The Shadow of Great Britain

The morning mist over the Seine River had yet to clear. Empty bottles left by last night’s drunkards hung on the stone railings at both ends of the Saint Michel Bridge on Cite Island, while the river water gently slapped against the embankment, reflecting a patchwork of sky.

At the corner of the street by the bridge, there stood a three-story stone building, with wooden shutters swaying lightly in the morning breeze.

Below was a bakery, the aroma of dough wafting onto the street with the lingering warmth of the oven, mixing with the damp scent of the river.

The baker handed a steaming basket of bread to a young delivery boy, urging him to pick up the pace and deliver the bread to the cafes on the Left Bank before breakfast began.

Across the street was a relatively inexpensive café, with chairs at the entrance knocked over by drunkards at night. A few not yet fully awake students yawned against the doorframe, their faces still covered with newspapers that bore Heine’s article praising ”God of Thunder Sir Arthur Hastings” in the Music Bulletin.

Vendors by the bridge had already set up their small wooden stalls early, selling old books, music scores, and cheap copper engravings. A pirated Belgian edition of Faust lay open on the ground, rustling with the morning breeze.

Two ragged street performers pushed a violin case, arguing whether to perform at the market on Cite Island today or to take a chance in Saint-Germain.

Above all the hustle and bustle, a dim yellow light glowed from a second-floor apartment window.

Hanging outside the wooden frame windows was a small piece of floral cloth flapping in the morning breeze.

The room’s air was still pervaded by the afterglow of red wine mixed with perfume.

Eld was curled up on a slightly cramped long sofa, sleeping with the unruliness of a sailor tossed overboard by waves, his boots kicked off at the foot of the bed, one long sock barely clinging to his calf while the other was kicked to an unknown place.

The wax on the candlestick by the window had solidified into a bizarre wax sculpture, nearly as long as a finger.

On the table were scattered theater flyers stained with wine and half-drunk wine glasses, while an actress’s shawl hung on the back of a chair, the edge of the chiffon still retaining a faint scent of stage makeup.

Eld was half-awoken by his own snoring, letting out a loud belch before sitting up with a start, blinking his eyes in a daze, seemingly struggling to figure out which ship’s cabin he was in.

He rubbed his eyes, his vision gradually clearing, and saw two familiar figures seated on chairs by the window.

One was Arthur, his brow furrowed and fixing a stern look upon Eld, a face he typically reserved for Police Commission meetings.

The other was a chubby Mr. Alexander Dumas, whose shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

”Oh... Good morning, gentlemen,” Eld greeted incoherently, still carrying the scent of alcohol in his voice. ”Ah... By the way, Arthur, when you head to White Hall for work this morning, could you tell Director Pufu at the Navy Department for me that... I’m terribly ill, cough cough, nearly on my deathbed, so I can’t make it to work today. Uh... On second thought, just don’t bother with the leave, hardly anyone will notice I’m gone. If I officially ask for leave, they’d dock my salary...”

With that, he flopped back onto the cushion, grabbing the actress’s shawl to use as a makeshift blanket.

The room fell into a sudden silence for a few seconds.

Suddenly, like being pricked by a needle, Eld jolted upright.

His eyes widened in shock, clutching the shawl to his chest and yelling at Arthur and Dumas: ”Hell! How are you two here? Wasn’t I with Miss Rachel last night? What have you damned guys done to me?”

Dumas slapped his handkerchief onto the table, leaning back in his chair with such force that the poor legs creaked: ”Eld, I’ve got good news and bad news, which do you want to hear first?”

Still a bit groggy, Eld held his head and replied: ”Uh... Start with the good news then.”

Dumas nodded solemnly: ”The good news is, it was indeed Miss Rachel who accompanied you last night.”

Upon hearing this, Eld let out a sigh of relief, nearly moved to tears, holding his chest with a long breath: ”Phew... That’s good, that’s good... Thankfully, my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me...”

Then, squinting in confusion, he asked: ”And the bad news?”

Dumas grinned, waiting eagerly for this moment.

”The bad news is, when Miss Rachel left just now, she specifically told me that last night you acted very gentlemanly.”

As everyone knows, ”gentlemanly” is usually a commendatory term.

But it’s even more well-known that Eld didn’t come to Paris to be gentlemanly.

The word ”gentlemanly” dragged out by Dumas sounded more like a knife driven into Eld’s chest.

”Gentlemanly?”

Indeed, upon hearing this word, Eld was struck as if by lightning: ”Damn it! Alexander, are you implying... I knew I drank too much last night! Otherwise... Otherwise... I...”

He slammed a fist onto the cushion, scratching his head in regret, resembling a heartbroken monkey.