Chapter 29
Jiang Wanju stared blankly at the room full of flowers. After a long moment, she turned around. Chen Zhouren’s hand rested on her back, and he smiled: “As expected, our little Orange still looks the best.”
Jiang Wanju turned, placing her hand on Chen Zhouren’s chest. Words were stuck in her throat, and only after a long moment were they carried out by her breath: “…What a waste.”
“How can that be considered a waste?” Chen Zhouren said in surprise. “I’m making a small contribution to trade and navigation between our country and France.”
Jiang Wanju knew he could say anything—any grand, eloquent thing. This man had a flexible tongue. She should have been wary of it, but it was truly hard not to be pleased.
So Jiang Wanju stood on tiptoe and kissed Chen Zhouren’s lips, sincerely.
Chen Zhouren did not gallantly deepen the kiss, nor did he lay out a tablecloth for her like in old movies. Instead, he played the role of a dutiful butler, preparing dinner for the tired Jiang Wanju: laying a thick linen tablecloth, placing polished silver candlesticks, lighting the candles, and turning off the lights.
Only the candles remained, each with beautiful lampshades, scattered throughout the room—standing, on tables… With the plum blossoms, the candlelight reflected a soft, pure glow, and the plum blossoms seemed to lend their cold fragrance to the candles.
In the room with heavy linen curtains, amid the rich plum scent and candlelight, Chen Zhouren personally placed diced chicken and morel mushrooms in a rich sauce in front of Jiang Wanju.
Something inside Jiang Wanju collapsed.
As winter was about to end, Jiang Wanju completely moved into Chen Zhouren’s home.
Whenever they were free, Jiang Wanju and Chen Zhouren would sit on the terrace of a café in the 8th district, drinking coffee, or go to an old French restaurant specializing in oysters to savor the chef’s exquisite skills.
Jiang Wanju tasted wine served respectfully by waiters at a Michelin-starred restaurant in the Eiffel Tower and went with Chen Zhouren to a small but exquisite Orangery Art Museum to view paintings.
This beautiful little garden had been built since the 19th century, originally to protect the orange trees in winter. Downstairs were many private collections of Paul Guillaume—a discerning art dealer. The exhibits included works by famous artists such as Cézanne, Picasso, Matisse, Modigliani…
The most famous were Monet’s Water Lilies. These eight enormous, beautiful oil paintings were displayed in an oval exhibition room on the top floor.
Jiang Wanju lingered for a long time. Her profession had given her much knowledge of art, knowledge she could not do without.
In contrast, Chen Zhouren appeared somewhat indifferent to art, merely observing calmly.
As Jiang Wanju reluctantly said goodbye to the paintings, he asked softly, “Do you like Monet’s work?”
She replied, “Don’t you like it?”
Chen Zhouren said, “I do.” After a pause, he added, “That’s why I have one at home—it’s one I bought at auction.”
Jiang Wanju: “…Oh my god.”
Chen Zhouren laughed: “Good, your first reaction wasn’t ‘my god.’”
He patted Jiang Wanju’s head, comforting the girl overwhelmed by the power of money. She smelled sweet, her cheeks and arms soft—Chen Zhouren liked that very much. Even her surprised expression was adorable.
But Jiang Wanju could not get over it. How rich was Chen Zhouren? She had no concept.
He would never worry about money. Nothing seemed impossible for him. No troubles could bind him. His wealth and power allowed him to overcome any obstacle—or rather, in his eyes, those things weren’t even obstacles.
Jiang Wanju gradually learned more about Chen Zhouren. He rarely spoke of his family; she only knew he was not close to them. The only relative he was familiar with was his cousin Wen Chongyue, only a few months older—the person who had accompanied him to France last time.
Chen Zhouren had many friends and confidants. He himself was not extravagant. He could effortlessly take Jiang Wanju to the Champs-Élysées, luxury stores in the Golden Triangle, the opera, front-row fashion shows, or have Chanel artisans custom-make her clothing. Yet he always wore a Blancpain perpetual calendar watch and clothes brought from home.
More than price or brand, Chen Zhouren cared about whether Jiang Wanju would be happy and whether things suited her. He had his own sense of aesthetics.
He preferred interesting, unique little things. He would go with Jiang Wanju to the world’s oldest candle maker to customize candles, or visit artists’ shops to create “Klein Blue” pigments and paint a picture with them.
Jiang Wanju had to admit, Chen Zhouren was very talented. He painted her silhouette—soft and beautiful. He could have been an artist, but he was stingy in showing his talent.
In a shop in the Marais, Chen Zhouren picked a soft lambskin handbag for Jiang Wanju, displayed in an inconspicuous corner of a glass case. He thought it suited her, and so she carried it to work and received rare praise from a very strict supervisor: “Your bag today is nice.”
Chen Zhouren showed Jiang Wanju photos and videos on his phone—he had a long-time companion, a giant Schnauzer named Shuke, a male with a gentle temperament. When Chen Zhouren was away, a dedicated servant cared for him.
He was not the type to talk about his past. He clearly enjoyed the present more than the past or future.
This was not bad, Jiang Wanju thought. Life is short—enjoy it while you can.
Winter finally ended. Spring arrived, and cherry blossoms bloomed in the royal gardens. A white early-blooming cherry tree poured down blossoms. The little garden turned tender green. Jiang Wanju and Chen Zhouren went to see the blossoms in perfect spring light.
Jiang Wanju wrapped in a white coat took multiple photos of the cherry blossoms. The wind blew her cashmere scarf back; she raised her hand to hold it and looked back, seeing Chen Zhouren standing quietly behind her.
Their eyes met. Chen Zhouren smiled and opened his arms.
He wore a black trench coat, a gray shirt, his hair slightly tousled by the wind.
Jiang Wanju asked, “What are you doing?”
Chen Zhouren said, “I’m waiting for the spring breeze to push you into my arms.”
