The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1006: Chapter 61: Criminals, But Bourgeoisie Style

Julia was indifferent, yet not heartless,

withdrew her trembling delicate hand from his,

and in the end, gave his hand a gentle squeeze,

though light, it was intoxicating.

Oh, the musings, restless as they are,

a heart truly elusive.

— George Byron “Don Juan”

Each place has its customs, and people have their preferred drinks.

In Europe, the most beer is consumed in Brussels, Belgium, the most spirits in Stockholm, Sweden, Amsterdam in the Netherlands is fondest of gin, the most coffee is consumed in Constantinople, and London is the home of whiskey.

Of course, the English claim to have invented whiskey, but the Irish and Scots obviously have differing views on who invented whiskey.

If the English insist on claiming whiskey as their invention, the Scots sometimes might give up the honor of inventing whiskey to support the Irish in standing against the English over whiskey.

The English also know they are at a disadvantage here, because English drunks never quite measure up to the Irish, so whenever the Irish raise the question of who invented whiskey, the English have no choice but to return the title to the Irish, and finally, with feigned magnanimity, coldly add: “Let the poor Irish have this honor, for since inventing whiskey, they’ve invented nothing else.”

English, Scots, and Irish all love whiskey, but what about the French?

At least from what Arthur has seen, at least the French in Paris prefer absinthe.

Perhaps due to the haughty temperament of Parisians, they strive to be first in everything, even in drinking, Parisians are unmatched.

In Paris, even those in rags love to revel in extravagance.

If an ancient Greek philosopher, that one who lived in a barrel, Diogenes, were resurrected, he might very well enjoy living near Mober Square in Paris, it would suit his temperament.

Just like Diogenes’ famous saying — the sun also visits filthy places, but is not tainted.

Though those who frequent this area are not wealthy, this has not hindered them from enjoying life like the wealthy do.

Around Mober Square, there are taverns everywhere, though all taverns, they go by different names.

For the upper classes, the places to drink are exclusive private clubs, the middle classes frequent various traditional establishments, like Le Procope, often visited by Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, Robespierre, Danton, and so on.

However, the taverns around Mober Square are neither private clubs nor visited by notable celebrities, and even Parisians call them unpleasant names. These taverns are collectively known as the Wine Barrels, and their signage is also very simple and unrefined, the most popular ones are called ‘The Grinder’ and ‘The Slaughterhouse.’

“Suburban restaurant, revelry tavern, Greenleaf Tavern, little tipsy tavern, solo tavern, retail tavern, wine barrel, wine house, wine cask, Camel Gang’s wine shed, I prove to you they’re all good places. I’m a lover of seizing the moment, and though I often dine for forty sous at Waai’er Restaurant, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to wrap a nude Cleopatra in a Persian carpet. Oh… where’s my Cleopatra tonight? Ah! Beautiful girl, it’s you, hello!”

Arthur sat at the dirty, greasy bar with a glass of ale in his hand, sipping slowly while watching the Great Dumas, who was not far off harassing a girl at the neighboring table.

Heine, who presumably did not frequent such places often, was at a loss in this crucial moment, his typical sharp wit failing him.

He sat awkwardly next to Arthur, wishing he could find a hole to disappear into upon seeing the Great Dumas’ behavior: “What a damn mess! Alexander got drunk soon after he arrived. He’s acting like a common thug now, how is he supposed to carry out the mission?”

“Heinrich, Alexander’s in fine form. Scoundrels and places like this are a good fit, though Alexander is merely being himself, I think he’s doing well.”

Arthur’s eyes scanned the tavern’s corners, selecting targets easy to approach: “By the way, do you know why, with your handsome face, you’ve never managed to win over your two cousins, while Alexander, even being a fat man, still drives many ladies crazy?”

Heine’s hand holding the glass paused abruptly, and he turned to Arthur, sincerely asking for advice: “I’m all ears.”

“In Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince,’ there’s a line: I have always believed that boldness is far superior to caution. For fortune is like a woman; if you want her to be submissive, you must beat and mistreat her. We can see that fortune is more inclined to be conquered by those who dare than by those who act cautiously. Therefore, fortune, like a woman, favors young men. This is because, compared to middle-aged and older men, young men are less cautious. But instead, they are more aggressive, and it’s this aggression that can more boldly conquer her.”

While flipping a coin, Arthur continued: “Of course, I’m not saying you should hit women. Heinrich, what I mean is you’re too timid. You can never make up your mind, so your actions are always a beat slower. You told me before that when you finally mustered the courage to pursue your cousins, you found out one had gotten married, and the other was engaged. While you hesitated, someone as bold and thick-skinned as Alexander had already made a move.”