Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 168 A Mountain of Literary Debt (Seeking Monthly Tickets!)

Lionel frowned slightly, feeling somewhat puzzled.

He didn't actually have much direct contact with the church—the potential problems in "Decadent City" have been largely eliminated as the conman Édouard Benoît became disfigured and went insane.

Although Lionel promoted the intervention of the French Writers' Association in the exorcism ritual, he was a complete "behind-the-scenes man." How could the church know what he said on "Flaubert's Sunday"?

If I had to pinpoint a conflict, it would be that two weeks ago in Montiel, I made a few sarcastic remarks about Father Peltier.

But this was unlikely to alarm the important figures in Paris.

After racking his brains for a while, Lionel still had no clue, so he simply stopped thinking about it.

What he craved most at that moment was a comfortable bed and a good rest; his experience at St. Thomas' Hospital in London was far from pleasant.

Although the initial idea for "Sherlock Holmes" has been conceived, it will take time to prepare before the actual creation can begin, and we must wait for the serialization of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Buton" to end.

Although Lionel was interested in royalties, he did not have the ambition of writing serials for several newspapers at the same time, like Balzac or Dumas.

------

The next day, Lionel didn't get up until 10 a.m.

After making himself a simple breakfast and eating it, Lionel prepared to go out.

He wanted to go to "Orby Trading Company" first to let Sophie know he was safe; then he would go to Villa Meitang to pick up Alice and Petty.

They've been living there for a month now.

It's early autumn now, and the weather is a bit cooler; after a few autumn rains, the stench on the streets is no longer so strong that it makes it hard to see.

Having just returned from London, Lionel even felt that the air in Paris was somewhat "fresh"!
However, literature's creditors always come uninvited, never giving anyone a chance to breathe.

As soon as Lionel went downstairs, the building manager told him there were two letters, and they weren't delivered by the postman.

The messenger asked the administrator to tell Lionel to open and read the letter immediately.

Lionel took the envelopes, glanced at the addresses, and smiled—one was from Le Petit Parisien, and the other from Modern Life magazine.

The content was largely the same, but their tones were all increasingly anxious.

The editor of Le Parisien wrote in a letter:
Dear Mr. Sorel:
We hope you are well. First of all, please accept our sincere condolences once again for your unfortunate illness in London, and we are delighted to hear that you have recovered and returned to France.

I regret to disturb your rest, but the manuscript of "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Bouton" is only enough to last until this week.

We are currently facing immense pressure to fill our pages, and we earnestly request that you send us the follow-up manuscript as soon as possible to alleviate our urgent needs.

Readers eagerly anticipate seeing how Benjamin and Daphne's fates intersect next...

Lionel then remembered that although he had been traveling during this time, he had indeed been writing sequels to "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Buton".

However, the overall progress was only two weeks longer than the newspaper serialization.

I was sick in London for 10 days, and with the weekend spent with Sophie and the trips between Paris and London, my drafts were really exhausted.

A serialized story relies on popularity; once it stops updating, not only will the newspaper have a headache finding articles to fill the space, but readers will also complain.

Opening the letter from "Modern Life" again, it was still urging for a manuscript, only the tone was more tactful.

After thinking it over, Lionel decided to postpone his visit to Sophie and the return of Alice and Patty for a few days, and instead finish writing the next two weeks' worth of serialization first.

To let someone know you're safe, just write a letter.

With that thought in mind, Lionel put away the letter, returned to his apartment, sat down at his desk, took out his quill pen, and began to write.

In terms of content, the story of "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Bouton" is already more than halfway through.

Benjamin Boudon and Daphne Villeneuve have both "grown up"—except that Benjamin is younger and more energetic.

Just like in the movie, Benjamin worked as a sailor on a ship, traveling along the Mediterranean coast and even crossing the Atlantic Ocean to the United States.

Daphne went to Paris, hoping to become a court dance teacher and an outstanding opera singer.

Although their lives became parallel, they maintained the habit of communicating with each other.

And before going to sleep, they would say goodnight to each other even if they weren't physically present.

Lionel closed his eyes, trying to recall the vague ideas he had before and after his recovery, and then attempting to grasp the two souls that were going against the current of fate, yet still concerned for each other.

On a Mediterranean night, the salty sea breeze blew against the rigging of the "Siren," producing a low, mournful sound.

Benjamin Buton had just finished his lookout duty. He leaned against the ship's railing and took a letter out of his inner pocket.

It's a letter from Daphne.

Her handwriting was thin and clear, like her fingers or calves—

"...Autumn in Paris is always rainy, and the streets are muddy, but the opera house is always warm and cozy. I finally passed Madame Garçon's audition and became a trainee dancer with the company. Although I can only dance in corps de ballet now, every time I rise onto my tiptoes, I feel like I'm one step closer to my dream..."

—Yours, Daphne

Benjamin's lips unconsciously curled into a smile. He could picture the scene: Daphne dancing like a graceful lark on the polished wooden floor.

At this moment, he was on the swaying deck, with rough ropes overhead and the salty sea breeze blowing in his face...

These are two completely different worlds.

……

He took out a pencil stub he always carried with him, and by the moonlight, began to reply:
"...I just rounded the Peloponnese peninsula. The waves were huge, and I threw up a few times. But now I'm fine and can eat a cow."

Tunisian spices can be a bit pungent, but I bought you a small packet of frankincense; it's said to have calming properties…

—Yours, Benjamin.

He signed his name, carefully folded the letter, and stuffed it into a waterproof envelope.

This letter can only be mailed when the ship docks again; and a reply will not be received for several months. ...

Time slipped away quietly in their correspondence.

Benjamin is now almost an "old man"—he can stand very straight, his black hair outweighs his white hair, and he can see things clearly with glasses on.

Daphne, on the other hand, went further and further down the path of becoming a court dance teacher and opera singer.

Her striking looks, slender figure, and graceful dance moves have drawn increasing attention to her.

Finally, Daphne had her first solo dance—

[Applause. A tidal wave of applause.]

Daphne Villeneuve, slightly out of breath, bowed to the audience.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest with immense, almost overflowing joy and excitement.

She saw Madame Garzon's approving smile in the audience, and the envy and even jealousy in the eyes of her other dance partners.

……

Daphne smiled and responded, but there was a small emptiness in her heart.

She glanced instinctively at the dressing table, where only a bouquet of flowers from the theater troupe sat.

How she wished there were letters beside that bouquet of flowers, or even just a telegram, that read:

"I'm happy for you. — Walter Benjamin"

But where is he right now? The Atlantic Ocean? The Caribbean Sea? Is he safe? ...

…………

She pulled the covers up, looked at the empty ceiling, and said softly, almost inaudibly, "Goodnight, Benjamin."

Then, she added in a low voice, "I danced very well today."

------

Lionel locked himself in his room for three days and wrote, only going downstairs to eat, and finally finished two weeks' worth of manuscript.

However, this time he didn't plan to send it to Alice at the Meitang Villa—he didn't have time.

He planned to send it directly to Modern Life, have them transcribe it, and then send the original manuscript back to him, and then send a copy to Little Parisians.

After finishing all that, he stretched again, stuffed the manuscript into an envelope, and prepared to go downstairs to mail it.

I had just stepped into the living room when the doorbell rang.

Lionel assumed that Alice and Petty had returned early and hurried to open the door.

Two strangers were standing outside the door, with an apologetic apartment manager behind them.

The leader was a man of about fifty years old, with a thin face and sharp eyes; the one behind him was slightly younger, with his eyes lowered and his hands folded in front of him.

The older man spoke first: "Excuse me, are you Mr. Lionel Sorel?"

Lionel took a step back defensively: "May I ask who you are?"

The man nodded slightly: "We are from the 'St. Martha's Guild,' please excuse our intrusion."

We are honored to extend a warm invitation to our association's headquarters, entrusted by the association's matriarch.

(End of this chapter)