In the editor-in-chief's office of "Good Words" magazine, Norman Macleod was discussing the publication matters after the conclusion of "The Sign of Four" with Lionel, who sat opposite him.
Lionel was wearing the suit Norman had prepared for him, his complexion had recovered some vitality compared to when he first arrived in London, but his eyes still carried a hint of fatigue.
Suddenly, a commotion came from outside the office door, mixed with the secretary's anxious voice:
"Mr. Wilde, you can't just go in like this! Dr. Macleod is with a guest..."
"A guest? Even if the Prime Minister is inside, I must see him!"
A high-pitched voice pierced through the wooden door.
Lionel turned his head alertly towards the door.
The next moment, the office door was suddenly pushed open, and Oscar Wilde appeared there.
He was slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed, a few curly strands of hair scattered across his forehead, his posture still elegant.
His gaze first fell on Lionel, his eyes instantly lit up, revealing an expression of admiration and fascination.
He stepped forward quickly, his tone fervent:
"Lion! My dear Lion! I never expected to meet you here! I thought you were still in France, still in Paris... those damned politicians!"
He almost wanted to clasp Lionel's hand, but his movement stopped halfway.
The fascination in his eyes receded like a tide, replaced by an almost painful apology.
Wilde looked at Lionel, his voice low and sincere:
"But, Lion, please forgive me, I must be frank. At this moment, my heart, my entire soul, has been completely occupied by another person! It is someone who has just conquered me, making my soul tremble!"
Lionel let out a sigh of relief:
"That's good, Mr. Wilde, a very, very good thing..."
Before he could finish, Wilde no longer looked at him, turning sharply to Norman Macleod, who was behind the desk with a stunned expression.
His voice was full of urgency:
"Dr. Macleod! Tell me! You must tell me! Who exactly is 'James Bond'? Is that his real name? Or a beautiful pen name like the song of a nightingale? Is he in London right now, or somewhere else in the world? Can you arrange a meeting for me with him? Or, at least invite him to our club's salon? I guarantee, he will be London's brightest star!"
He and Norman Macleod were no strangers; they not only had many interactions at the club, but his poems had also been published in "Good Words."
But this series of questions was like a rapid drumbeat, overwhelming Norman Macleod.
He opened his mouth, subconsciously casting his gaze towards Lionel, who sat nearby, his eyes full of inquiry and plea.
Lionel said nothing, merely lowered his eyelids slightly, and shook his head gently but firmly, conveying a strong signal of "don't say anything."
He even leaned back into his chair, as if wanting to hide himself in the shadows cast by the office bookshelf.
Norman Macleod's face immediately showed a look of difficulty, transitioning very naturally.
He cleared his throat:
"Uh... Oscar, please calm down. I completely understand your enthusiasm. However, I'm sorry, out of respect for privacy, I am not authorized to disclose any information about his identity to you. This is industry practice, please understand..."
Wilde looked as if he had been doused with cold water, the flame in his eyes dimming considerably in an instant.
He stepped back half a pace in disappointment, muttering to himself:
"Practice? Privacy? Yes... yes... truly beautiful artists are always unconventional, refusing to associate with this dirty world. He chooses to hide himself, just like a nightingale hides its song in the jungle at midnight..."
He looked at the silent Lionel, then at Norman, who looked helpless, and sighed deeply.
This sigh seemed to carry all the regrets of the entire world.
Wilde dejectedly put on his top hat:
"In that case... I shall not disturb you further. Please convey to Mr. Bond that, if possible—Oscar Wilde will forever be his most loyal reader and fellow connoisseur of beauty!"
With that, he turned and left the office with a lonely expression, as if he had lost his beloved, even forgetting to leave his signature epigram as usual.
Norman Macleod watched the door close and let out a long sigh of relief:
"My God, Lion, he really is..."
Only then did Lionel completely relax.
No sooner had the interlude brought by Wilde subsided than Norman Macleod placed the newly published "The Times" in front of Lionel.
He tapped an article on it:
"Lionel, 'The Happy Prince' seems to be making a lot of people unhappy..."
Lionel took the newspaper and first saw the bold headline:
"Fairy Tale? Fable? Or Reality?"
The article began by acknowledging the literary value of "The Happy Prince," praising its language as "poetic and beautiful, with exquisite and symbolic imagery."
It also stated that the author, "James Bond," possessed "extraordinary narrative skills and the ability to create atmosphere."
But then, the tone shifted, pointing out the "peculiarity" of the work.
The article read:
[...However, we must point out that "The Happy Prince" is perhaps the most "cold" fairy tale we have ever read.
The author uses the most beautiful and purest language, yet weaves a story that is most cruel, even desperate.
It uncompromisingly demonstrates the completeness of sacrifice—the Happy Prince becomes ugly beyond recognition, and the Swallow freezes to death in the severe cold.
But their kindness fails to change the city's indifference; the mayor and senators are still concerned about their own statues, and the lives of the poor are still appalling.
What is truly unpleasant is that the author is unwilling to give these sacrificers the comforting, beautiful ending a fairy tale should have....]
Lionel finished reading and calmly placed the newspaper back on the table.
Norman Macleod said with some complaint:
"Lion, honestly, you really should have given them a happier ending."
Lionel chuckled, then retorted:
"Like what?"
Norman Macleod thought for a long time before speaking:
"For example... for example, let God send angels to take both the Happy Prince and the Swallow to heaven, so they can live happily ever after. Wouldn't that be more acceptable to everyone? The Prince and the Swallow both deserve a better ending."
Upon hearing this, Lionel's lips curled into a sarcastic smile:
"Norman, wasn't the Happy Prince an angel? But this angel has died in the human world. So tell me, where exactly is paradise?"
Norman Macleod was speechless; he realized that Lionel was not deliberately pursuing cruelty but faithfully presenting the world as he understood it—kindness and sacrifice, in the face of too harsh social realities, were very likely to end so tragically; and any embellishment would diminish the sacrifice itself.
He sheepishly rubbed his nose, wisely deciding not to argue the point further:
"Alright, alright, I can't argue with you. So... let's talk about something practical. How's the latest Sherlock Holmes story coming along?"
Lionel also returned to his calm demeanor and nodded:
"It's expected to be ready for you before December, just in time for Christmas."
Norman's face immediately broke into a smile:
"Excellent! I knew I could count on you! Don't worry about the manuscript fees, absolutely..."
Lionel raised a hand to interrupt him:
"Norman, for this manuscript fee, I plan to use a different settlement method..."
(End of chapter)