Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 11 First Royalties (Seeking votes at the beginning of the month!)

After class in the afternoon, Lionel rushed to the post office on St. Martin Avenue to check the addresses of "Orby Trading Company" and "Panama Interoceanic Canal Global Company," of course, to expose the lies of his "cheap brother-in-law" Emil.

In this day and age, let alone the internet, even "Yellow Pages" (a book listing company names, addresses, and phone numbers) had not yet been created, but most legitimate companies would leave their addresses at the post office.

As the most commercially developed city in France and even the whole of Europe, Paris is a place where not only French companies, but almost all companies that have trade relations with France can find their contact information.

He handed the names of the two companies to the window, paid the fee of four sheng, and quickly obtained the addresses of the two companies.

"Orbi Trading Company" is located in the 2nd arrondissement of Paris, near the stock exchange; "Panama Canal Global Company" is located in the 8th arrondissement, in the French Overseas Chamber of Commerce Club.

They all seem to be legitimate companies—now I wonder if Emil himself is legitimate or not.

Lionel plans to take a day off tomorrow or the day after and visit "Orby Trading Company" in person—since Emil claimed to be a manager at the company, he should be able to verify the authenticity of that identity.

Of course, if the name and title are real, but the person is fake, then that's troublesome...

In France at that time, and indeed throughout Europe, there were no mandatory identity documents.

Documents that can prove one's identity include birth certificates, travel passports, letters of introduction or recommendation, professional certificates, proof of residence, court judgments, and so on. In short, they are incredibly complex and interconnected.

Moreover, due to the high cost of taking photos and the lack of widespread use of photo IDs, forgery was very easy, and scammers were rampant.

This is why we often encounter a conman when reading 18th and 19th century European novels; it's practically a cultural characteristic.

However, this step still needs to be taken regardless.

After receiving the address, he casually asked about the "anonymous deposit pending collection" email address that he had just activated that morning. Unexpectedly, after verifying the registered name and password, an envelope was handed out directly from the window.

"So fast?" Lionel was somewhat taken aback.

Although the Paris city postal service is very well-developed, allowing for several communications a day even between the two ends of the city, the speed of Le Bourgeois's reply still exceeded their expectations.

These small newspapers don't send rejection letters to authors; if someone sends a letter, it means they've accepted the manuscript.

Touching the envelope, it felt quite thick—could it be that the royalties were also stuffed inside? Although bank drafts and checks are very common now, people still prefer to put small amounts of money directly into envelopes and send them to the recipient.

It's like having 20 francs in cash tucked into a letter from home.

Lionel suppressed his excitement, stuffed the envelope into his inner breast pocket, and hurriedly left the post office.

However, due to this delay, by the time he returned to the apartment, it was already completely dark. The tenants were sitting around the dining table in the first-floor restaurant under the dim candlelight, eating the food prepared by Mrs. Martin.

Seeing Lionel enter amidst the wind and snow, Mrs. Martin couldn't help but sneer again: "Young Master Sorel is back? Which fancy restaurant did he dine at today? Looks like he won't be having dinner with us lowly people again!"

Lionel remained unmoved, raising the bag he was carrying and shaking it: "I went to the 'Morris Hotel' at noon today. Their owner was very generous and allowed me to pack some food to take back and enjoy."

"Patty, I brought you some fried sausages, sprinkled with black pepper. You can come upstairs to pick them up later."

Patty peeked her little head out from under the adults' armpits and answered cheerfully, "Yes, Mr. Sorel!"

Lionel nodded and hurried upstairs amidst the surprised and envious gazes of the crowd, leaving only the clattering sound of his leather shoes on the floorboards. Back in his small attic, Lionel lit the thickest candle and then placed a thin sheet of iron above it.

Then they took the food out of the bag—fried sausages, roasted chicken breast, and croissants—and heated them on a metal plate. This was basically standard fare for poor students in Paris.

While it's impossible to reheat these foods like a frying pan, at least they won't taste like ice.

Soon, an enticing aroma of food wafted from the attic.

In the meantime, Lionel had already opened the reply from Le Bourgeois.

As expected, the envelope contained two 10-franc notes and a letter, which is why it seemed so thick.

Lionel was somewhat surprised, as royalties in this era were calculated by "line," which refers to the standard width of a printing layout, not the number of lines the writer wrote on the manuscript; each line contained approximately 10 to 12 words.

The fee for each line of writing varies depending on the writer's level.

像他这样初出茅庐的无名之辈，每行通常是2苏或者3苏（10-15生丁，0.1-0.15法郎）；而像成名作家一行拿到2法郎以上不是什么新鲜事；大仲马这样的顶级畅销书作家，甚至可以拿到5法郎每行的天价。

20 francs, that's roughly the fee for 200 lines of writing?

Lionel found it hard to believe, because he had estimated the number of words on two pages of manuscript paper, which, when converted to standard lines, would not exceed 80 lines at most.

He didn't believe he could earn more than 5 su per line of writing right now.

The contents of the letter explained the reason—

Your work possesses unparalleled humor and satire, making it a masterpiece of contemporary French literature! Le Bourgeois is willing to pay 3 sous per line for your story; the 10 francs here is the fee for these three pieces.

The other 10 francs is an advance payment for your future works; I'm sure you have many more stories like that in your mind! If you'd like, we can sign a long-term contract, with the price calculated as it is now! Believe me, this is a very generous price.

As far as I know, the price paid to new authors by the *Clown's News* and the *Lantern News* is 1 sou per line...

Lionel scoffed, tossed the letter aside, and pocketed the 20 francs. Three sous per line was a fair price for a new author, but certainly not a generous one.

The 10 francs prepayment was merely a pretense of generosity, a way to lure him into signing the so-called "long-term contract."

However, this confirmed that his short stories did have a market and brought in money quickly—there was no other way; tabloids had a different survival strategy than newspapers. They had almost no fixed subscribers and relied entirely on sensational content to attract individual readers.

He was just about to take out his pen and paper to write a few more stories for the "Buzzing News" and discuss his payment with its owner when there was a knock on the attic door.

Petty's clear voice came through: "Mr. Sorel, are you available now?"

Lionel smiled, got up and opened the attic door: "Pettit, you can eat the sausage here before you come downstairs."

He deliberately spoke very loudly, so that even people standing on the first floor could hear him.

Then I heard a loud bang downstairs, and someone's door was slammed shut.

(End of this chapter)