a wave of warmth mixed with the scents of perfume, cigars, and food washed over them.
Gentlemen conversed in low tones, ladies' skirts rustled—a typical embassy social scene.
Lionel and Sophie's arrival attracted some attention.
Several acquaintances from French cultural circles nodded in greeting, while British embassy staff cast curious glances.
The embassy counsellor was the first to greet them:
"Monsieur Sorel! And who is this?"
He warmly shook Lionel's hand and bowed slightly to Sophie.
Lionel gently introduced his companion:
"Mademoiselle Sophie Denever."
The counsellor exchanged pleasantries with Sophie, then praised how popular A Study in Scarlet was in London, even mentioning that the Ambassador himself was a loyal reader.
During the small talk, the Ambassador himself strolled over:
"Ah, our young master of detective fiction!"
His voice was booming:
"Your Sherlock Holmes has caused quite a stir for Scotland Yard, but I like it!"
A polite ripple of laughter sounded around them.
Lionel responded with a smile:
"I only hope my novels can encourage them to become more efficient!"
The Ambassador chuckled:
"Well said!"
After a brief conversation, Lionel and Sophie merged into the ballroom crowd.
He inevitably became a focal point for some of the British expatriates' socializing.
People discussed the latest serialization of A Study in Scarlet, guessing the killer's identity;
Others inquired about his future writing plans.
Just as Lionel was occupied with pleasantries, a figure finally seized the opportunity to approach.
The newcomer introduced himself:
"Forgive my presumption, Monsieur Sorel! I am Paul Gauguin."
Lionel looked at him in surprise; he had heard the Impressionist painters mention this "amateur painter" when he frequented cafes with them.
He just hadn't expected to meet him here.
So he responded politely:
"Renoir has mentioned you, saying you have a promising future in painting!"
Paul Gauguin's face lit up with delight:
"You are too kind. I am mainly a stockbroker at the moment; painting is just a hobby.
However, your works fascinate me even more. The Old Guard, Letter from an Unknown Woman... and now Sherlock Holmes, I enjoy them all!"
Lionel introduced him to Sophie:
"This is Monsieur Gauguin, a painter with great potential!"
Sophie nodded in greeting to Gauguin, who returned the bow somewhat awkwardly.
His attention quickly returned to Lionel:
"Current painting is too focused on superficial brilliance and refinement, losing its more primitive, truer power.
Just like Paris, draped in the splendid attire Baron Haussmann gave it, yet underneath..."
For Paul Gauguin, meeting Lionel was an unexpected pleasure at the ball today.
Originally, he had mingled at the ball simply to meet more wealthy individuals and expand his client list.
But Lionel's appearance made him completely forget that initial intention.
Deep within him, the blood of a painter stirred, but he also knew that once he embarked on this "point of no return," poverty would immediately follow him like a shadow.
Renoir himself was once so poor he couldn't afford paints and could only hire models with less-than-ideal figures.
But now it was different—this fellow had not only rented a large studio but could even afford to hire assistants.
All this was due to the young man before him, so he absolutely had to seize this opportunity to showcase his artistic insights.
However, their conversation was soon interrupted by a sudden commotion.
A little boy, about six or seven years old, like a runaway marble, darted between the adults' legs and bumped head-first into Lionel's leg.
The little one was a bit dazed from the collision.
He looked up, revealing a mischievous, spirited face, with light-colored eyes showing no fear, only curiosity.
A voice filled with anxiety and apology followed immediately:
"William!"
A man in his thirties quickly walked over and firmly took the boy's hand:
"I am terribly sorry, sir! This child was out of sight in a blink of an eye...
William, apologize to this gentleman at once."
The boy blinked, then obediently said:
"Sorry, sir."
Lionel knelt down, meeting the boy's gaze, and smiled:
"It's alright. You didn't get hurt, did you?"
He then noticed the boy's father looking at him with surprise.
The boy's father's voice was a little agitated:
"You... are you Monsieur Lionel Sorel?"
Lionel stood up and nodded:
"I am."
The man extended his hand:
"My God, what an honor! Robert Maugham, legal counsel at the embassy.
My wife and I are both devoted readers of yours! Your Letter from an Unknown Woman made my wife drench a handkerchief with tears.
And A Study in Scarlet... oh my, my colleagues and I discuss Sherlock Holmes's deductions every day!"
Lionel shook his hand and glanced at the little boy beside him:
"So, this must be young Mr. Maugham?"
Robert Maugham affectionately patted his son's head:
"William Somerset Maugham, quite mischievous.
I only hope he can be half as composed as Sherlock Holmes when he grows up."
Lionel looked at young Maugham before him and Gauguin beside him, and felt an absurd sense of temporal displacement.
He asked the child before him in a casual tone:
"So, William, what do you want to be when you grow up? A lawyer, like your father?"
William Maugham tilted his head, thought seriously for a moment, then replied in a childlike voice:
"I want to... I want to be a pirate!"
This answer made the adults burst into laughter.
Lionel took out his wallet from his pocket; it still contained a few coins left over from his last trip to England.
He selected a sixpence coin and handed it to the little boy:
"Very good answer, this is your reward! Remember what you said today."
Little William delightedly took the coin, clutching it tightly in his palm, while Robert Maugham repeatedly expressed his thanks.
Paul Gauguin, standing nearby, remarked teasingly:
"Monsieur Sorel, you are truly generous to children.
So, for adults like me, still struggling between stocks and canvas, what would you offer as encouragement?"
Lionel turned his head and looked at Gauguin.
Then he raised his left hand, and through the tall glass window, pointed towards the hazy night sky outside, towards the cold winter moon faintly appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.
Lionel said:
"The moon, Monsieur Gauguin, I offer you this moon."
Paul Gauguin followed the direction of his finger, his teasing smile slowly freezing on his face.
He gazed at the moon outside the window for a long time, saying nothing.
------
In the carriage on the way back, Sophie leaned on Lionel's shoulder and softly asked:
"What did you mean by pointing at the moon for Monsieur Gauguin earlier?"
Lionel looked at the Parisian streetlights rapidly receding outside the window, and slowly said:
"No special meaning.
I just feel that for some people, the best gift might be a dream beyond reach.
And the moon, it's always there."
Sophie didn't ask further, just nestled closer to him.
The carriage proceeded through the night, carrying them away from the embassy's brilliant lights, merging into the boundless darkness and tranquility of a Parisian winter night.
Lionel closed his eyes, images of young Maugham clutching the coin and Gauguin gazing at the moon appeared in his mind...
(End of Chapter)