Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 559 The New Tsar Delivers a Heavy Blow to the Old Queen!
London nights have never been this lively.

The distance from the courthouse to Scotland Yard is only a little over a mile, but the news travels faster than a carriage.

Before night had even fallen, all of London knew: the French writer had appeared in court, the Queen had pardoned the commoners, but the writer himself had been arrested.

Everyone from every social class was talking about it, but the content of their discussions varied wildly.

In cafes, pubs, and clubs, people are arguing endlessly.

"The Queen must have been moved! Otherwise, why would she have granted a pardon at that particular time?"

"Nonsense! The Queen had already prepared a pardon; it was just a coincidence that the timing was right!"

"Coincidence? What are the odds of that?"

"Then why do you think the Queen would cooperate with a French writer in a play?"

"Perhaps...perhaps the Queen originally wanted to grant a pardon, but needed a reason? Sorel gave her a reason?"

"So you were still outmaneuvered?"

"Who knows about politics..."

The debate remains unresolved. But one thing is certain—today will be a day that will be remembered for a long time in the history of British law, politics, and even literature.

At Buckingham Palace, the Queen looked at the various evening newspapers delivered by her secretary, John Brown, without uttering a word.

Her anger has subsided, and sober political wisdom has regained the upper hand.

She lost this round, but that doesn't mean she lost the whole war.

Lionel Sorel is now in the hands of the British judicial system. A trial will proceed, public opinion will simmer, and political forces will vie for power.

And she, Queen Victoria, remained the monarch of this empire.

Now, what she needs to figure out is how Lionel Sorel actually got to London.

Furthermore, was his appearance in court a coincidence, or was it deliberately orchestrated by someone in the cabinet?

After thinking for a while, she picked up a pen, wrote a line on a notepad, and then sealed it.

"To Prime Minister Gladstone."

John Brown bowed as he took the note and left the study.

The Queen sat alone in the deepening night, looking out the window at the lights of London.

This city, this empire, has never been black and white.

It has countless gray areas, countless calculations, compromises, and transactions.

Now, she has to try again to reclaim her power in these gray areas.

“The old lady is watching you…” she said softly. “Then keep watching.”

Her calm, watery eyes were reflected in the windowpane.

--------------

In the East District, "Wanhao Bar" has reopened.

Old Jimmy stood behind the counter, his eyes still red. The bar was packed with people, more than ever before.

Workers, vendors, apprentices, seamstresses... they were all neighbors. There were also those who had been granted amnesty and their families.

Sean Omara stood on a table, his booming voice drowning out everyone else's conversation: "Listen up! Mr. Bond—Mr. Lionel Sorel—he's in court for us! He was arrested for us!"

The bar fell silent, and everyone stared at him.

Sean Omara continued, “We were in court, looking at those men’s faces. Judges, lawyers, juries…they looked at us like we were insects on the ground.”

Then Mr. Bond arrived. He stood there and said to the gentlemen, "What I have truly stirred is the conscience of the British Empire."

Someone whistled, and others began to respond loudly.

"Then the Queen's pardon came!" Sean O'Mara's voice rose even higher. "You think it was a coincidence? No! It was forced by Mr. Bond's courage! The Queen was afraid! She had no choice but to release us!"

The crowd erupted in cheers. Glasses clattered on the table.

Old Jimmy wiped the counter and whispered to Joe Harris beside him, "We have to do something. Mr. Bond is still in jail."

Joe's wife, holding their child, her eyes still red and swollen, said, "But what can we do? We're all poor, and those men won't listen to us."

Sean Omara jumped off the table: “Poor people have their ways. We can petition, write a petition, and demand Mr. Bond’s release.”

Also, we can go to the entrance of Scotland Yard every day, so the police know we haven't forgotten.

"The police will arrest us too!"

Sean Omara slammed his fist on the table: "Then let them arrest him! Mr. Bond goes to jail for us, we'll stand guard for him for a few days, so what? I'm not afraid!"

The crowd fell silent again, exchanging bewildered glances. For these poor people, who had just recovered from their previous lawsuit, such courage was not something that could be acquired overnight.

Sean Omara's wife turned pale; she wanted to stop her husband, but didn't know how to start.

The person her husband wanted to save was the very person who had just saved them—how to handle such a complicated situation was beyond this woman's comprehension.

At this moment, an old woman stood up: "My son died last year, and it was Mr. Bond who wrote the letter for me, which is how I got this relief. He gave me my life. I'll go!"

“I’m going too,” Joe Harris said. His wife seemed about to say something, but ultimately kept quiet.

"And I."

"Count me in."

The noise grew louder and louder until everyone in the bar was shouting.

Sean Omara nodded. “Okay. Starting tomorrow, we’ll go to Scotland Yard. Every day until they release the people.”

Just as the crowd was getting angry, a voice rang out at the bar entrance: "Wait!"

Everyone turned around and saw a middle-aged man of about forty years old standing there, elegant and refined, wearing a top hat and leaning on a cane.

“Mr. Hydeman!” Joe Harris’s wife exclaimed.

Sean Omara didn't know the other person, but his wife quickly explained in his ear: "After you were sued, many people lost their jobs and were evicted from their homes by their landlords."

Mr. Hydeman gave each of our families a £10 allowance and helped us find housing. He also handled our bail and legal representation.

At this moment, Hydeman had already walked past the crowd and stood in front of Sean Omara, extending his hand: "I am Henry Miles Hydeman, a reporter."

Sean Omar quickly shook his hand: "Mr. Hydeman, thank you for your generosity..."

Henry Hydeman shook his head: "Don't thank me, thank Mr. Lionel Sorel. He's the one who provided the money; I'm just making sure it actually reaches you."

"It's Mr. Bond again!?"

"He has never forgotten us!"

This was the first time anyone had heard this news, and they were moved to tears once again.

Sean O'Mara was even more excited: "That's why we should go to Scotland Yard and rescue Mr. Bond!"

Henry Hydeman sighed: "If you really do that, you'll only harm Mr. Sorel."

Sean Omara was stunned: "What...what do you mean by that?"

Henry Hydeman looked at everyone present: "Mr. Sorel came to London to testify for you so that you wouldn't actually be sentenced because of him."

If you get arrested again, do you expect Mr. Sorel to save you again? He's in detention himself; what would he think if he knew about this?

These questions left Sean Omara speechless, and the others exchanged bewildered glances, instantly cooling the atmosphere.

After a long pause, Sean Omara finally managed to say, "But... but if we do nothing, we won't be able to sleep well at night."

Henry Hydeman smiled slightly: "Of course, it's not about doing nothing, but about doing it the right way. Struggle is not about brute force, it's about strategy."

Sean Omara stared blankly at the middle-aged man in front of him, then asked, "Then... what is the right way?"

Henry Heidemann looked around the bar and said to everyone, "Most importantly, you all need to find new jobs and new places to live as soon as possible, and get your lives back on track. This is Mr. Sorel's greatest wish."

Only if you are safe and sound can he concentrate on his struggle. As for how to rescue him—”

Henry Hydeman glanced at Sean Omara: "We need a well-thought-out plan..." Sean Omara understood, his emotions calming down, and he simply nodded heavily.

------------

In contrast, the atmosphere in the clubs in London's West End, frequented by gentlemen, is entirely different.

In the reading room of the Reform Club, several gentlemen sat in leather chairs, whiskey in front of them. No one was reading the newspapers; they were all talking.

A white-haired gentleman exclaimed indignantly: "Absurd! A Frenchman goes to a British court and becomes a hero, while our own Queen becomes a supporting character."

The person next to him shook his head: "It's not just a supporting character. The timing of her pardon and that Frenchman's appearance is too close. The Queen may really have been moved by his courage."

"Nonsense! How could His Majesty..."

“But that’s the truth,” the third person interjected. “The Manchester Guardian has already written it. Not to mention the French newspapers, the news will be all over Europe by tomorrow.”

The white-haired gentleman took a sip of his drink: "What about the Cabinet? Is Gladstone just letting things take their course?"

A young MP said, "The cabinet is probably 'happy' about this. The pressure is all on Buckingham Palace now, not 10 Downing Street."

Someone asked, "So this was a deal? The cabinet deliberately let Sorel in to embarrass His Majesty?"

The young congressman shrugged: "Who knows? That's politics."

The reading room was quiet for a while.

Then someone said, "But those civilians... they won't give up!"

The white-haired gentleman scoffed: "Commoners? What can they do? Shout a few slogans, stand in the streets for a few days, and then what? Life goes on, work goes on. They'll forget everything after a couple of days of hunger."

No one responded, and no one laughed. But everyone knew in their hearts that this time might be different.

----------

Public opinion in Paris was also ignited that evening.

The headline on the front page of Le Figaro's evening edition was: "Lionel Sorel becomes a victim of tyranny!"

The article details the court proceedings, portraying Sorel as a hero who sacrificed himself as an ordinary citizen, and depicting the British government as an autocratic tyranny.

An article in The Aurora mocked the timing of the Queen's pardon, calling it "a monarchy's panic in the face of true courage."

Le Parisien devoted four full pages to reviewing all of Sorel's works, calling him "the conscience of France," and "conscience" is precisely what Britain is lacking now.

Everyone was talking about it, whether in the streets, alleys, or cafes.

"Have you heard? Mr. Sorel has been arrested by the British!"

"To save the civilians!"

"The British are so barbaric!"

"The government should send troops to rescue them!"

The more radical ones are already shouting: "Protest at the British Embassy!"

But many more are worried: "Will Mr. Sorel be sentenced?"

"The British are capable of anything."

Victor Hugo also received the news at his home at 130 Victor Hugo Boulevard.

He was eighty years old, and his eyesight was very poor, but his mind was still clear. His scribe was reading the message to him, and after listening, he remained silent for a long time.

Then Hugo said, "Bring me paper and pen."

"Sir, what do you want to write?"

Hugo stood up: “Write a letter to all the writers in Europe. Lionel Sorel is not just a French writer, he is a European writer.”

His courage is the courage of everyone. His predicament is the predicament of everyone.

The scribe brought paper and pen, and Hugo dictated the words, which Hugo then wrote down.

"To all my colleagues in Europe..."

The letter was short, but every word was powerful. Hugo called on all writers—British, German, Italian, and Spanish—to speak out for Sorel and demand that the British government release him.

This is the courage to defend the freedom of writing, and also to defend one's conscience.

The letter was written, and Hugo signed it: "Make several copies and send them out. Send them to every newspaper you can think of, and to every writer whose address you know."

"Yes, sir."

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Saint Petersburg, Winter Palace.

The firewood crackled in the fireplace as Alexander III sat behind his desk, toying with a silver-inlaid letter opener in his hand.

General Vykovsky of the Third Department was reporting to him: "If you ask me, this is their own fault. Sorel wrote '1984' and criticized Britain so much, and now that they've fallen into British hands, they're bound to suffer."

Alexander III was silent for a moment, then said, "Vykovsky."

"His Majesty?"

"Tell Alexei Borisovich to draft a formal diplomatic note in my name and send it to the British government."

The Russian Empire hoped that the British government would respect the writer's creative freedom and, based on humanitarian principles, release Lionel Sorel so that he could return safely to France.

Vikowski's mouth dropped open; he wondered if he had misheard. "Your Majesty...you mean...we're going to speak up for that French writer?"

"Was I not clear enough?"

“But…but before…1984…wasn’t it…” Vikowski stammered, unable to speak properly.

Alexander III stood up, walked to the fireplace, and reached out to warm his hands by the fire.

"Vykovsky, how long have you been in the Third Hall?"

"It has been eleven years, Your Majesty."

"Eleven years later, all you know is how to arrest people, not how to handle politics."

Vikowski broke out in a cold sweat: "Your Majesty, I was acting according to..."

Alexander III interrupted him: "I know you are acting on my orders, but the situation has changed now."

For the first time, Britain has become the weaker party in European public opinion; we cannot let this opportunity slip by!

"But... 1984 is still banned in our country..."

"Domestic affairs are domestic affairs, and foreign affairs are foreign affairs. Domestic affairs must be strictly controlled to prevent people from becoming complacent. These two things are not contradictory."

Vikowski then realized that this was not for Sorel's sake, nor was it because the Tsar had suddenly become interested in literature; it was a move in an international power struggle.

He lowered his head: "Your Majesty is wise. I will go to the Foreign Minister now."

“Wait,” Alexander III called after him again. “After the note is issued, let our newspapers also adjust their direction. Do not publicly praise Sorel, but you can report on Russia’s diplomatic position and emphasize our ‘concern’ for the writer’s situation.”

The wording needs to be subtle; we can't let people think we're encouraging domestic writers to emulate Sorel and write something like "1984."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Furthermore, the work of the Third Bureau cannot be relaxed. As long as the handwritten copies of '1984' are still circulating, we must continue to investigate and arrest people. What is said abroad is one thing, but we must not let things get chaotic domestically."

"clear."

Vikowski then bowed and left the study. The door closed.

Alexander III sat alone, picking up the letter opener and playing with it again.

The blade was very sharp, and he could easily cut his finger if he wasn't careful, but he wasn't afraid.

He recalled a line from 1984: "Old Lady is watching you."

Now, all of Europe is watching Britain, both to see how it makes a fool of itself and how it handles the situation.

And he, Alexander III, wanted to show Europe the Russian Empire, to show the new Tsar the heavy blow he would deliver to the old Queen!
(Just one update today, goodnight!)
(End of this chapter)