Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 327 Queen Victoria's Complaint!
Buckingham Palace in central London.

The most glorious palace in the empire was bright and warm in its luxurious living rooms.

Queen Victoria, who was over sixty years old, sat in an armchair near the window, covered with a soft wool blanket.

She had just finished processing several urgent documents from the colony and was now using her short break to peruse the latest issue of "Good Words" that her maid had brought her.

Like other readers, she skipped the preceding political commentary and essays and focused directly on the serialization of "The Sign of Four".

The Queen read slowly, her expression focused.

She wasn't the kind of woman who was obsessed with popular novels, but this consulting detective who lived on Baker Street had indeed captivated her.

Perhaps it was because of the emphasis on logic and reason in deductive reasoning, or perhaps it was because stories offered her temporary relaxation...

The Queen nodded slightly when she read that Holmes had connected the strange pattern and a few numbers on the piece of paper to the Indian colony.

She was certainly no stranger to India; it was the most dazzling jewel in her crown. The background of "The Sign of Four" was linked to it, which added to her sense of identification.

However, just as the plot reached a crucial point, this installment came to an abrupt end.

At the bottom of the page, there is only one line of cold, printed text: [To be continued... Stay tuned for the next installment]

Queen Victoria clicked her tongue softly, closed the magazine, placed it on her lap, and complained with lingering relish: "That Frenchman is really good at cutting things out of context."

It's torture to always stop at the most alluring part.

The lady-in-waiting smiled and agreed, “Indeed, Your Majesty. I’ve heard that readers in London have a love-hate relationship with it.”

Just then, a sixteen-year-old boy walked in with light steps: "Grandma! You've finished reading the new 'Sherlock Holmes' too, haven't you?"
Please, could you please have the "Good Words" magazine submit the remaining manuscripts? Or could you send someone to urge them to submit them?
I can't wait to find out who that wooden-legged man is, and what those signatures mean!

Queen Victoria looked at the boy's anxious expression, reached out and gently stroked his thick blond hair: "My dear George, I understand how you feel."

Curiosity and the urge to know the outcome are the privileges of youth. But, my child, waiting is also a virtue.

The more beautiful something is, the more worthwhile it is to wait and see.

Prince George could only mutter, "But...we still have to wait another two weeks...By the way, India, the novel mentions India. Have you ever been to India?"
I heard that place is teeming with elephants, tigers, and leopards!

Queen Victoria smiled slightly: "No, George, I have never been to India. But I am still the Queen of India, and I rule there through the Governor-General."

Prince George looked longingly at India: "I definitely want to go to India someday!"

Queen Victoria patted his head: "You will go, dear George."

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"The Sign of Four" still follows the tradition of being serialized in "Good Words" first, and then in France a month later.

This "favoring one over the other" approach was once criticized by French commentators—but at least in February 1881, no one cared.

Most people are unaware that a new "Sherlock Holmes" story has begun to be serialized.

On February 25, 1881, the night before Victor Hugo's birthday, President Jules Glevy of the Republic personally visited Hugo's residence on Rue Érault.

On behalf of the government of the Republic, he congratulated Hugo and presented him with a highly symbolic gift—a beautiful "Sèvres vase".

The Sèvres porcelain factory was a French imperial kiln, and the porcelain it produced was historically reserved for the rulers.

Therefore, Jules Grevy said in his address: "The National Factory was originally established to present gifts to the monarch."

Today, the Republic presents this vase to a spiritual monarch.

These words spread throughout the country through newspapers the following day, effectively establishing Hugo as the spiritual leader of the Republic.

On February 26, Victor Hugo's birthday, a large number of enthusiastic citizens spontaneously gathered on Rue Elroy to lay flowers on his balcony.

Formal congratulations from the Paris City Council and delegations from various provinces were all scheduled for the "next day," February 27th.

February 27th, early morning. Despite the windows being tightly closed, Lionel was awakened by a low, continuous sound.

It was a torrent of sounds, a mixture of countless footsteps, faint singing, and a cacophony of voices.

He got up, walked to the window, and peeked out from behind a corner of the curtain.

The streets were unusually quiet, contrasting sharply with the sounds coming from afar.

Clearly, the city's population is converging towards a certain center.

Around nine o'clock in the morning, he took a carriage and arrived at a hotel near Ello Street that he had booked in advance.

The hotel is situated directly opposite the windows of Hugo's Residence, offering an excellent view.

In a room on the third floor of the hotel, Émile Zola, Alphonse Daudet, Edmond Goncourt, Maupassant... were already there.

They were standing by the window, looking down at the building with complicated expressions.

Zola heard the door open, turned around and saw Lionel, and greeted him, "You've come, Lionel."

Lionel walked over to him and looked down.

The scene before us was truly spectacular.

The procession followed a pre-announced route—starting from the Arc de Triomphe, passing through Avenue Elbert, and finally arriving at the window of Victor Hugo's residence—

They moved forward slowly and steadily in a dense formation of 20 to 30 people per row.

The crowds flowed like an endless river through the streets of Paris.

They were dressed in festive attire, holding flowers, flags, and portraits of Victor Hugo.

The singing occasionally broke the silence; though it was difficult to hear clearly from a distance, the combined sound waves contained immense energy.

Six hundred thousand Parisians, in relatively orderly lines, solemnly passed beneath the window of the great writer, with a sense of pilgrimage.

They paid high tribute to this "great defender of civil affairs".

Flowers were piled up in front of Hugo's house, quickly forming a colorful and fragrant mountain of flowers.

Six hundred thousand people spontaneously celebrating the birthday of a writer is truly unprecedented in the history of human civilization.

Lionel's gaze fell on the window across the street.

The window was open, and although February in Paris was still chilly, the elderly Victor Hugo was clearly already standing there.

He was dressed in dark clothes, and his white hair fluttered slightly in the cold wind.

He had his thirteen-year-old grandson George and his twelve-year-old granddaughter Ranna in his left and right arms, respectively.

The old man was radiant, his face beaming with excitement, satisfaction, and even a sense of bliss.

He stood there almost the entire time from the moment the march approached the apartment.

He repeatedly bowed, waved, and paid his respects to the vast crowd of birthday celebrants below, accepting this unprecedented honor.

Lionel whispered to Zola beside him, "Mr. Hugo was great, and the people's respect for him was sincere and heartfelt."

Zuo La crossed her arms over her chest, her brows furrowed slightly, and nodded.

The others also turned around; they already knew that Lionel had rejected Anatole France's invitation.

Following Lionel's example, almost all "naturalist" writers tacitly missed the celebration.

(End of this chapter)