1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Dickens stared at Michelle's calm face for a few seconds, then burst into laughter.

"Good! Well said!"

"That's right! Let's go now! I want that bastard Bentley to see for himself what a genius the author of Sherlock Holmes is!"

Dickens quickly grabbed his coat and hat, and pulled Michelle out.

The way they were acting didn't look like they were going to negotiate; it looked more like they were going to fight.

"Charles, slow down!" Catherine called out helplessly from behind.

"understood."

The two boarded Dickens's carriage and sped off toward Fleet Street.

On the way, Dickens kept criticizing Bentley.

"That guy, all he thinks about is pounds. He hired me as editor-in-chief only because my books can make him money. Making money is one thing, but he always wants to control what I write and how I write it—it's utterly unreasonable!"

Michelle listened quietly, forming a general impression of the publisher she was about to meet.

Simply put, they are money-grubbing and have a strong desire for control.

The carriage stopped in front of a three-story building with a sign that read "Bentley's Notebooks".

Unlike the warm atmosphere of Dickens's house, the hurried employees and mountains of paper here exude a cold and efficient business environment.

Dickens was clearly a regular here; he led Michelle without any trouble to an office on the second floor.

"Please come in."

A slightly overweight middle-aged man with slicked-back hair was sitting behind a large desk, engrossed in processing documents.

He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and looked exceptionally shrewd.

He looked up, saw it was Dickens, and a smile appeared on his face.

This man was Richard Bentley, a wealthy publisher and owner of "The Bentley Notebooks".

"Oh, Charles, my great writer, it's you."

Bentley's gaze then fell on Michelle, who stood to the side, his eyes seeming to assess her worth.

"This must be Mr. Michel."

In his opinion, the young writer was tall, with brown hair, a handsome face, and a faint smile. Frankly, he was more suited to be an actor than a writer.

"Richard, I'm here about the royalties. This is Mr. Michel Leblanc, author of *A Study in Scarlet*."

Dickens cut to the chase, stating his demands in a tone tinged with anger.

Richard Bentley ignored Dickens's anger. He slowly took off his glasses, wiped them with a velvet cloth, and then spoke unhurriedly.

"Charles, we're partners. You should know that I always value rules and returns in business."

He turned his gaze back to Michelle, his eyes so sharp they seemed to pierce through one's soul.

"Mr. Michel, I admire your talent; *A Study in Scarlet* is indeed a good story. But..."

Bentley leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his stomach, striking a haughty pose.

"A newcomer asking for the highest fee in all of London for his second book. Young man, aren't you being a bit too ambitious?"

His tone was full of arrogance, as if to say, "You're worth this much."

"Richard...you..."

Just as Dickens was about to erupt, Michel stopped him with a smile and spoke.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bentley."

He first offered a polite greeting, and then slowly posed a question: "Let's not talk about royalties for now. I'm quite curious about something, and I wonder if I can get an answer to it."

Bentley raised his eyebrows, signaling him to continue.

"I would like to ask, what is your estimated sales figure for the January issue of 'The Bentley Notebooks'?"

Bentley was somewhat surprised by the question; he hadn't expected the young man to ask it. He thought for a moment, then held up five thick fingers.

"About four or five thousand copies. If the market response is good, we might be able to reprint it once, but five or six thousand copies at most." He said this number with considerable confidence.

In 1837 London, it was a remarkable achievement for a newly founded literary magazine to sell 5,000 copies in its first issue. This was thanks to the powerful combination of bestselling author Charles Dickens and renowned illustrator Crookshank, as well as excellent promotion by GG, which was precisely Bentley's confidence.

"Five thousand copies..." Michelle repeated the number, her smile widening.

"Yes, five thousand copies," Bentley answered affirmatively.

"Well then, Mr. Bentley, how about we make a bet?" Michelle's voice was clear and forceful.

"A bet?" Bentley asked as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Yes, I bet."

Michelle nodded, looking directly at Bentley: "Let's bet on the January sales of Bentley's Journal."

"If the final sales of the January issue of 'A Study in Scarlet' do not reach 10,000 copies after its publication, then I will not take a single penny of the payment for this novel. Consider it my inaugural gift to the magazine."

As soon as he finished speaking, Dickens gasped and grabbed Michel's arm.

"Michelle! You're insane!" he whispered in Michelle's ear.

Ten thousand copies! That's simply a pipe dream, a pipe dream!

Even Dickens' most popular novel, *The Pickwick Papers*, only achieved this level of sales after being serialized in several installments and gaining widespread acclaim. The first installment of *The Pickwick Papers* sold a mere four hundred copies!

Bentley was also taken aback by Michel's bold words. He looked at Michel and re-examined the arrogant young man in front of him.

Free royalties? Is there really such a good thing in the world?

Is this young man crazy? What gives him such confidence?

"Charles, I'm confident."

Ignoring Dickens's objections, Michel replied in a low voice and continued to state his conditions to Bentley.

He suddenly changed the subject, revealing his sharp and assertive demeanor.

"If sales exceed ten thousand copies, then my royalties will be doubled from the highest standard you promised to Mr. Dickens."

"Forty-odd Indians per sheet!"

The entire office fell into a deathly silence.

Forty-odd Nepalese printing sheets!

The moment the number was announced, Bentley's breath caught in his throat for a brief moment.

This isn't just payment for a manuscript, this is outrageous! No one in London, no, in the whole of Britain, has ever seen such an exorbitant fee!

Dickens was stunned. He stared at Michelle with his mouth agape, an expression of disbelief on his face, as if he were seeing his friend all over again.

Bentley's obese face showed a constantly shifting expression.

He was a typical businessman, and his first reaction upon hearing about the bet was to calculate the risks and rewards.

This bet carries almost zero risk, while offering extremely high potential returns.

If the sales volume is less than 10,000 copies, he will have a novel endorsed by Dickens for free, saving him the royalties of a dozen or so copies per print.

If sales actually exceed 10,000 copies, the profits from the extra 5,000 copies would far exceed this astronomical royalties.

No matter how you calculate it, he's guaranteed to make a profit!

Why not take advantage of a business that guarantees profit?

Thinking this, Bentley's face revealed a confident smile, as if he had already gotten Michelle's manuscript for free.

"Young man, I admire your courage."

He stood up from his chair and extended his hand to Michelle: "I accept your bet. I wish us a pleasant collaboration."

Michelle smiled and took his outstretched hand.

Subsequently, the two parties simply signed a contract, stipulating the stakes.

As the contract was being signed and he was about to leave, Michelle suddenly turned around, as if she had remembered something, and asked a question casually.

"Mr. Bentley, to ensure the fairness of the bet, the sales figures should be jointly monitored by both of us, right? Also, shouldn't 'A Study in Scarlet' receive the treatment it deserves?"

Bentley's smile froze; he instinctively sensed something was wrong.

But he couldn't find any reason to refuse, so he could only nod: "Of course there won't be a problem."

Alright, with Dickens as the editor-in-chief keeping an eye on things, Bentley is unlikely to pull off any crazy moves.

Michelle wasn't worried that Bentley would do anything foolish. After all, he could tell that Bentley was a pure businessman; he wouldn't do anything that harmed others or himself.

Even if he pays an exorbitant fee, he will only earn more. It's a win-win situation.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the magazine office and was hit by the cold London afternoon wind that Dickens finally recovered from his immense shock.

He grasped Michelle's hand tightly, his expression full of worry.

"Michelle, you're being too impulsive. How could you make such a bet? Ten thousand copies! Do you know what that means? If you lose, you'll get nothing."

Seeing Dickens's expression, Michelle knew he was genuinely worried about her.

He stopped, turned around, and looked at the great writer who genuinely cared about him. There was no panic on his face; instead, he revealed a mysterious smile.

"Charles, do you think a good detective would fight a battle without being fully prepared?"

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