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Chapter 84 Part 2 - The Mysterious Art Museum

A street artist's life changed when he ended up at a mysterious art museum. DBT,Korean,Novel,Translation,Art,Artist,Slice of life,Poor to Rich,Mystery


The frantic Henri cuts me off with his question.

"Ah! How old are you?"

"········· Twenty-eight."

"Really? We're the same age! How about we become friends?"


Um, you're about 130 years older than me, ancestor.


Henri offers me a drink and pats my back.

"Man! At times like this, you should gladly agree and have a drink! Here, now we're friends! Got it?"


"Drink it all at once! One! Two! Three!"

Locking eyes with Henri as he offers me a drink, I down the fiery brandy in one gulp, grimacing and wiping my mouth.

"Ugh, it's incredibly strong."

Distilled spirits in this era are immensely potent.

I'm not unfamiliar with whiskey, but I didn't expect it to be this strong.

But do these people not eat any snacks with their drinks? Just drinking like this, they're going to ruin their stomachs. No wonder they end up with alcohol poisoning and die.

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and call out to him again.



"Why do you refer to yourself as a dwarf?"

"Hey, hey! We agreed to be friends, right? Speak more casually!"

Huh? Is there formal speech in French?

Anyway, I'm speaking in a Korean style right now.

It's amazing that he understands, let alone gets the nuances of the translation.

"Hmm, alright. But why do you belittle yourself? When I entered earlier, I almost punched the drunkard who called me a monkey."

That's a lie.

Punching? That's not in my nature. I probably just trembled in anger.

It's not like I wasn't upset.

Henri sips his drink with a sly smile. Staring at me with the cup to his lips, he says,

"People always want to call me a dwarf. But if I say it first? They laugh. Then they don't need to say it themselves. It's a sort of defense mechanism, you know? If it's a word I'm going to hear anyway, I'd rather be the one to say it."


So that's it. He's not belittling himself but taking the lead to avoid getting hurt. That's why he's sharing this story.

Henri pats my shoulder and apologizes,

"About that drunkard calling you a monkey earlier, I apologize on his behalf. There are ignorant and uneducated people everywhere. You understand, right? Fools exist in every era and country. Haha!"


I'm at a loss for words. If I apologize now, it would imply that I pity him, so I hold back.

Henri, unfazed, continues cheerfully,

"Actually, I'm a painter too."

I know, how could I not? I've been dragged here from 130 years in the future where I've seen your exhibitions.

But I can't let on that I know. As far as I'm concerned, I just met this man at the club entrance for the first time.

"Really? What kind of paintings do you do?"

Ah, I feel awkward asking that. Here I am, using informal language with someone over 130 years my senior.

Henri, not minding my expression, drinks and replies,

"I paint what I see."


What a clear answer!

To paint what one sees, as one sees it. It's simple yet complex.

Henri pours himself another drink.

He's already had four glasses in five minutes.

"Hey, Henri. If you keep drinking like that, it's bad for your health."

You'll end up getting aggressive and causing a scene, landing in a mental hospital. Drink in moderation.

Raising his freshly poured drink, Henri exclaims,

"Don't worry, my friend! I only drink the finest, so no worries there!"

Does high-quality alcohol benefit your health, you fool?

I sigh and shake my head.

After downing his drink, Henri says,

"I'll introduce you to my friends later."

I suddenly perk up.

Curiously, all the historical geniuses seem to have been active around this time. Henri's friends include notable figures like Edgar Degas, Claude Monet, and Vincent van Gogh. Meeting any of them would be an honor.


"Of course! What's so hard about that? Most of the renowned painters in Paris are my friends."

"Should I look forward to it?"

"Haha! You really are a painter, aren't you? So interested in other artists. What kind of paintings do you create?"


That question again.

I still haven't found an answer.

"Just various things."

"Oh, that's the best approach. Capturing everything you see in your paintings, that's the life of a painter."


Is that so? That's an interesting perspective.

Henri takes another sip of his drink, lost in thought for a moment. He looks at me, then back at his drink several times.

Then, in a subtle tone, he asks,

"You asked me earlier what I paint, right?"

"Yeah, you said you paint what you see."

"Are you really curious about what I paint?"

My eyes widen. Of course, I am.

"Yes, very curious."

Henri ponders for a moment before asking,

"Don't take this the wrong way, but just wondering..."

"What is it?"

"Does the country of Joseon have brothels?"


Why ask that? Which country doesn't? It's just a matter of legality.

"Yes, there are."

"Oh! Really! Have you been?"



"If you're suggesting we go there, I'm not interested."

Am I crazy? Europe at this time was groaning under the weight of syphilis.

In an era where even you, not to mention Schubert and Chopin, suffered from syphilis, why would I go there? Of course, I could probably get cured with an injection at a modern hospital, but who would go knowing they might get sick?

Henri smiles slyly and grabs my arm.

"I'm not planning to buy women with money. Just follow me."

He hops down from the high chair and leads the way.

I frown and watch his back.

Is he really not going there?

Why do I feel so uneasy?

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