Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 420 A Long Trip!

In the large living room on the second floor of "Charpentier's Bookshelf," which was used to host salons, the morning sunlight shone through the glass windows, creating a scene that should have been peaceful and relaxing.

However, this warm space, usually filled with the aroma of tobacco and coffee, is now shrouded in gloom and despair.

Georges Charpentier slumped into his large armchair, occasionally tapping the ground with his cane, making a dull "thump-thump" sound.

His brows were furrowed, as if they could be squeezed dry.

Surrounding him were Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Joris-Karl Huysmann, Paul Alexis, Léon Ennique, Henri Céar...

Even Alphonse Daudet and Edmond de Goncourt were among those listed.

These people are renowned figures in the Parisian literary scene and even the entire French literary world. Together with Lionel, who had just joined, they constituted almost half of the Paris literary salon.

However, their faces were devoid of their usual radiance or arrogance; instead, they wore worried expressions and sighs rose and fell.

Lionel took off his hat and coat, hung them on the coat rack by the door, and asked casually, "Gentlemen, what's going on?"

His arrival livened up the atmosphere slightly, but only drew a few listless glances at him.

Lionel quickly realized: "You didn't all dump them into the Panama Canal, did you? My God... how much money did you lose?"

He couldn't imagine a second reason that could make these people so frustrated.

George Charpentier raised his eyelids, sighed, and nodded heavily: "Yes, it is indeed the Panama Canal."

Excavation stalled, sea level dropped, yellow fever... stocks and bonds plummeted!

Paul Alexy, his face contorted with grief, replied, "It's not just a big drop! It's a cliff! It's an abyss!"
My God, my eight thousand francs... a whole eight thousand francs! Just like that... just like that, gone!

There were four thousand francs inside, a loan I took out from the bank using my own salary as collateral…

He waved his arms wildly, as if trying to grab something, but only managed to grasp a handful of despairing air.

Henri Céar added, his face pale: “I invested 15,000 francs, most of which I borrowed from my brother-in-law.”

He keeps asking me questions every day, and I don't know how to answer them...

Leon Ennick's voice was even lower: "I had less, eight thousand francs, but that was almost all my savings."

I was hoping to make some money so I could buy a small house in the suburbs to escape the summer heat. But now…”

Even the usually harsh and critical Huysman lost his composure at this moment, groaning, "My royalties, the seven thousand francs I saved by scrimping and saving, have all gone into it."

Now, even listening to a new Wagner opera requires careful consideration of one's finances.

Even the usually composed Émile Zola looked grim: "I invested 20,000 francs. I was hoping that the proceeds would help offset the cost of building a new wing at my villa in Médan."

Now…sigh, the project is less than halfway done, and suddenly we're short on funds.”

Edmond de Goncourt, equally disheartened, said: "I just established the 'Goncourt Academy' fund, hoping to provide some support for young people in France."

Now, the fund hasn't even started issuing funds, and we've already lost almost a third of it. I've been so stupid!

Alphonse Daudet chuckled wryly and said, "It looks like 'the little thing' and I will have to live frugally for a long time to come."

Perhaps I should switch to chicory root coffee at home? At least it's cheap.

In an instant, the room was once again filled with sighs and complaints.

Everyone seemed eager to recount their losses, as if doing so could alleviate some of the pain.

As Lionel listened to the chorus of lamentations, his gaze swept across the crowd, finally settling on the only person in the corner who hadn't joined in the complaining—Guy de Maupassant.

In stark contrast to the others, Maupassant, though also frowning, showed more sympathy than heartache.

He even had the leisure to carefully trim the ends of his cigars with a knife.

Lionel asked with some curiosity, "Guy, it seems you've escaped unscathed?"

Upon hearing this, Maupassant raised his head, put the trimmed cigar into his mouth, then spread his hands, his mustache twitching with his helpless expression.

He said in a tone of relief and self-deprecation, "Me? Investing? Leon, look at me, do I look like someone who can save money to do that kind of 'great undertaking'?"

Ha, if you turn all the gold coins into champagne and women, at least you'll remember the taste.

I'm just here to keep these unlucky folks company, and maybe see if I can mooch a meal off George.

His words were so direct that they somewhat lessened the somber atmosphere of the scene.

Lionel was speechless; he hadn't expected that the most unconventional Maupassant would become the lucky one in this disaster.

At this moment, Émile Zola cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. He looked at Georges Charpentier and said solemnly, "Georges, we have gathered here today not only to lick each other's wounds, but also to seek your help."

As everyone knows, 'Charpentier's Bookshelves' business has always been quite good. Do you think it's possible to use our future royalties as collateral to give us an advance?
Although my losses are significant, they are still manageable. However, the Meitang Villa project has left me with very little money right now.

But the other young people are probably having trouble even getting food.

Émile Zola's words represented the sentiments of most people present, and they all turned their expectant gazes toward Charpentier.

However, George Charpentier rubbed his temples hard, his voice hoarse: "Friends, it's not that I don't want to help you."

If I had the ability, I would never have stood idly by. But I myself… yesterday alone, I lost fifty thousand francs on Panama Canal bonds.”

Yusman gasped: "Fifty thousand!"

Charpentier nodded heavily: "Yes, fifty thousand francs. Moreover, bookstores and publishers are currently facing severe cash flow problems."

The end of the year is fast approaching, and money is needed everywhere—printing plants, paper suppliers, and everyone's royalties.

Booksellers in various regions won't receive their payments until at least January next year. Until then, there's really nothing I can do to help!

He spread his hands, making a helpless gesture.

The last hope was dashed, and the room fell into a deeper silence, where despair could almost be heard hissing.

Daudet buried his face in his hands, Goncourt looked up at the relief on the ceiling, and Alexis and Céar looked at each other with empty eyes.

After listening to their stories, Lionel also felt a sense of powerlessness.

These people—Zola, Maupassant, Daudet, Goncourt—are all figures who have left a brilliant mark on literary history.

Their works offer insightful observations of human nature and depict society, wielding immense influence.

However, in the face of real financial speculation, their wisdom and reputation seem useless, and they may even fall into traps more easily because of their romanticized imagination of the "project of the century".

In some respects, such as speculation, these literary giants behaved like the most ordinary citizens, or even more naively.

Although only two people admitted to borrowing money from banks and relatives, Lionel knew them too well and probably borrowed some money from everyone except Zola.

The "Meitang Group," which rose to fame as a popular author last year with "Meitang Night Meeting," has now become the "Poor Group."

Just then, as if suddenly grasping at a lifeline, Huysmann's eyes lit up and he looked intently at Lionel.

He stammered, "Leon, I...I remember now, you...you seem to have sold the bonds a long time ago?"
I don't know... I don't know if you can..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was crystal clear: he wanted to borrow some money from Lionel to get through this difficult time.

In an instant, all eyes—desperate, expectant, and embarrassed—were fixed on Lionel like spotlights.

Everyone here knows that Lionel is now the highest-paid author in Europe, especially after serializing "Sherlock Holmes" in the UK, where he has made a fortune.

Moreover, he also receives a continuous stream of box office revenue from his plays, making him practically a walking, human money-printing machine.

Lionel, meeting their gazes, slowly shook his head: "Roris, I regret to inform you that I have invested almost all of my money in 'Sorel-Tesla Electric' and 'Sorel-Peugeot Machinery Manufacturing Plant'."

Last month, he paid 30,000 francs in one go just to purchase a license for the carbon filament lamp patent from Sir Joseph Swan, a Fellow of the Royal Society, and to order his small lamp beads.

Currently, all the operating funds of my businesses are managed by Notary Public Mr. De La Ruwak. Even I cannot lend out large sums of money in my private capacity.

The spark of hope that had just been ignited in the eyes of Yusman and others was completely extinguished by these words.

Alphonse Daudet muttered to himself, "It seems that bittersweet coffee and black bread are really beckoning me..."

Edmond Goncourt also sighed deeply and said nothing more.

The room was once again enveloped in an atmosphere of near-suffocating despair.

Lionel paused for a moment, his gaze slowly sweeping over the dejected faces, from Zola to Goncourt, from Huysmann to Daudet, as if weighing something.

Finally, he spoke again: "However..."

This transition word once again attracted everyone's attention.

"I have a way that might allow everyone to make a quick buck!"

Almost everyone asked in unison, "What method?"

Everyone's body involuntarily leaned forward, and their eyes sparkled again.

Lionel looked at them and said calmly, "However, this method requires everyone to, well, take a long trip."

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(End of this chapter)