The autumn chill was growing in October Paris.
After the commotion on the first day of school, Sophia still came to the Sorbonne as an "auditor," but she was clearly much more low-key and no longer troubled Lionel.
This allowed him to concentrate on writing the script for The Chorus, and his collaboration with Debussy matured day by day.
Surprisingly, under Debussy's intermittent guidance, Patty was actually able to play some smooth tunes.
Although the melodies were simple, they were enough to bring some life to the somewhat empty apartment, which only housed two people.
Just as Lionel arrived home that day, he received a letter from Georges Charpentier:
[Dear Léon,
First, I have some truly wonderful news to report! Soirées de Médan has been fully printed and bound, and will officially arrive in major bookstores across France and even Europe on the 20th of this month, which is in 10 days!
I swear to the Virgin Mary, the binding of this book is exquisitely beautiful and absolutely worthy of your painstaking efforts!
It is sure to become this autumn's hottest collection of short stories!]
Reading this, Lionel sighed,
"Maupassant finally finished that damned Boule de Suif."
[Attached is the royalty statement for the first edition. Please review it.
Should I mail it to you, or would you prefer to pick it up at my office while enjoying a glass of port when you have a moment?
I've just acquired a fine bottle of '85 Oporto...]
Lionel skipped over the excited descriptions of wine and profits, his gaze falling on the final paragraph regarding the promotional plan.
At this, he frowned.
Georges Charpentier mentioned that advertisements had already been placed in La Vie Moderne and Le Petit Parisien.
Then, nothing more...
That's it?
Lionel was somewhat speechless.
What was Soirées de Médan?
It was a collection by Zola, Maupassant, Huysmans, Céard, Alexis, Hennique, and himself, Lionel Sorel!
It was the first time "Naturalism" was presented with such a uniform and powerful lineup!
It was a collection that included masterpieces destined for literary history, such as Boule de Suif, The Attack on the Mill, and Father Milon!
Georges Charpentier was simply too... conservative and traditional this time.
It was like begging with a gold mine right beside him!
Lionel put down the letter, immediately rose, walked to his desk, spread out a sheet of paper, picked up his quill, and swiftly began writing a letter to Charpentier.
He intended for book sales in Europe to enter a new era, starting with Soirées de Médan!
------
October 21st, early morning, the day after Soirées de Médan was released.
A faint mist hung over the Seine, but "Charpentier's Bookshelf" had long since awakened.
Overnight, a long table draped in dark green velvet had been set up outside the bookstore, with seven high-backed chairs neatly arranged behind it.
Behind the long table was the bookstore's magnificent display window, artfully showcasing the brand-new copies of Soirées de Médan—
Its deep blue cover, embossed with golden title and author names, sparkled under the gaslights.
Georges Charpentier, wearing his most expensive suit and with a watch chain pinned to his chest, nervously yet excitedly directed the staff in making the final preparations.
Upstairs on the second floor of the bookstore, in the living room used for salons, the "Médan Seven" were gathered.
Apart from Lionel, the other six all seemed more or less nervous and uneasy.
Maupassant incessantly adjusted his cravat, checking his reflection repeatedly in the windowpane:
"God, I feel like a burlesque actor making his debut. Will they throw rotten tomatoes at us?"
Huysmans, pale-faced, muttered,
"I'd rather go back to facing those damned documents at the Ministry of Interior... This is far more terrifying."
Even the usually composed Zola couldn't help but occasionally rub the pipe in his hand, his tone full of doubt:
"Will this really work? Will readers really queue up early in the morning just for an autograph?"
Only Lionel sat calmly in a corner, flipping through a sample copy of the book from the store.
He was at ease, as if he were about to attend an ordinary afternoon tea party rather than a cultural event that might make history.
Céard asked curiously,
"Léon, you don't seem worried at all?"
Lionel closed the book and smiled slightly:
"Worried about what? We've written works worth reading, and readers are willing to come and meet the people who wrote these stories. It's the most natural thing in the world. Relax, gentlemen, just enjoy the process."
His words somewhat calmed their agitated spirits.
However, when Georges Charpentier ran upstairs, breathless, announcing that the queue outside the door had already stretched around two street corners and was still growing, the air in the lounge solidified once more.
Alexis stammered,
"H-how many people?"
Georges Charpentier's face was filled with shock and excitement:
"Countless, a sea of people! The police even had to come to maintain order!"
At this moment, Zola, Maupassant, Huysmans... expressions of disbelief appeared on everyone's faces.
They had anticipated people coming, but never imagined such a... grand scene.
In the past, there were only private gift book signings and inscriptions at salon events; there was simply no popular book signing event like today's.
Lionel's smile remained unhurried:
"It seems our readers are far more enthusiastic than we imagined."
----
At exactly ten o'clock in the morning, the heavy oak doors of "Charpentier's Bookshelf" bookstore slowly opened.
As the "Médan Seven," guided by Georges Charpentier, stepped out of the bookstore and took their places behind the long, green velvet-draped table, a thunderous roar of cheers and applause instantly enveloped them.
The sight before them moved even Lionel, who was the most psychologically prepared, let alone the other 19th-century writers.
Along the avenue, a long, winding line of people stretched as far as the eye could see.
Men and women, young and old, dressed in various attires—gentlemen in respectable coats, ladies with flowing skirts, workers in their work clothes, young people clutching books...
Excitement, anticipation, and curiosity shone on every face.
Police officers, holding hands, struggled to hold back the surging crowd, their foreheads glistening with sweat.
Sunlight bathed the seven somewhat bewildered authors behind the long table.
Flashbulbs flickered a few times—newspaper reporters, rushing to the scene, secured advantageous positions to record this historic moment with their bulky cameras!
Zola was profoundly shaken by the fervent scene.
He had experienced the success of his works, received praise from critics, and attended salons filled with celebrities, but he had never so directly, and on such a grand scale, faced so many sincere and enthusiastic readers.
The overwhelming love and anticipation made his chest warm, and his initial doubts and reservations vanished instantly.
He subconsciously straightened his back, a solemn smile appearing on his face, and waved to the crowd.
Maupassant, on the other hand, quickly shed his nervousness, his inherent charm and sense of humor taking over.
He blew kisses to the prettiest ladies in the crowd, eliciting a wave of good-natured laughter and screams.
Huysmans, Céard, and the others also gradually relaxed, infected by the enthusiasm, curiously observing the vast crowd that had gathered because of their words.
Georges Charpentier was so excited he nearly fainted; his voice trembling, he announced the start of the book signing.
(End of Chapter)
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