After class that afternoon, Lionel hurried to the post office on Saint Martin Boulevard to check the addresses of Orby Trading Company and Panama Interoceanic Canal Global Corporation, specifically to expose the lies of his "cheap brother-in-law," Émile.
In this era, not only was there no internet, but even "Yellow Pages" (a directory listing company names, addresses, and phone numbers) had not yet been invented. However, legitimate businesses usually left their addresses at the post office.
As the most commercially developed city in France, and even in all of Europe, Paris allowed one to find contact information not only for French companies but for almost all companies that had trade relations with France.
He handed the names of the two companies through the window, paid 4 centimes, and quickly received their addresses.
Orby Trading Company was in the Second District of Paris, near the stock exchange; Panama Interoceanic Canal Global Corporation was in the Eighth Arrondissement, operating out of the French Overseas Chamber of Commerce Club.
It seemed they were both legitimate companies—now, he just didn't know if Émile himself was legitimate.
Lionel planned to take a day off tomorrow or the day after to personally visit Orby Trading Company. Since Émile claimed to be a manager-level figure at this company, he should be able to verify the authenticity of this identity.
Of course, if the name and position were real, but the person was fake, that would be troublesome…
In France, and indeed throughout Europe during this period, there were no mandatory identity documents.
Documents that could prove one's identity included birth certificates, travel passports, letters of introduction or recommendation, professional certificates, proof of residence, court judgments… In short, they were incredibly complex and had certain interdependencies.
Moreover, due to the high cost of photography, documents with photos were not widespread, making forgery very easy and con artists rampant.
This is also why, when we read 18th and 19th-century European novels, a con artist often pops up—it's practically a cultural characteristic.
Nevertheless, this step still needed to be taken.
After getting the addresses, he also inquired about the "anonymous poste restante" mailbox he had opened that morning. To his surprise, after verifying the registered name and password, an envelope was handed directly from the window.
"So fast?" Lionel was a bit taken aback.
Although Paris's "intra-city postal service" was highly developed, allowing for multiple communications within a day even between opposite ends of the city, the speed of the reply from The Clamor still exceeded his imagination.
Such a tabloid newspaper would not send rejection letters to authors; the letter must mean his manuscript had been accepted.
He felt the envelope, and it wasn't thin—could it be that the manuscript fee was also enclosed? Although money orders and checks were already quite common, people still preferred to send small amounts of money directly in an envelope.
Just like the letter from his family, which had 20 francs in cash inside.
Lionel suppressed his excitement, tucked the envelope into his inner chest pocket, and hurried out of the post office.
However, with this delay, by the time he returned to the apartment, it was already completely dark. The tenants were sitting around the dining table in the first-floor restaurant, eating Mrs. Martin's cooking by the dim candlelight.
Seeing Lionel enter, bringing with him the wind and snow, Mrs. Martin couldn't help but mock him again: "Young Master Sorel is back? Which fancy restaurant did he have a grand meal at today? It seems he doesn't have to sit with us common folk for dinner again!"
Lionel was unfazed, raising the bag he was carrying and shaking it: "I went to the 'Hotel Meurice' at noon today. Their owner was very generous and allowed me to pack some food to enjoy later.
Petty, I brought you some fried sausages, sprinkled with black pepper. You can come upstairs to get them later."
Petty poked her tiny head out from between the adults' armpits and cheerfully replied, "Okay, Mr. Sorel!"
Lionel nodded and quickly went upstairs amidst the surprised and envious glances of the others, leaving only the "thump-thump" sound of his leather shoes on the floorboards.
Back in his small attic room, Lionel first lit the thickest candle, then placed a thin iron sheet above it.
Then he took out the food from the bag—fried sausages, roasted chicken breast, croissants—and placed them on the iron sheet to heat. This setup was basically standard for poor students in Paris.
While it couldn't make the food as steaming hot as a frying pan, it at least wouldn't be like chewing on ice.
Soon, a tempting aroma of food wafted through the attic.
In the meantime, Lionel had already opened the reply from The Clamor.
As expected, the envelope contained two 10-franc banknotes and a letter, which was why it felt particularly thick.
Lionel was a bit surprised. Manuscript fees in this era were calculated by "line," where "line" referred to the standard width of printed typesetting, not the number of lines a writer wrote on manuscript paper; each line typically contained 10 to 12 words.
The standard manuscript fee per line varied for different levels of writers.
For an unknown newcomer like him, it was usually 2 or 3 sous per line (10-15 centimes, 0.1-0.15 francs); while it was not uncommon for established writers to receive 2 francs or more per line; top-selling authors like Alexandre Dumas could even command the exorbitant price of 5 francs per line.
20 francs, that would be about 200 lines of manuscript fee?
Lionel found it hard to believe, as he had estimated the word count of two pages of manuscript paper, which, converted to standard lines, would not exceed 80 lines at most.
He didn't believe he could already be earning more than 5 sous per line.
The content of the letter explained the reason—
"Your work possesses unparalleled humor and satire, a masterpiece of contemporary French literature! The Clamor is willing to pay 3 sous per line for your stories, and the 10 francs enclosed here are the fees for these three pieces.
The other 10 francs are an advance for your future works; I believe you have many more such stories in you! If you are willing, we can sign a long-term contract, with the price calculated as it is now! Believe me, this is a generous price.
To my knowledge, "Joker Newspaper" and La Lanterne offer new authors 1 sou per line…"
Lionel scoffed, tossing the letter aside, then put away the 20 francs in cash. 3 sous per line was a fair price for a new author, but by no means a generous one.
The advance of 10 francs was merely a pretense of generosity, a lure to get him to sign a so-called "long-term contract."
However, through this, he confirmed that the short stories he wrote indeed had a market and brought in money quickly—there was no other way, as tabloids had a different survival strategy than major newspapers; they had almost no fixed subscribers and relied entirely on sensational content to attract casual buyers.
He was about to take out paper and pen to write a few more stories for The Clamor, and discuss the manuscript fees with its owner, when there was a knock on the attic door.
Petty's clear voice came through: "Mr. Sorel, are you free now?"
Lionel smiled, got up, and opened the attic door: "Petty, why don't you eat the sausages here before going downstairs."
He deliberately spoke loudly, so that even those on the first floor could hear.
Then he heard a "bang" downstairs, as someone's door was heavily shut.