Under the slanting sunlight, Notre Dame de Paris cast a colossal shadow over the city.
In the Archbishop's luxurious yet musty reception room, Gabriel Marrel sat on a hard, high-backed chair carved with intricate patterns, feeling his rear end aching.
"Damn it, when will Gibert replace these stupid, clunky chairs? Gigot's sofa is so much more comfortable!"
The strong scent of frankincense and myrrh in the air made him a little dizzy, but he could only complain silently.
Finally, the side door slid open silently, and Bishop Gibert walked in slowly, his face bearing an expression mingled with compassion and solemn dignity.
His purple everyday cassock was impeccable, and the golden cross on his chest gleamed with a cold light.
He looked down at Gabriel from above.
"Monsieur Marrel!"
The Bishop's voice was low and weary, as if he were utterly exhausted from caring for the souls of Parisians:
"To see you at such a time is truly… complicated."
Gabriel immediately stood up, his face filled with utmost reverence and just the right amount of apprehension, and bowed slightly:
"Your Grace, I am truly sorry.
As a devout believer, and as a publisher who deeply feels his responsibilities, I believe it necessary to personally explain and clarify some potential… misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings?"
Bishop Gibert slowly walked to the huge oak desk, sat down elegantly, placed his fingertips together to form a steeple shape, and a mocking curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Monsieur Marrel, when countless souls are being lured and corrupted by the words in The Decadent City, you tell me this is just a 'misunderstanding'?"
Gabriel maintained a sincere expression:
"Your Grace, please understand!
I absolutely did not intend that…"
He then proceeded to explain the difference between the "two versions" of The Decadent City.
Finally, he indignantly added:
"That pamphlet, as I told Chief Gigot, absolutely did not come from The Clamor Gazette!
This is a shameless forgery and slander!
It is the work of some underground workshops envious of The Decadent City's literary value!
What we published is a naturalistic work of profound social critical significance, rigorously reviewed and with inappropriate content removed!
The copyright registration with the Bureau of Books and Libraries is the best proof of this!"
"Proof?"
Bishop Gibert let out a scoff:
"Gabriel, we are all adults, why play these word games?
You and I both know what readers are madly pursuing!
The infinite space for imagination in those blanks!
Those deleted details, even without the pamphlet, can be completed in everyone's mind!
Even without that pamphlet, The Decadent City is a novel destined for hell!"
Gabriel frowned.
The reason Bishop Gibert was more difficult to deal with than Chief Gigot was that he didn't need to get tangled in legal details; he could directly attack the work's moral attributes.
"Your Grace,"
Gabriel took a deep breath:
"I understand your concerns, fully!
As a father myself, I also worry about the influence of undesirable reading material on young people.
It is precisely for this reason that we made the maximum possible deletions.
But you know, literary creation… it needs to reflect certain social realities, even the darker aspects… just as Monsieur Zola's works once caused controversy, but were ultimately proven for their value…"
Bishop Gibert sharply interrupted him:
"Don't mention Zola!
His so-called 'scientific naturalism' is, in itself, a blasphemy against God's created order!"
A brief silence fell in the room.
Gabriel knew that pure defense and literary discussion were now useless; he had to play his real hand.
Gabriel's voice dropped even lower, carrying a tone of heartfelt candor:
"So, what do you think… how can this storm be appeased?
I am willing to do everything I can to cooperate with the Church… to purify Paris's reading atmosphere."
Bishop Gibert leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the smooth tabletop.
His voice also returned to its former calm:
"Appease the storm?
The source, Monsieur Marrel, the key lies with the source.
That true devil, hidden behind the ridiculous pen name 'An Honest Parisian'!
The culprit who blasphemes God and poisons souls with his words!
As long as he exists, similar poisonous weeds will continuously proliferate!
Tell me, who is he?
Where is he?
Deliver him to secular law… and divine judgment!"
"Alas!"
Gabriel sighed heavily, his face filled with helplessness and distress.
"Your Grace, this is precisely what grieves me most!
'An Honest Parisian' is as cunning as an eel; he only submits manuscripts via anonymous postbox, and accepts payment only in cash, money orders, and bearer checks.
I have never seen his true face!
He is like… like a ghost in the sewers of Paris, leaving behind only these words."
As Gabriel spoke, he spread his hands, his expression full of vexation:
"I swear to you, if I knew who he was, for the purity of Parisian souls and to appease your anger, I would absolutely not protect him!"
Bishop Gibert let out an ambiguous chuckle:
"A ghost?
Heh heh…
I hope that when the envoy from the Holy See arrives in Paris, your eloquent words will also convince him."
Gabriel's scalp tingled; he knew he had miscalculated.
The reason he dared to openly publish the abridged version of The Decadent City was, on one hand, due to France's increasingly lenient cultural environment after 1871.
Although Flaubert, Zola, and the Impressionist painter Édouard Manet had successively been accused of corrupting morals, ultimately, no artist was brought to court for it.
On the other hand, it was due to the significant weakening of the Holy See's authority, to the point where even the Papal States had been completely lost, let alone intervening in the politics of various countries.
From Gibert's words, it seemed he didn't care if he would be arrested and jailed by the Parisian police; rather, he had a grander plan that could easily crush Gabriel.
Gabriel straightened his back, his tone becoming serious:
"Your Grace, I have deeply reflected! Although we strictly carried out content review, and although that supplementary pamphlet is an illegal forgery— it is undeniable that the popularity of The Decadent City has, objectively… perhaps sparked some undesirable discussions and attention.
As a responsible publisher and a devout believer, I am deeply troubled and willing to make amends with concrete actions!"
Bishop Gibert was expressionless, only his fingers, lightly tapping the tabletop, stopped.
"Monsieur Marrel, it is good that you recognize your responsibility and have a heart for repentance and atonement.
This shows that you still retain some awe in your heart, and your conscience has not yet been completely extinguished."
Half an hour later, in Bishop Gibert's office
"May the Lord forgive your transgressions and guide your future path, Monsieur Marrel."
Bishop Gibert stood up, a saintly smile on his face, and raised his well-maintained hand, adorned with a ring symbolizing authority, towards Gabriel.
Gabriel quickly bowed, respectfully took the fleshy hand, and kissed the ring:
"It is my honor to serve you and the cause of the Parisian Benevolent Book Association!"
Watching Gabriel's figure disappear at the door, Bishop Gibert disdainfully curled his lip:
"Fox!"
And as Gabriel walked out of Notre Dame, breathing in the Parisian street air, smelling of horse manure and soot once more, he spat fiercely:
"Viper!"
As agreed, this week he was to sponsor the Parisian Benevolent Book Association with 10,000 francs!
Bishop Gibert accepting this "atonement money" would temporarily close the door on the Church pushing for severe accountability.
As for Chief Gigot, without the Bishop's continued strong pressure, and with an additional 5,000 francs contributed by Gabriel, he would also ease up on the investigation.
Currently, The Decadent City brought in at least 5,000 francs daily, nearly half of which was profit, and this figure was still rising as The Decadent City spread beyond Paris.
Just one week, one week would be enough to make up for the donations he gave to Gigot and Gibert.
He got into his carriage and leaned back wearily in the seat.
"Master, where are we going?" the coachman asked.
Gabriel did not answer the question, but leaned halfway out the carriage window and turned his head back:
"Pierre, you said you only saw that shabby young man at the post office entrance on Boulevard Saint-Martin, and no one else?"
"Yes, Master,"
A tall, thin man replied humbly and assuredly from the designated standing area for servants at the back of the carriage.
"Hmm, I see,"
Gabriel retracted.
"To the newspaper office.
I need to write another letter to Monsieur 'An Honest Parisian'."
(End of Chapter)
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