Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 379 Bond, James Bond!

As night deepened, the bar became even more crowded.

New customers were quickly drawn to the scene in the corner—a well-dressed and refined young man was intently writing at his desk.

Through word of mouth, a small queue formed in front of Lionel's table.

As a result, Lionel was besieged by a constant stream of "clients," writing one email after another without stopping...

It wasn't until nearly midnight, when the tavern was about to close, that he finally had a chance to put down his pen and stretch his sore and stiff fingers and wrists.

Looking at the ever-increasing pile of pennies on the table, he breathed a long sigh of relief, feeling a rare sense of fulfillment.

As the boss tidied up the tables and chairs, he developed a good impression of the young man who had brought him a lot of popularity.

He walked over to Lionel and said, "Hey kid, it's too late. The subway and horse-drawn carriages have long since stopped running."

At this hour, the price for a horse-drawn carriage is outrageously expensive; the money you've earned tonight won't even cover the fare.

"Why don't you stay here for the night and leave tomorrow morning?"

Lionel rubbed his sore eyes and thought that what his boss said made sense.

At this point in time, even if he could find a carriage to get to the Good Words magazine office, the doors would be locked long ago, and Norman McLeod would have no idea he was there.

Lionel nodded. "Then I'll trouble you, boss."

The boss waved his hand and said, "Just call me 'Old Jimmy'." Then he led him up to the attic.

The attic was low and cluttered with the tavern's belongings, and contained a narrow iron-framed bed covered with bedding.

The boss pointed to the bed and said, "You can sleep in this bed. I sometimes stay here overnight and sleep here too. It's fairly clean."

Just before leaving, the boss seemed to remember something and turned back to ask, "By the way, we've been chatting for so long, and I still don't know your name?"

Lionel casually made one up: "Bond, James Bond."

To the boss, it was a very common name in England. He nodded, asked no further questions, and went downstairs to lock the door.

The continuous travel, tension, and exhaustion of the previous night left Lionel completely worn out.

He fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and didn't wake up until almost noon the next day.

He had just descended the creaking stairs from the attic when he was stunned by the sight before him.

It was far from the official opening time, but the "Bent Pickaxe" bar was already packed with people.

Most of the people were dressed simply, even in worn-out clothes, and their faces showed anticipation and a little unease.

As soon as Lionel came down, all eyes were immediately on him.

The shopkeeper was busy wiping the cups when he saw Lionel and shrugged helplessly: "Hey, James, you're finally awake!"

These people were already waiting at the door shortly after dawn! They all heard that a letter writer with exceptional writing skills had come to my place, and that's why they came!"

Lionel looked into those eager and earnest eyes; among them were the elderly, women, middle-aged men, and young boys with tender faces.

He couldn't ignore those gazes. So, without saying a word, he silently walked to the table from the previous night, sat down, spread out the letter paper again, and prepared his ink pen.

The first person to sit opposite him was a young woman, her face showing signs of travel and fatigue.

She whispered that she wanted to write a letter to her younger brother, who was studying in Scotland.

Tell him everything is fine, that she's still working at the "tailor shop" with a good salary, and that he doesn't need to worry about tuition fees, as she'll be able to send him the next sum of money soon...

From her flickering eyes, ashen face, and the distinctive scent often found on Maupassant, Lionel could roughly guess her true profession.

He didn't expose her, but instead wrote a letter as she requested, filled with encouraging words and a white lie, every word revealing the sister's deep love for her brother. The second was a dockworker, pale-faced and coughing frequently.

He wanted to write to his uncle who lived in the suburbs, telling him that he had contracted pneumonia, had been unable to get out of bed to work for several days, had run out of savings, and had no money left to buy medicine.

He begged his uncle to lend him some money to help him through this difficult time, for the sake of his deceased mother.

Lionel could sense the despair and shame in his tone, and wrote this letter seeking help in the most tactful yet urgent way possible.

Then came the third, the fourth, the fifth...

There was an elderly mother who wanted to erect a proper tombstone for her son who died in the colony.
There was a devoted man who wanted to write a letter to his wife who had run away from home, begging her to return.

There was a young apprentice who wanted to persuade his father to stop gambling and drinking...

These people were the lowest-class laborers, peddlers, servants, the unemployed, and the poor who barely made ends meet in London.

Through these letters written on his behalf, Lionel seemed to have opened a window.

He glimpsed the unknown, arduous, and helpless corners beneath the glory of the "empire on which the sun never sets."

These vivid stories impacted him more intensely than any book.

He wrote for another whole day until night fell and the bar closed again.

Lionel looked at the considerable amount of pennies on the table and smiled wryly to himself.

He thought of his serialization of "Sherlock Holmes" in the magazine "Good Words," where the fee for just one page of the manuscript far exceeded the total amount of the coins in front of him.

But for some reason, he felt that the copper coins in his hands, stained with sweat and hope, seemed to weigh more heavily than the royalties checks.

The boss looked at Lionel packing his things and said, "James, you can call a horse-drawn carriage tonight, right?"
This money is enough for you to go anywhere comfortably.

Lionel shook his head, remembering that several people had indeed missed their turn today because they arrived late.

He has promised them that he will come over again tomorrow to write to them.

Lionel spoke up: "Mr. Jimmy, I promised a few people I'd write for them tomorrow."

I think I might need to stay another night; I can pay you for the accommodation.

The boss looked at him with some surprise, seemingly not understanding why this young man of extraordinary background would be willing to stay here and do such insignificant work.

He looked Lionel up and down for a moment, then finally nodded: "Whatever you like, you can continue using the attic."

"Forget about the accommodation fee; you've brought in so many customers for drinks, that's enough."

The reputation of James, the “exceptionally good letter writer” at the “Bent Pick” bar, spread like wildfire throughout the nearby slums.

Even the poor from further neighborhoods heard about it and flocked to the tavern, which was already not very spacious.

They carried various requests, hoping to convey their feelings to the people they wanted to reach through Lionel's pen.

Lionel accepted almost all offers, maintaining the price of two pence per letter.

He sat in the corner, listening and writing, as if he had already integrated into the neighborhood and become one of them.

However, on the morning of the third day, while Lionel was engrossed in writing a letter for an elderly couple to their son in Australia—

Several figures pushed through the waiting crowd aggressively and stood in front of his table, blocking the light.

The leader was a tall, muscular man with a fierce face, who stared at him with hostile eyes!
(This concludes tonight's three-chapter update; bonus chapters will resume tomorrow.)

(End of this chapter)