## Chapter 212: The French Literary Circle
The drawing-room of Arthur’s residence in Bayswater was filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea.
Alexandre Dumas, Arthur, and Vidocq sat around the dining table, their conversation punctuated by the clinking of teacups. Arthur, ever the gracious host, poured tea for Vidocq, his eyes fixed on the legendary detective as he recounted his life’s adventures.
“I’m not as legendary as everyone thinks,” Vidocq chuckled, a sly glint in his eyes. “You’ve read my memoirs, haven’t you? You know I was a real little scoundrel from the age of five or six.”
He took a sip of his tea, his gaze flickering to the ornate ceiling. “Of course, my older brother had a lot to do with it. We had a bakery in Ostend. We used to steal money from the shop, my brother and I.”
A hint of melancholy touched his voice. “My father caught us and sent my brother to become an apprentice tailor in Lille. I was spared because I was younger and my mother pleaded for me.”
He paused, a wry smile playing on his lips. “But I didn’t repent. In fact, I got worse. When the shop money ran dry, I started stealing silverware from home. I even staged a fake kidnapping with my cronies, demanding a ransom from my parents. They saw through it, of course, and that’s how I ended up in prison for the first time. I think it was for two weeks.”
Arthur, a twinkle in his eye, interjected, “Mr. Vidocq, you should be grateful you were born in France. Here, your crimes would have landed you on the gallows, or at least exiled to Australia.”
Vidocq burst into a hearty laugh. “Exiled to Australia? That might have been my destiny. I was a thirteen or fourteen-year-old rascal then. I stole two thousand francs from home and was determined to run off to America. But before I even left France, I was swindled out of all my money. For a while, I had to make a living by pretending to be a West Indian dwarf and cannibal in a circus.”
Arthur, intrigued, asked, “How did you leave the circus and go to Paris?”
Vidocq, a hint of both embarrassment and pride in his voice, chuckled. “It’s a rather embarrassing story, but it’s a funny anecdote now that it’s all over. I was kicked out of the circus because I fell in love with the circus owner’s wife. She was a young and beautiful woman. She took me in when I had nothing to eat. In retrospect, she might be the only woman who truly cared for me.”
He sighed, his gaze turning distant. “The others, like the Parisian actress or the wife who ran away with another man while pregnant with his child, they all left me when I was down on my luck. We had happy times, but when I needed them most, they were gone.”
Arthur, taking a sip of his tea, said, “Though I may offend you, I believe formal relationships and affairs are two entirely different concepts. The former requires a material foundation, while the latter involves no responsibility for either party. They just come together to have fun. If that circus owner’s wife had married you, you might have felt the same about her as you did about the actress and your wife.”
Vidocq leaned back in his chair, a breadstick dangling from his lips. “Young man, why do you have to be so blunt about things? Don’t you think life would be less interesting if we were all so direct?”
Arthur smiled, nodding in agreement. “I do sometimes feel that way.”
Vidocq removed his hat and placed it on the table. “But being direct is an essential quality for a good detective. Recently, I was in Paris investigating a case of missing company funds. You know how I solved it?”
Arthur, eager to learn from the master, replied, “I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts on such a case, if you’d be so kind.”
Vidocq, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, said, “I went to the company, questioned the people involved, and then pointed at a 45-year-old bookkeeper and said, ‘This woman is the culprit.’ No one believed me at the time, but subsequent investigations proved me right. We found a large amount of unaccounted for money and jewelry in her home.”
Arthur, his curiosity piqued, exclaimed, “You could make that judgment simply by knowing a few people involved? How did you figure it out?”
Vidocq slapped his thigh, roaring with laughter. “I didn’t figure it out, I smelled it out. Just like I told you about my early life, I learned from the circus owner’s wife – a woman who already smells of expensive perfume at nine in the morning is doing it for a man. And if a woman has a lover, that lover is her motive for stealing.”
He paused, a sly twinkle in his eye. “And it turned out to be true. The company’s bookkeeper stole the funds to support a lazy, extravagant gigolo.”
Arthur, unable to suppress a smile, said, “You’re more perceptive than I am. Why then, do you write yourself as if you were clueless in your book?”
Vidocq, picking his ear with his little finger, replied, “What else can I do? How else would my memoirs sell? Do you want me to point my finger at my readers and yell, ‘You selfish, self-serving bunch! I’ve seen through your underwear and everything!’? Come on, writing a book is not the same as solving a case. You have to leave some room for fantasy. That way, they get a sense of security and satisfaction, I make a fortune, and everyone has a bright future.”
Arthur had initially imagined the great man of French policing to be a stern individual. But after meeting him, he realized that Vidocq was far more approachable than he had expected.
But then again, how could someone who navigated both the legal and criminal worlds in France be anything but approachable?
Of course, Arthur didn’t believe everything Vidocq said. After all, he hadn’t forgotten how Vidocq had risen to prominence, trading information about his former criminal associates to the Parisian Police Prefecture to avoid the gallows.
If Arthur remembered correctly, Vidocq had personally participated in 811 arrests during his first year as head of the Parisian Criminal Investigation Bureau. That’s an average of two “sacrifices” per day, a testament to his social and investigative skills.
François Vidocq was certainly not an entirely bad man, but he wasn’t exactly a good one either. Fortunately, Arthur was the same way.
Perhaps, as Vidocq had said, having two faces was a necessary quality for someone in intelligence work.
Just as Arthur and Vidocq were deep in their conversation, Alexandre Dumas, who had been reading Victor Hugo’s letter, suddenly frowned and looked up. “Mr. Vidocq, do you share the same sentiment as Mr. Hugo? Are you trying to persuade me to return home?”
Vidocq leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I won’t give you any advice. Whether you return or not is up to you. You know that since Louis XVIII’s death, Marc Duplessis was appointed head of the Parisian Police Prefecture, and I’ve been facing constant pressure from within the department. That’s why I resigned in a fit of anger.
After the July Revolution, I wouldn’t have returned to the world of policing and power if the new chief hadn’t repeatedly invited me. I’ve been away from the police and the power circles for so long, I don’t know what the authorities think of you. But if Hugo dared to persuade you to go back, he must have heard something. If you find his words credible and don’t feel at home in London, then you could consider returning to Paris.”
Dumas, contemplating the letter in his hand, hesitated for a moment before replying seriously, “Of course, I long to return to the soil of France, but I don’t think now is the right time. I’ve just signed a year-long contract with a London literary magazine. If I leave now, I’ll be in breach of contract.”
Vidocq, a hint of regret in his voice, said, “Is that so? That’s a shame. But I understand. Writers, once they start writing, can’t put down their pens until they finish. Honoré is the same way.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a book, placing it on the table. “I didn’t bring you any gifts this time. I just brought you Honoré’s latest work to whet your appetite. It’s a way to keep you company in a foreign land, at least you can still see the literary works of your homeland. By the way, this new book features my story.”
Arthur’s eyes fell upon the book cover. He didn’t know much French, but he could still make out the simple spelling of the name.
Author: Honoré de Balzac
As for the title, Arthur couldn’t understand it, but he guessed it must be The Human Comedy.
(End of Chapter)