Lionel nodded, unsurprised by the news.
Nikola Tesla's team of electrical engineers had been virtually living on the construction site recently, naturally achieving remarkable results.
He readily agreed:
"Of course, I will definitely go. This is not only for 'Thunderstorm', but also to promote our electrification standards. By then, the Lyon Grand Theater will receive the 'Sorel Certified Theater' gold badge, witnessing their foresight in pioneering new technologies and standards."
"Ah! Speaking of badges!"
Emile Perrin seemed to be suddenly reminded.
He immediately lowered his head, opened a drawer, and carefully took out an exquisite box.
He pushed the box towards Lionel, full of pride and anticipation:
"Look, this is a sample handmade by Paris's best jeweler, exactly as we discussed. Do you find it satisfactory?"
Lionel opened the box and saw a beautifully designed, gleaming gold badge resting quietly on the dark blue velvet.
The badge design was simple and elegant, circular in shape, with entwined golden branches symbolizing laurel leaves around the edge, representing honor and artistic achievement.
In the center of the badge, at the top, was a small electric lamp emitting rays, representing advanced stage electrification technology; below the lamp, a classical quill pen and a theatrical mask were placed crossed, symbolizing script creation and theatrical performance respectively.
At the bottom of the badge, a Latin motto was engraved in elegant script: Art is Light.
The back of the badge was reserved for engraving the theater's name and certification date.
The entire badge design integrated classical art with modern technology, appearing both solemn and noble, and full of contemporary flair.
Lionel gently caressed the badge, genuinely exclaiming:
"It's perfect."
Emile Perrin looked at the badge, his eyes shining with ambitious light.
He emphasized his tone, as if announcing an upcoming new era:
"Yes, perfect. From now on, only theaters possessing this badge will be worthy of, and able to stage, the finest plays of this era!"
————————
Lionel left the Comédie-Française with a light heart.
He decided not to call a carriage, but to stroll alone along Richelieu Street, enjoying this moment of leisure, letting the cool air of a Parisian autumn evening clear his mind, which had been occupied by scripts.
However, he soon noticed that the atmosphere on the street was unusual—a restless anxiety was spreading through the air like an invisible plague.
Gentlemen who usually walked with measured steps were now rushing, their faces devoid of composure, replaced by worry, even panic.
Many clutched newspapers tightly in their hands, gesticulating wildly, shouting something.
He saw a well-dressed middle-aged man leaning against a shop window, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders slightly trembling, emitting a muffled sob, like a wounded beast.
Not far away, a lady wearing a splendid feathered hat was animatedly gesticulating at her male companion, her voice shrill and tearful, drawing stares from passersby.
Even more, a young man sprinted frantically down the sidewalk as if pursued by a devil, almost knocking over a newsboy, but didn't even stop to apologize, leaving only a gust of wind.
Lionel frowned.
Why were Parisians so out of sorts today?
Had the Germans invaded again?
The thought itself seemed absurd to him, but the scene before him was truly too abnormal.
He quickly stepped forward and stopped another man who was about to rush past him.
Lionel asked: "Sir, what's happening?"
The man, halted, seemed extremely impatient, forcefully pushed Lionel away, lamenting incoherently:
"Six meters! A whole six meters! These damned fools! They've cheated us all!"
He struggled free and continued to sprint forward, as if the world would end if he was a second late.
Lionel was stunned: "Six meters?"
This number sounded entirely unrelated to a military invasion.
He looked around and only then noticed that the carriages on the street were also moving faster and more frantically than usual.
Coachmen cracked their whips, urging their horses, seemingly racing against time to reach a certain destination.
An ominous premonition rose in his heart.
He walked to a newsstand, dropped a coin, and picked up the latest Le Figaro.
The huge, bold headline on the front page immediately caught his eye: "Pacific Sea Level Six Meters Higher Than Atlantic! Canal Project Faces Catastrophe!"
Turning the page, the headline on the second page was still shocking: "Tropical Plague Rages, Isthmus Becomes a Graveyard!"
The article revealed in an almost desperate tone: The latest measurements show that the sea level on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal is a full six meters higher than on the Atlantic side!
This meant that the original sea-level canal plan, which required no locks, was completely bankrupt!
To make matters worse, the harsh climate conditions of the Central American rainforest led to a large-scale outbreak of yellow fever and malaria, killing thousands of laborers in the ravages of disease, and the project's progress suffered a fatal blow.
The report concluded unequivocally that the ambitious plan, originally scheduled for completion within five years, had become an impossible mission.
Lionel instantly understood the reason for the panic, wailing, and frantic rushing on the streets.
The Panama Canal, a project endorsed by the French government and touted by countless media as "national glory" and "project of the century," had long become a huge black hole of financial speculation.
To raise enormous funds, the "Panama Canal Company" issued a massive amount of stocks and bonds, including the "Panama Canal Five-Year Bond" that once defrauded the Sorel family.
Countless middle-class individuals, small businessmen, and even nobles, were attracted by its beautiful prospects and high returns, investing their life savings into it.
Now, the six-meter difference and the grim news of the plague had burst this carefully woven bubble of wealth.
Those worried, wailing, and rushing people were all participants in this speculative frenzy; they now had only one thought: to sell their stocks and bonds before they completely turned into worthless scrap paper, even if only to recover a tiny bit of their losses.
Lionel put down the newspaper: "This is France, these are the French..."
He looked at the urban tragicomedy unfolding before him, a complex emotion welling up in his heart, a mix of mockery, pity, and even indifferent calm.
"Blindly speculating driven by fanaticism and vanity, placing hope in an unreachable illusion; once the illusion shatters, they immediately fall into hysterical collapse. This cyclical impulse is practically a chronic disease rooted in the very bones of the French nation..."
He could almost imagine the cruel scene unfolding at the Paris Stock Exchange Palace at that very moment.
————————
The Paris Stock Exchange Palace in the Vivienne Quarter was, at this moment, both a purgatory and a paradise.
In the grand trading hall, the usually well-dressed brokers and investors had long lost all their composure.
The air was filled with an almost insane despair, countless voices merging into a deafening roar.
"Sell! Sell everything! Panama Canal, no matter the price!"
"God! Falling again! Down another five percent!"
"My money! All my money is in there!"
"No buyers! Not a single one! They're finished!"
"Please, take my order, even at seventy percent of the original price! Sixty percent will do!"
Those who had staked their lives and fortunes on canal stocks and bonds had distorted faces and bloodshot eyes, waving their arms like drowning people, shouting hoarsely, trying to grasp at the last straw.
Some slumped in chairs, their gaze vacant, as if their souls had been drained; others, unable to accept the reality of instantaneous bankruptcy, broke down crying in public, tears streaming down their faces; still others fainted from extreme agitation and were hastily carried out of the hall.
Every second, wealth evaporated, hope shattered, and the entire hall seemed enveloped by an invisible plague of panic.
However, a small group of people, either standing on the fringes of the crowd or hiding on the second floor, could barely conceal their smug and greedy smiles.
These were the speculators who had shorted the Panama Canal.
They watched the Panama Canal related securities plummeting on the exchange's quote board, watching the desperate faces, as if appreciating a splendid drama.
A fat man smoking a Havana cigar chuckled softly to his companion: "Fall! Fall harder!"
The numbers in his account expanded at an astonishing rate with every price change.
Another man echoed: "Perfect! A textbook short-selling opportunity!"
He held a thick stack of transaction slips in his hand, his spoils of war.
Some scoffed contemptuously: "These fools, when they were touting Lesseps as 'the hero who created a second Suez', they should have seen this day coming."
Here, sorrow and ecstasy, bankruptcy and sudden wealth, were separated by only a fine line.
Human greed, fear, blind luck, and callousness blossomed like poppies in this temple of capital.
—————————
The next day, Paris's major newspapers, without surprise, aimed all their criticism at one person—Ferdinand de Lesseps, the chief engineer of the Panama Canal, once revered as the "Great Canal Envoy."
Overnight, he transformed from a national hero into a villain blamed by thousands.
Le Gaulois's headline was the sharpest: "Ferdinand de Lesseps, French Criminal, Century Swindler!" Le Figaro meticulously listed the "decision-making errors" and "technical blind spots" in the project, questioning his professional competence.
Even some newspapers that had once strongly advocated for the canal quickly turned their guns and joined the criticism, attempting to distance themselves from the disaster.
Lionel browsed these reports at the breakfast table, a mocking smile playing on his lips: "The speed at which we French change criminals is truly faster than women change hats."
Just two months ago, he himself had been branded a "criminal of France" for opposing colonial expeditions.
Now that hat was placed on Ferdinand de Lesseps' head.
The French not only suffered from collective amnesia but were always eager to find a scapegoat.
Fortunately, Lionel had already asked Mr. de la Roix to exchange the bonds bought by the swindler for a small building in Gap, the capital of Hautes-Alpes.
Now his parents and sister had moved there for long-term residence; it was said that the heir to a local shop was pursuing his sister.
Their house in Montiel was rented to a family that had specifically moved from Provence to settle in Montiel.
This family had come with their child to try for the "twenty thousand francs," but it was said that the child's academic performance was not ideal...
Lionel finished breakfast, dressed neatly, and prepared to go to "Charpentier's Bookshelf" publishing house.
He planned to discuss with Georges Charpentier whether "The Sun Also Rises" should be serialized or published directly as a single volume.
Although only one issue of "The Sign of the Four" remained for serialization, Lionel was not particularly keen on serializing two works of very different styles simultaneously in one magazine, especially since "The Hound of the Baskervilles" was set to begin new serialization at Christmas.
However, when he pushed open the door of "Charpentier's Bookshelf," he was met with a suffocating atmosphere of gloom and despondency.
(End of Chapter)