Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 238: All Donated!

As Charles de Blanc left Ferdinand Bisson’s private residence, Lionel knocked on the door of 66 Champs-Élysées.

Soon, he was led by the butler through an impressive corridor to the living room of the mansion.

Count Rohan stood before a huge map of France, his brow furrowed, as if studying something.

Hearing Lionel's footsteps, he turned around and said in a cool tone, "Lionel, are you here to see Albert? Please have a seat."

He gestured to the sofa by the fireplace, then walked towards the wine cabinet: "Albert won't be back for a while—would you like some Bordeaux? Or brandy?"

Lionel bowed and sat down: "Thank you, Your Excellency. Bordeaux is fine."

Count Rohan handed the wine glass to Lionel, then sat down in the armchair, awaiting the other's questions or requests.

He had even prepared a prepared, tactful explanation for his current predicament, hoping that Lionel would understand.

"For the sake of the overall reform," "temporary difficulties," "there are still opportunities in the future"...

Lionel gently swirled the deep red wine, a smile on his face: "Very good wine, Your Excellency. It seems you have a good understanding of the vintages in the Médoc region."

Count Rohan paused for a moment, then smiled and replied, "Our family owns a few small vineyards there..."

After exchanging a few pleasantries about wine, Lionel took a sip, put down his glass, and said nothing more.

Count Rohan asked casually, "What brings you here to see Albert?"

Lionel replied casually, "Albert wants to write a novel and wants me to help him brainstorm ideas..."

Count Rohan was very interested: "Oh? Albert has actually figured it out? That's a tremendous surprise! Tell me, what does he want to write?"

Lionel gave a sly smile: "Hmm, he wants to write a story about a knight wielding a sharp blade who kills a dragon that has kidnapped a princess..."

……

Half an hour later, Lionel left 66 Champs-Élysées and ran into Albert, who had just returned, as he went out.

Albert looked at Lionel, completely bewildered: "Leon, what are you doing here?"

Lionel patted him on the shoulder: "Write well, Albert, I believe in you!"

Albert was even more confused: "...Write properly? What am I supposed to write? Professor Tainer's assignment?"

Lionel turned and pointed: "The novel! Ask Count Rohan, I've already told him."

------

Two days later, Le Parisien published an interview with Lionel Sorel, which attracted widespread attention.

The reporter brought up the old story again, asking about the rumors that had caused a stir some time ago that "three of his works were selected for the French Reader".

Lionel responded with his usual composure: "Regarding this matter, I think it reflects more the readers' affection for me and an unexpected level of trust."

I am flattered and deeply humbled by this. The French Reader bears the heavy responsibility of shaping the spirit of French citizens, and the selection criteria are rigorous and sacred.

My work is still quite immature in terms of both experience and depth, and I really dare not hope to receive such an honor.

I believe it would be an immense honor if any of the gentlemen on the committee were to ultimately recognize that one of my articles qualifies me to stand among the great masters.

The reporter, clearly prepared, followed up his line of thought with a half-joking tone, "Mr. Sorel, you're too modest. However, please allow me, on behalf of our curious readers, to ask a perhaps somewhat cliché question—if, I mean if—"

It's truly fortunate that one of your works has been selected. Do you know how much the French Reader usually pays its authors?

It's said that's a rather symbolic amount.

Leonard looked at the reporter with clear eyes: "Payment? No, sir. If the Republic truly believes that one of my works is barely qualified to be included in the French Reader, that in itself is the greatest affirmation and reward for my writing, which cannot be measured by any amount of money."

Therefore, I can solemnly declare here that—no matter which of my works is fortunate enough to be included in the *French Reader* or any official textbook designated by the Republic in the future, I will never ask the state for a single penny of royalties!

Lionel gradually became more impassioned: "Moreover, to express my unreserved support for the Republic's education cause, and to allow more children to have access to literature, I hereby voluntarily pledge—"

I will donate my three works that were previously embroiled in ridiculous rumors—"The Old Guard," "My Uncle Jules," and "Homeland"—to France free of charge and permanently! To all the people of France!
This means that any public educational institution is free to print, publish, and teach these works without paying any fees!

Lionel smiled slightly at the end: "My pen belongs to myself, but if my works can serve a higher public good and the future of France, then that is their best destiny!"

The interview caused an instant sensation after it was published!
All the previous rumors and slanders suddenly seem insignificant, despicable, and ridiculous in the face of this frank and generous declaration.

"A true patriot!"

"A selfless dedication to literature!"

"The civic spirit that the Republic needs!"

"A noble soul! It leaves those slanderers utterly ashamed!"

Public sympathy and admiration flooded towards Lionel.

His reputation was elevated to a new level, and his image was closely associated with "selflessness," "patriotism," and "support for education."

At the same time, another problem also emerged:

Lionel donated "The Old Guard," "My Uncle Jules," and "Hometown," but what about the others?

Alphonse Daudet, who was also considered a strong contender, immediately issued a statement supporting and following Lionel's charitable act, promising to donate any of his works that were included in the French textbook to France without accepting any royalties.

Victor Hugo then announced through La Repubblica that he would donate his works to the French education cause free of charge.

Even the works of deceased artists such as George Sand, Balzac, Mérimée, and Chateaubriand have had their copyright heirs declare their willingness to donate their works.

Not to mention living figures like Zola and Flaubert.

For a time, the French literary world was abuzz with excitement—"donating works to the cause of education in France" became a fashionable act.

In the minds of most writers, the public, and the media, the works selected for a particular author in the French Reader are either short stories or excerpts from novels.

A great man like Mr. Hugo might have several of his works selected; other writers who are not as famous as him will probably only have one work selected.

Even at the highest standard of royalties, it would only amount to a few hundred or a thousand francs.

For these well-paid writers, this is just a drop in the ocean; they'd rather use that money to gain a good reputation.

This trend quickly spread from Paris to distant places, and even the British "Shakespeare Drama Research Association" sent an official letter stating that if French textbooks used excerpts from Shakespeare's plays, no royalties would be paid.

Bering Publishing, which held the copyright to "Two Children's Travelogue in France", was completely dumbfounded.

(End of this chapter)