Lionel returned to his apartment desk, holding the thick package from England.
Outside, the clamor of Paris continued, but the letter in his hand connected him to another world.
He opened the package to find several latest issues of The Nineteenth Century magazine, along with a letter.
The sender's name on the envelope was none other than Harold Thompson, editor-in-chief of The Nineteenth Century.
He had written in fluent, elegant French:
[Dear Mr. Sorel,
Please allow me, on behalf of the editorial department of The Nineteenth Century, to extend our sincere greetings and profound admiration.
Your short story, My Uncle Jules, which you graciously permitted us to publish, has generated an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response among our readers in this country, far exceeding our expectations.
Your refined prose, profound social insights, and subtle portrayal of human nature have earned the praise of numerous intellectuals, including Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Arnold.
However, the more significant purpose of this letter concerns the article you published in our August issue's 'Modern Symposium' column—Family Bonds and Individual Responsibility.
Mr. Sorel, I must frankly admit that the argument you put forth in the article—
that in the irreversible process of industrialization and urbanization, the traditional model of 'unlimited' family responsibility, based on land economy and close communal living, is disintegrating, while a new modern family ethic, based on contractual spirit and 'limited' mutual assistance, has not yet been fully established, and that this is the root cause of many social tragedies—
has sparked extremely widespread and serious discussion among the readers of The Nineteenth Century, prompting people to move beyond simple moral criticism and consider the underlying social dilemmas.
On behalf of the Savile Club in London and a number of devoted readers, I extend our most sincere invitation to you: we hope you can find time to visit London in the near future.
Furthermore, the esteemed Mr. Norman Macleod, editor of Good Words, is extremely interested in reprinting My Old Home, My Uncle Jules, and serializing the English translation of The Odd Adventures of Benjamin Button in Good Words, and looks forward to discussing this with you in person.
We believe your presence would be a highlight of the London literary season. We await your good news.]
Lionel put down the letter and pondered for a moment.
Clubs in London were akin to salons in France, though with a stronger elite and male-dominated character.
He wasn't particularly interested in that; after all, in the three months before the end of London's spring/summer social season, he had attended at least two salons a week and was already suffering from 'aesthetic fatigue'.
What most attracted Lionel was the potential collaboration with Good Words.
As a literary journal that had serialized works by authors like Thomas Hardy and George MacDonald, Good Words also had considerable influence in France.
Moreover, British manuscript fees were higher than those in France; Hardy, for example, could command a high price of '10 pounds per thousand words' (10 pounds being approximately 250 francs).
Now, with such an opportunity presenting itself, how could he possibly miss it?
————
The next day, Lionel first sent a reply to Harold Thompson, thanking him for the invitation and informing him that he would be able to travel to London tomorrow.
Then Lionel went to the bank to exchange for enough pounds—a stack of banknotes of different denominations, and a small pouch of copper and silver coins.
Next, he needed to arrange for Alice and Patty's whereabouts.
Paris's stench persisted, and he truly couldn't rest assured allowing the two of them to return to the apartment on Rue Laffitte.
So he wrote a short note to Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting that the two ladies be allowed to stay a few more days.
He then hired a carriage and headed to 'Gare du Nord' (Paris North Station), where he bought a 'through ticket' at the ticket window for travel to 'Charing Cross Station' in London the following day.
It was a stiff cardboard ticket, clearly printed with the route: Paris—Calais Port—Dover—London.
This was a very well-established commercial route; the fastest journey could be completed on the same day, making it even more convenient than returning to Montiel.
Like Paris, London offered everything one could buy with money, so no special preparations were needed.
————
The next morning, at dawn.
Lionel, carrying a light leather suitcase, took a hired carriage to Gare du Nord.
Inside the suitcase, besides essential clothes and toiletries, were a notebook, a fountain pen, ink, and a few copies of Modern Life, for unforeseen needs.
In the North Station hall, steam locomotives puffed thick white plumes of smoke, train whistles blew one after another, mingling with the shouts of conductors, the clamor of passengers, and the footsteps of porters.
The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke.
He handed his leather suitcase to a uniformed porter, watching it get tagged and sent to the luggage car, while he himself, carrying only his small satchel, boarded the train.
As the journey wasn't long, Lionel chose a second-class carriage this time instead of first-class, with the ticket costing 60 francs.
Second-class carriages also had partitioned compartments, each with two opposing wooden cushioned benches, but seating eight people.
While not as spacious or luxurious as first-class, it was considerably more comfortable than the crowded, noisy third-class carriages, which often lacked even a roof.
Sharing Lionel's compartment were a silent British businessman, a French mother with her child, and an elderly gentleman who appeared to be a scholar.
At half past seven in the morning, the whistle gave a long blast, and the train slowly pulled out of Gare du Nord precisely on time.
The streetscapes of Paris gradually receded, replaced by low-rise suburban houses, scattered small factories, and fields.
The train gathered speed, its wheels rhythmically clattering against the tracks, emitting a monotonous and hypnotic 'clack-clack' sound.
Lionel gazed out at the fleeting scenery of the northern French countryside: flat fields, lush beet fields, red brick houses, pointed church spires…
Quite different from the landscapes of Southern France or the Alps, it was tranquil, yet slightly monotonous.
En route, the conductor checked tickets and distributed white cardboard cards—customs declaration forms.
Lionel had only brought personal items and manuscripts, so he quickly completed his declaration.
He even had time to help the French mother fill out her customs form.
About three hours later, a faint salty, briny smell became discernible in the air.
Outside the window, the land grew flatter, with occasional wide estuaries and mudflats visible.
The train began to slow down; Calais Port had arrived.
If one was going to Dover, it was time to retrieve the prepared boat ticket.
Calais station was bustling. Lionel followed the signs and the crowds and soon arrived at the quay.
A paddle steamer with a black funnel and white hull was docked at the berth, its name, 'Invincible', written on its side.
Passengers queued to board with their tickets; Lionel went onto the deck and found a sheltered spot to stand.
With a blast of the whistle, the steamer slowly pulled away from the French coast.
Soon, the continent became a hazy line, eventually disappearing from view.
All around him, only the grey-green, undulating sea remained.
About two hours later, through a grey sea mist, a white cliff gradually appeared—the White Cliffs of Dover—England had arrived.
Stepping onto the solid ground of Dover's pier, Lionel felt a 'foreign charm' utterly different from Jersey.
British customs here were strict, so the queue moved slowly; customs officers meticulously checked passports, inquired about itineraries, and randomly inspected luggage.
However, Lionel's French passport and declaration form encountered no trouble, and he was quickly granted entry.
Immediately after, he boarded the 'boat train' according to the road signs.
British train carriages differed slightly from French ones, being open corridor-style carriages where passengers could move freely.
The conversations of passengers around him also shifted from French to English—Lionel was a little unaccustomed to it at first, but gradually got used to it.
The train soon started, embarking on a picturesque journey through Kent.
The English countryside differed again from northern France: more grasslands, denser hedgerows, and cattle and sheep grazing idly on neatly trimmed pastures.
Houses in the villages were mostly of stone or half-timbered construction, appearing more rustic and verdant, almost reminiscent of Montiel.
However, the weather gradually grew overcast along the way, with fine rain occasionally tapping against the train windows.
Over an hour later, continuous suburban houses began to appear outside the window, streets became denser, chimneys multiplied, and the smell of coal smoke in the air intensified.
Finally, the train slowly pulled to a stop at London's 'Charing Cross Station'.
Lionel checked his pocket watch; the total journey from Gare du Nord had taken about nine and a half hours.
Though tired, the trip had been smooth.
After retrieving his suitcase, he followed the flow of people out of the station hall, truly stepping onto London soil.
Immediately, he was hit hard, as if by two physical blows, by the overpowering stench that greeted him.
Lionel's vision went black, and he nearly fainted: How could there be a city in this world twice as stinky as Paris!
(End of Chapter)
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