The lights of Paris are always bright, reflecting the bustling city's bustling city.

There are no windows in the room, so you can't see the huge flower trees outside.

Kitahara and Kaede yawned, thinking about whether Anthony went to bed early or had a good dream today.

It was Miss Rose who was really a little angry after knowing that she was going to the red light district, and she was still complaining, saying that if she could really hit someone, she would definitely beat up Baudelaire who made this suggestion.

Kitahara and Kaede have no doubts about the authenticity of this sentence.

The traveler sighed with a headache and simply watched a few Parisians playing mahjong next to him.

Although even he himself was embarrassed to say that this group of people were playing mahjong, this level could only be regarded as novices pecking each other...

The only one who is better is probably Alexandre Dumas, who relied on his good cards to kill everyone on their feet - although his skills are still bad as before.

"That's why I don't like playing with this kind of stuff."

Beauvoir bit her cigarette, glanced at the cards in her hand with lowered eyes, and said "tsk" impatiently, already anticipating the outcome that she was about to lose.

"I feel like my whole mood is unhappy. It was fine before. After all, Verlaine is really cute, especially when she is kissed, I almost have supernatural powers."

"By the way! And Verlaine!"

Baudelaire, who was looking at the few chips he had left, suddenly woke up, his wine-red eyes flashed instantly, and he looked expectantly at Verlaine beside him.

"Dear Paul! After all, I am the teacher of your late partner Atil. Don't you think you should show some filial piety for your partner who died halfway?"

"Char." Hugo, who had been distracted by the cards, raised his head and sighed, feeling a little headache.

"I have said it many times, Verlaine is not your new meal ticket after Rimbaud."

"There is no way. Some disabled people who have no ability to take care of themselves can only live on their own students and their surviving partners."

The count, who had another good hand in this round, raised his eyebrows and made a mocking voice: "Guess who was so poor that he almost went to beg on the streets of Paris last month?"

"Uh-huh! That was an accident. Besides, hasn't Verlaine already returned from his mission?"

Baudelaire's eyes quickly gathered false moisture, and he rolled on the table, his voice sounding weak:

"I am rotten, a dodder parasite who can only live by relying on others, a pile of waste in the mud, a disgusting bastard, living is a pollution to this world... ugh, but I really have no money.

Oh, Verlaine—Paul—"

Kitahara and Kaede looked at Baudelaire, who was lying on the mahjong table, rolling into a ball in an inconspicuous manner, groaning, and couldn't help but frown slightly.

Not only because of the strong self-contempt and self-mockery in the other party's tone, but also because of the hidden malice toward Verlaine.

In other words, among the people in the Paris Commune, only Hugo cared more about each other.

The rest of the attitudes are either complete indifference, arrogant comments, or simply treating people as tools.

The blond god raised his head and glanced at the people in the Paris Commune who were discussing him casually, without paying much attention to what was said.

After returning from Yokohama, his position in the Paris Commune was indeed quite embarrassing, and he had long been used to it.

These people didn't want him to give any reply or response, they just used it as a simple conversation topic at the card table.

Kitahara and Kaede looked at Verlaine, who had an indifferent expression, and felt that he had an atmosphere that was incompatible with the Paris Commune, as if both parties were deliberately keeping apart from each other.

Except for saying a few words to Kitahara and Kaede when he was a little dazed by Beauvoir's torment at the beginning, he had been sitting quietly on the edge during the whole process, silently looking at the tea in front of him,

There was no response.

Verlaine...

Kitahara and Kaede mentally repeated the name that now belonged to the artificial god, and then suddenly realized that if we follow Fumino's timeline, it is already the end of autumn when Shuanghei was thirteen years old.

In more than a year's time, the plot of Double Black Fifteen will be officially staged in Yokohama. Rimbaud will die and become a singularity waiting for Verlaine who will come to Yokohama in the future.

——Then Verlaine will also stay in Yokohama, which is equivalent to leaving the Paris Commune.

The traveler subconsciously pressed his eyebrows.

He suddenly thought of Gide, who also broke away from France, or the army led by Gide and eventually became an outcast.

Paris, the capital of France.

What kind of things are buried under the bright appearance of this city?

"So why did you lose this round again?"

Baudelaire looked around in disbelief: "And it's me who loses the most."

Hugo, who didn't even know he had won so well, blinked his eyes slowly and innocently, and his tone sounded a little subtle: "Well, maybe this is just a matter of luck? "

"I'm crazy to play mahjong with someone who has special powers and money and wealth. What can I do if I have the skills? There are so many beauties waiting for me to tease... Tsk."

Miss Beauvoir complained, pushed out her chips, fell back, and leaned on the back of the chair.

Although she said such depressing words, her sharp black eyes still looked bright and dazzling, with an unruly wildness and an intimidating sharpness.

The knife-like eyes swept across Alexandre Dumas, who was all golden, and then glanced at Hugo, who looked confused and innocent, and finally rolled his eyes elegantly.

"Let me tell you, I've really had enough of you guys who are tired all day long..."

She curled her lips and looked at Baudelaire, the only person present who had lost worse than her: "Char, if you lose again, you might as well pawn your clothes. It seems to be worth some money."

"And you're already in the red light district, what kind of clothes do you need? You'll have to take it off anyway, right?"

Alexandre Dumas nodded in agreement, with a teasing and teasing smile in his blue eyes: "I heard that you were stripped of your clothes and thrown out of the red light district recently, so I think you already know it very well.

"

"... Damn it, there's no such thing!"

Baudelaire subconsciously glanced at Kitahara Kaede, who was frowning and thinking beside him, and his speaking speed suddenly increased, "And a guy with five or six lovers a week should obviously know better!"

Alexandre Dumas, who had five or six lovers a week, glanced disdainfully at Baudelaire: "Why, I have five or six lovers a week. Are you still envious of me?"

"I envy you! The cradle you stayed in when you were a child was too close to the wall!"

Kitahara and Kaede helplessly moved their eyes towards the two people who were in cub quarrel mode. They stood up and walked to Baudelaire. They looked at the only chip next to each other and raised their eyebrows: "Do you mind taking the next step?"

Leave it to me, Ciel?"

"Kitahara?"

Baudelaire, who was as wilted as a frost-beaten rose, heard this voice and raised his head in confusion. His originally dull red eyes seemed to suddenly become alive.

It's like a breeze blowing the frozen blood-colored lake, and like a dead dark red ice surface finally ushering in the first sound of spring melting.

It looks touching and affectionate.

It's just that 99% of the emotions here are fake.

Beihara and Feng sighed, and gently rubbed Baudelaire's hair under the strange gazes of everyone. His orange-gold eyes were full of indulgence and helplessness:

"Well, thank you for your hard work. It's up to me to do the next step."

"good--"

Baudelaire narrowed his eyes happily, spoke in a long tone, and hung most of his body on the other person's body, looking extremely slimy.

Beihara and Feng sat down, took a look at the cards in their hands, then thought about the card skills of this group of people, and blinked in a rather subtle mood.

This wave, this wave probably can't even be considered a novice game, at most it can only be regarded as a game of abuse.

Although his own level is not very high, it is only at the level where he can be pulled over by the old men and old ladies in the community to avoid the embarrassing situation of three missing one, but he is still much better than this group of foreigners.

An hour later.

"Are you coming again?"

Kitahara and Kaede calmly held their faces with one hand, looking at the three people across from them who looked a little confused. They pushed away the chips that were once again piled around them, and were picked up by Baudelaire with bright eyes.

In my arms.

Everyone who lost basically had nothing left: "..."

"I've already said, stop in time. Don't continue playing with the attitude that you will definitely win next time."

Beihara and Feng said slowly, but couldn't help but have a smile in their eyes: "In the end, you insisted on dragging me to play until I lose everything. Are you planning to win once?"

Except for the interesting sound of Baudelaire counting chips, the room was quiet.

Except for Hugo, who was depressed and started to wander again, the eyes of the other two people conveyed exactly the same resentment:

Aren’t we also betting that you may not win next time?

Verlaine, who had been watching all the time, saw the rare sight of this group of French transcendent beings deflated. He raised his teacup and elegantly covered up the subtle curvature and ridicule at the corners of his mouth.

Beihara and Feng looked at the group of people who were as quiet as chickens, and felt a little more helpless: "Okay, in the future, don't bet like this. I will return the chips right away..."

"Kitahara——"

Baudelaire interrupted the other party with his deliberately sweet and soft coquettish voice. At the same time, like a little beast, he rubbed the other party's clothes twice. His red eyes were as clear as a cup of touching wine.

Bordeaux wine.

"I'm so short of money, Beiyuan."

Baudelaire hugged Beiyuan's waist stickyly and pressed his face against him, with a sense of grievance in his voice:

"And they have beaten me many times. This is how they won my money."
To be continued...