The queen of the world capital

Mathilde Simon opened her eyes and felt a sour ache throughout her body. The hard, marble-like mattress beneath her made her back feel as though it might snap like a broken branch in the wind. She squinted a few times, trying to dispel the sour, sleep-deprived ache that was coursing through her body. The room was pitch black, stuffy, and hot from the unopened windows. The pervasive smell of the typical Parisian rental apartment was spreading out from every crevice in the walls, furniture, floors, and pipes. The musty odor of decades of accumulated grime mixed with the stench of sweat and sewage, flowing unimpeded from one room to another through nearly imperceptible cracks like the Champs-Élysées. Mathilde sat up in bed and placed her feet on the floor, searching for her slippers. But as she tried to retrieve them, they accidentally slid under the bed. She let out a dissatisfied grunt and stood up barefoot on the sticky floor, feeling like a mouse trapped on a glue trap. She made her way towards the table, trying to step as lightly as possible. However, the creaky floorboards, which seemed to be on the verge of collapse, emitted a piercing squeak, akin to a piglet screaming in despair before being slaughtered. The damn old lady on the second floor must have been woken up by now. These old women always slept like cats, and she hoped she wouldn't run into her on the stairs today. She walked up to the writing desk, pulled open a drawer, took out a box of matches, lit one, and lit the kerosene lamp that was placed on the desk. The light from the lamp barely illuminated the room. Mathilde shook her hand to extinguish the match and threw the remaining matchstick with its root towards the corner of the wall where there were already several burnt matchsticks lying on the floor. She wiped the sweat stains from both hands with the sleeves of her pajamas and walked to the window, pulling the rusted window frame with great effort. The window was opened, and fresh air rushed into the room. Though still as stuffy as inside, the stench seemed slightly less pronounced. Across from her house was the dark Saint-Germain des Prés railway line, which led to the brightly lit building of Gare Saint-Lazare. The red signal lights flickered on both sides of the railway, and although it was only five in the morning, the loud whistles from the train yard could be heard, like grunting from beasts just emerging from hibernation in their hiding holes. These sounds only subsided for a moment during the four hours from midnight to four in the morning, and then never stopped, forcing Mathilde to keep her doors and windows tightly shut in the scorching July heat. A loud whistle, louder than any of the others, sounded in the distance, followed by the rumble of steel wheels on tracks. A locomotive pulling a train came into view, surrounded by a cloud of gray and white smoke. The headlights on the front of the engine cut through the darkness like swords as it zoomed past Mathilde's window and headed toward the platforms of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Behind the locomotive was a train of sapphire-blue carriages, this was the famous "Blue Train", carrying wealthy British passengers with bulging wallets who departed from London's Waterloo station on the previous afternoon, arriving in Dover at dusk, where they boarded a ferry to Calais before reboarding the train. At this moment, they were sleeping on beds with spring mattresses, dreaming their way through Paris, and by dusk today, they would be strolling along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, enjoying the Mediterranean sea breeze. Mathilde felt a tightness in her throat and a surge of anger in her heart. She slammed the old cast iron railing in front of the window, which had already been there for many years. Several pieces of debris fell off where the railing was connected to the wall, clearly indicating that she was not the first tenant to do so. She then turned around and walked back into the room. When this room was first built, it was obviously a decent house, but now it has transformed from a blushing girl to a toothless old woman. The decor that the designer chose to give the room more style has aged, making the house look shabby. The deep green wallpaper is still in the style of the July Dynasty, but now it is covered in stains, dead mosquitoes and fleas. The marks left by their blood-sucking cover the entire wall, and the older the bloodstains, the longer they have been formed. Mathilde picked up the glass bottle filled with water on the table and, without getting a cup, poured half of the rusty water straight into her mouth. She pulled off her wet nightgown from her upper body and threw it onto the bed. The mattress, filled with wheat straw, sank deeply in the center and seemed to never bounce back again. In one corner of the room was a basin, next to which was a can of water. The apartment's doorman also ran a water delivery business, charging only five su for a can of water. However, Mathilde was still only willing to spend this amount of money every other day. The basin still had a thin layer of water left, like a spring in the desert that was about to dry up. She picked up the can on the ground and carefully poured the water into the basin as if she were pouring the finest Bordeaux wine into a glass. She added some more water to the basin and began to wash herself with it. The mirror Mathilde used for dressing was a small glass piece only a few inches in size, barely enough to reflect her entire face. She had to constantly adjust the angle of her face to see herself clearly. There was a c***k that ran almost the entire length of the mirror, dividing her face in half. Despite the poor quality of the mirror, it was still apparent that the person outside the mirror had a beautiful and captivating face. Mathilde is quite stunning. Her white complexion is complemented by her striking features, and her blue eyes have the luster of sapphires set in ivory. Her naturally curly, golden hair shines like coins. She has an average build, but her upright posture accentuates her impressive chest, placing her firmly in the ranks of the beautiful and alluring. By the time Mathilde had finished putting on her makeup and fixing her hair, the sky outside had turned a shade of gray-white, as if someone had poured a scoop of furnace ash into a glass of milk, signaling that the sun was about to rise. There was no clock in the room, so she walked over to the bed and rummaged through a pile of old clothes, pulling out a pocket watch with rust stains. It was one of her most valuable possessions. Mathilde opened the pocket watch and saw that the hands were pointing to half past five. She then searched through her wardrobe for her best outfit, which was tailored by a dressmaker from another province. The dress was originally commissioned by a wealthy young lady who had put down a deposit, but for some reason had changed her mind and no longer wanted it. The dressmaker sold it to Mathilde at a discounted price of fifty francs because it fit her body type and was similar to what the young lady had originally requested. After Mathilde finished dressing, she walked to her writing desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a small blue envelope. She carefully inspected the seal on the envelope, which was smooth and flat, showing no signs of having been previously opened. Mathilde gently touched the calligraphic writing on the front of the blue envelope, which read: "Paris - Monsieur le Baron de Vaublanc, Member of Parliament - Personal." Her mind involuntarily recalled the scene of her mother writing those words. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to clear her mind, and finally, the specter of her mother left her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she carefully tucked the letter into her bosom. By this time, the sun was beginning to spread its golden light below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sky outside. She looked at her watch again and saw that it was now six ten in the morning. She realized that she had over three hours left until her scheduled meeting with Monsieur le Baron de Vaublanc at ten o'clock in the morning. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to stay in her room or go out. But ultimately, her disgust with the stale air in the room won out over her hesitation, and she pushed open the door and stepped outside. Mathilde walked down the narrow staircase to the ground floor, where the doorman was dozing off in his glass booth. Coffee was dripping from the edge of his cup and leaving large stains on the evening paper underneath. Mathilde walked onto the street, arriving at just the right time. The city workers had extinguished the gas lamps on the street ten minutes prior and had also sprayed water on the road, making the air feel both cool and moist. Seeing that it was still early, she walked up Avenue de Lasserre towards the direction of Madeleine Church. As she arrived at the church, its doors had just opened. Several hunched, black-dressed old ladies were streaming into the church like crows. Mathilde stood on the sidewalk, looking at her somewhat scuffed patent leather boots, contemplating what to do next. She reached into her pocket and pulled out four francs and fifteen centimes. If she were to eat breakfast now, she would have to sacrifice either lunch or dinner. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to sacrifice lunch. She put the coins back into her pocket and started walking towards a small restaurant on the left side square of the church. As Mathilde walked into the restaurant, several workers who had risen early for work were already seated in the cramped central area. They were dressed in patched work clothes and tearing apart fried cod with their hands. In a corner of the restaurant, several middle-aged women without hats sat with their shirt collars washed to a shine, seeming to be unemployed governesses. The air was thick with the smell of cheap cooking oil, and the walls of the restaurant had been blackened by the fumes. The creaky tables, chairs, and benches also seemed to have a layer of grease on them. Mathilde wiped the surface of the chair with her handkerchief and ordered a simple breakfast and a glass of absinthe. She also asked the waiter for a copy of "Le Journal de la France". She had enjoyed reading newspapers since her secondary school days, fantasizing that one day her name would appear in the paper, perhaps not on the front page, but at least in a prominent position in the "Society News" section. She flipped through the newspaper to the "Society News" section, which documented the latest happenings in the bustling Parisian social scene, such as a duchess marrying for the third time, with the wedding to be held at the church on Madeline Street; an old general from the Second Empire had passed away, and the funeral was to be held three blocks away from the aforementioned wedding; and the newspaper's owner, a Jewish financier, had hosted a lavish dinner party at his home, with the names of the socialites who attended listed at the bottom of the article. Mathilde looked at the line of lead type printed names, imagining the words "Mathilde Simon" squeezed between "Viscount Henri de Montmorency" and "Marquis Louis de Castellane". Her gaze moved down to where the last few names were covered by a brown grease stain, their noble names buried in melted pig fat. She suddenly became acutely aware of her surroundings, realizing that she was in a dirty and run-down little restaurant with only a few silver coins in her pocket. Meanwhile, somewhere in the city, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen were attending a lavish party at a grand mansion, and a single piece of jewelry or a pocket watch they wore would be enough to buy out the entire restaurant she was in. The fact that she was in a dirty and run-down little restaurant with only a few silver coins left in her pocket while in some corner of the city, those elegant gentlemen and ladies were attending lavish parties in their mansions, with a single piece of their jewelry or a pocket watch enough to buy out the entire storefront, made her feel discouraged and angry. Her urgent desire to make a name for herself made her current disappointment even harder to bear. She remembered burying her mother a few months ago and then, like countless young people from the provinces, taking the train to Paris. How could she have known that she would end up stuck in a foul-smelling quagmire? She lightly patted her coat, and the letter was safely tucked in the pocket. It was her only lifeline left, and she made a decision in her mind that if the letter didn't have the desired effect, she would take the train back to Blois this week and never set foot in this corrupt Babylon again. Mathilde folded the newspaper and left the money on the table before walking out of the restaurant. By now, the sun had risen to the rooftop, and the air was becoming hotter by the minute. She looked up at the sun in the sky and then reached into her pocket to touch the coins inside. Steeling herself, she hailed a passing horse-drawn cab. "Assemblee Nationale, 63 Rue Lafayette. The office of Monsieur le Baron Duvalier, member of parliament," she said to the coachman as she got into the carriage, maintaining her ladylike demeanor. The carriage passed by the church and through the side of the opera house, where a group of fashionable and attractive men and women were laughing and walking into the theater through the back door, presumably the actors. The male actors were dressed in finely tailored clothes, with diamond cufflinks sparkling on their shirtsleeves; while the female actors were eager to hang jewelry on their hair and body, turning themselves into the Christmas tree erected on the Place de la Concorde. There was no doubt that many people were willing to spend money on them. Mathilde thought while she touched her pocket again. The carriage turned right again and entered the Osman Boulevard. Neat plane trees were planted on both sides of the wide avenue, and the luxurious apartment buildings on either side looked quiet and elegant. Several men dressed in smoking jackets stood on the balconies surrounded by exquisite wrought iron railings, just like Napoleon Emperor inspecting the Imperial Guard on the balcony of the Fontainebleau Palace. They had their hands behind their backs, protruding their bellies and overlooking the street below. They all had a cigar or ivory pipe in their mouths, occasionally blowing out a few smoke rings. Mathilde couldn't help but compare the luxurious apartments designed by the Osman Barons who had transformed Paris to the shabby room she lived in. Her apartment emitted the scent of poverty from its foundation, and there were tens of thousands of furnished rentals like hers throughout Paris, each with its unique scent of poverty. In her heart, she vowed to break free from this kind of life as soon as possible. The bumps of the carriage brought her back from the contemplation, and she looked out the window that the carriage had drove to Raphaut Street. In front of a three -storey building, Maciff held his horse, "Miss, where you are going." Mathilde got out of the car, pulled a copper from his pants pocket, and stuffed it into the hands of the carriage. I said goodbye to her dinner. She thought, I am afraid that the rest of the few bronzes may only buy a piece of bread to deal with a meal. She took the sidewalk from the road, went to the steps, and walked to the black gate of the small building. A sign made of a brass beside the door, which was written on it with a printed body: "No. 63, Raphate Road Member of the House of Representatives of France Baron Baron Mr. Duwalei's Office " Mathilde stretched out his hand and rang the doorbell hard.