At ten in the morning, despite his low spirits, Lionel tidied himself up and once again took a carriage to the district where the Nineteenth Century editorial office was located.
The difference was, this time he had agreed on the price beforehand.
The editorial office was situated in a rather respectable-looking Georgian-style building near Fleet Street.
Unlike the noisy and dirty world outside, the interior of the building was quiet and orderly.
Thick doors, sealed windows, and ubiquitous incense made the air inside sweet, muggy, and stuffy.
Harold Thompson, a burly man with a thick beard, was quite enthusiastic:
"Dear Lionel! Welcome to London! I hope your journey was smooth?"
Thompson vigorously shook Lionel's hand, speaking French even more fluently than in his letter.
Lionel forced a smile:
"Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Everything is fine, except the air takes a bit of getting used to."
Thompson laughed heartily upon hearing this:
"Ah, yes, our 'pea-souper' (London fog) is famous! But it also nurtures our unique spirit, doesn't it?"
Lionel: "..."
Is this pride born from the stench, an affection for the foulness?
After the pleasantries, Thompson eagerly led Lionel to the nearby Savile Club.
This club was known for its members predominantly from the literary, artistic, and academic fields, making it slightly more "modern" and "artistic" than the traditional political and military clubs.
The club's interior decoration was typically English gentleman style: dark wood paneling, heavy leather sofas, walls lined with books and portraits.
The air was filled with the scent of cigars, old books, and shoe polish.
Thompson introduced Lionel to several members present, including a renowned historian, a poet, and the editor of the Fortnightly Review.
Everyone offered him a polite welcome.
The conversation was mainly in English, occasionally interspersed with French.
Although Lionel's spoken English was fluent, his pronunciation carried an American accent, quite different from "Queen's English" or "Oxford accent."
While the gentlemen praised his language ability, some couldn't help but say:
"Your pronunciation... is quite unique, seemingly with a touch of transatlantic... buoyancy. Did you study in America?"
This small interlude didn't overly affect the atmosphere, but it did make Lionel feel the subtle superiority of the British elite.
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The lunch provided at the Savile Club was distinctly British—the main courses were roast lamb chops, bacon, black pudding, and fried ox kidneys, accompanied by creamed mushrooms and mashed potatoes, with buttered white bread rolls and marmalade toast as staples.
The focus was on generous portions, rich in oil and meat.
After lunch and a short rest, Thompson took Lionel to the editorial office of Good Words magazine.
Dr. Norman Macleod, the editor-in-chief of Good Words, was a kind elderly gentleman, dressed in a clergyman's robe, with gentle eyes.
Upon meeting, Dr. Macleod warmly praised My Old Home and My Uncle Jules:
"Mr. Sorel, the melancholy for lost times and the depiction of the 'thick wall' between people in My Old Home deeply moved me.
My Uncle Jules, on the other hand, is so sharp yet so compassionate; the questions it raises are worth deep reflection for all of us."
Next, the two parties entered into substantive discussions.
Dr. Macleod was indeed interested in reprinting these two works in Good Words and inquired about the possibility of serializing The Misadventures of Benjamin Button.
When discussing fees, Dr. Macleod's offer was:
"Considering these are reprints and not first publications, we are willing to pay £6 per thousand words for My Old Home and My Uncle Jules.
For the serialization of The Misadventures of Benjamin Button, if the reception is good, we can refer to similar standards."
Lionel quickly calculated in his mind.
£6 was roughly equivalent to 150 francs; a thousand words, converted to French standard lines, would be about 80 to 90 lines.
This meant the fee per line exceeded 1.5 francs—even slightly higher than his initial publication fees in France!
No wonder Monsieur Zola had mentioned more than once that for a writer to get rich, they must conquer Britain and Russia!
The generosity of the British market was well-deserved!
Lionel didn't hesitate much; after a brief negotiation, he agreed:
"Thank you very much for your generosity, Dr. Macleod!"
Dr. Macleod was delighted and then added:
"Mr. Sorel, if you have works written directly in English in the future, and are willing to 'premiere' them in Good Words... we can offer more competitive prices, £8 per thousand words or even higher, are negotiable."
This proposal stirred something in Lionel's heart.
Writing directly in English, bypassing the translation process, would not only earn him higher fees but also allow him to directly enter the English market.
This was currently the largest reader market in the world, without equal.
Lionel nodded:
"I will consider it—like Monsieur Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days?"
They all chuckled.
Jules Verne was French, but the protagonist of Around the World in Eighty Days was British.
Although the novel was not "tailor-made" for the British market and was full of stereotypes about "British gentlemen," it was still extremely popular in Britain.
The English translation of Around the World in Eighty Days was only two months later than the French version, and in less than a year, the Princess's Theatre in London premiered an adaptation.
This play featured numerous stage spectacles, simulating scenes like "steamboats," "trains," "Indian temples," "American railways," and "blizzards," not only causing a sensation in London but also touring Manchester, Liverpool, and Edinburgh.
It ran for over 200 performances, setting a record for British stage plays at the time.
If Lionel could create such an "English novel," Dr. Norman Macleod would certainly not mind raising the price to £10 per thousand words.
After an afternoon of discussion and a three-tiered afternoon tea of scones, assorted cakes, and Manchester tarts, Lionel shook hands with Dr. Macleod and bid farewell.
Leaving the Good Words editorial office, he felt that the main purpose of his trip had not only been successfully accomplished but had even exceeded his expectations.
------
Declining Harold Thompson's invitation to stay and enjoy Britain for a few days, Lionel returned early to the Bedford Hotel.
He now only wanted to escape the foul-smelling London as soon as possible and return to a less foul-smelling Paris.
But perhaps due to travel fatigue, or London's poor air and water quality, or the humid and changeable climate...
The evening he returned from the Good Words editorial office, he felt a dry, sore throat, intermittent chills, and a dull headache.
Lionel initially didn't pay much attention, thinking he was just tired.
He drank some hot water provided by the hotel and went to bed early.
But when he woke up the next day, the situation took a sharp turn for the worse.
He felt a splitting headache, aching muscles all over, and shivered uncontrollably; even wrapping himself in thick blankets was no help.
He tried his forehead; it was burning hot.
He struggled to get up, rang the bell for the hotel's valet, and in a weak voice, asked them to quickly find Mr. Thompson, the editor-in-chief of Nineteenth Century.
As soon as he finished speaking, Lionel fainted...
(End of this chapter)
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