Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 320 Just a Coincidence
A surge of anger welled up in Lionel's heart.

Although he knew that piracy was inevitable in this era of extremely weak international copyright protection.

Previously in England, he had experienced a counterfeit and pirated copy of "A Study in Scarlet"; but in England, he could use "The Rules of a Great Detective" to defend his position.

The influence of "Good Words" also made those pirates only dare to operate "underground," unlike in Russia where they would openly sell their books in such large bookstores.
Seeing his work being pirated and sold on such a large scale and in such a systematic way, while the original author couldn't get a single kopek, he was so angry at the naked plunder that his hands trembled.

Lionel's face turned ashen as he brandished the book in his hand: "Did your bookstore print all of these yourselves?"

Bookstores in this era often rely on publishers; for example, "Charpentier's Shelves" is both the name of the publisher and the name of the chain bookstore.

The shop assistant nodded proudly: "Yes, we all belong to Mr. Márquez's business; he is the largest publisher in Russia."

Lionel pressed on, "Mr. Márquez? What's his full name?"

The clerk replied, "Adolf Theodore Márquez—by the way, would you like this book again?"
Lionel Sorel is currently the most fashionable writer in all of Russia; everyone loves his novels!

Lionel shook his head, shoved the book back onto the shelf, and turned to the clerk, saying, "Really? But I think this one is absolutely terrible!"

Then, ignoring the bewildered expressions of the shop assistants, he left the "Paris Bookstore" directly.

The cold air from outside rushed in, but it couldn't immediately extinguish the anger in his heart.

His initial sense of relief after successfully completing the mission had vanished completely.

Sergei Ivanovich saw Lionel return to the carriage with a displeased expression and cautiously asked, "Mr. Sorel, are you alright? In the bookstore..."

Lionel took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down: "It's okay."

He climbed back into the carriage and ordered, "Let's go back to the hotel."

The carriage started moving again.

Lionel leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and was overwhelmed by a mixture of exhaustion and anger that prevented him from calming down.

He knew that trying to stop publishing giants like Adolph Theodore Márquez from pirating his works was nothing short of a pipe dream.

He could only suppress his frustration for the time being: "I'll have to figure something out later..."

The immediate priority is to return to Paris as soon as possible to refine the script of "Thunderstorm" and push forward with the renovation of the Comédie-Française.

However, the next train from St. Petersburg to Paris will not depart until February 2nd.

This means he will have to stay in this icy city for another week.

Over the next few days, Lionel became embroiled in endless social engagements.

Karatkin of the Alexandrin Theatre seemed determined to give him a full experience of the "enthusiasm" of St. Petersburg's high society.

Invitations to banquets and dances poured in like snowflakes. Although he declined a considerable number of them, the remaining ones almost exhausted his time and energy.

Whether in a luxurious mansion with crystal chandeliers or an artsy salon filled with cigar smoke, Lionel was always the center of attention.

People are talking about his "Old Guard," asking about new stories for "Sherlock Holmes," and some have even heard that he is working on a new script.

Lionel had to pull himself together, navigate the situation, repeating tedious pleasantries and enduring their exaggerated compliments about France and himself.

He felt like a rare animal on display, his heart filled with restless longing to return home.

Every night when he returned to his luxury suite at the "European Grand Hotel," he felt even more exhausted than if he had spent the entire day revising the script.

Physical exhaustion and mental depletion intensified his longing for Paris more than ever before.

On the afternoon of January 28, Lionel finally canceled all his appointments and decided to visit someone.

A literary giant who held immense weight in his heart—Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.

Following the address Karatkin had given him for Dostoevsky's home, he instructed Sergei to drive to 5-2 Kuznetsky Lane. It was an ordinary apartment building, even somewhat shabby.

This master should not have been so poor, but his obsessive love of gambling and poor financial management kept him teetering on the edge of poverty his entire life.

He once earned 7000 rubles from the royalties of "Crime and Punishment," but it was still not enough to pay off his debts, and he eventually had to go abroad to escape his creditors.

But if he hadn't been such a gambler, how could he have written a masterpiece like "The Gambler"?

With mixed feelings, Lionel knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a haggard face appeared in the doorway.

Lionel knew she was Anna Grigoryevna Dostoevskaya, the writer's wife.

Lionel removed his hat and said gently, “Hello, madam, I apologize for bothering you. I am Lionel Sorel, from Paris.”

I hope to have the opportunity to visit Mr. Dostoevsky to express my respect.

Anna had clearly heard of him; a hint of surprise flashed across her face, but it was quickly replaced by worry: "Mr. Sorel... thank you for your kindness."

However, Fyodor's health lately... is very bad, very bad. He needs absolute quiet and is probably not fit to receive guests..."

Her voice was choked with sobs, and her eyes kept glancing worriedly into the room.

Lionel was about to say something more when a dull thud came from the inner room, like a heavy object falling to the ground.

Anna's expression changed drastically, and she exclaimed, "Fyodor!" Forgetting all etiquette, she turned and ran into the house.

Lionel's heart sank, and he immediately followed him inside.

The scene in the bedroom made his heart tighten.

The great Fyodor Dostoevsky collapsed to the floor, his body writhing in agony.

He coughed violently, and dark red blood kept gushing from his mouth, staining his sparse beard and the front of his shirt.

A small, alarming red stain had already appeared on the floor.

"Oh my God! Fyodor!" Anna rushed over and tried to help him up, but she was clearly not strong enough.

Lionel stepped forward in one swift motion: "Madam, let me do it."

He crouched down and carefully but firmly helped Dostoevsky up.

The writer was lighter than he had imagined; his body, ravaged by epilepsy and emphysema, was almost nothing but a skeleton.

Together they helped him back to bed.

Anna frantically wiped the blood from his mouth and chest with a towel, tears silently streaming down her face.

After a long while, Dostoevsky's violent coughing and vomiting of blood subsided slightly.

He lay on his back on the bed, his eyes closed, his face ashen like a rag, his breathing weak and rapid.

Lionel's heart sank; only then did he realize that Dostoevsky had died in 1881.

Could the exact time be today? Lionel felt a wave of dizziness.

First Flaubert, then Dostoevsky…

He could only silently tell himself, "It's just a coincidence...it's just a coincidence..."

(End of this chapter)