Lionel's brows furrowed slightly, a strange feeling in his heart.
He actually hadn't had much direct contact with the Church—the hidden danger of the decadent city had largely been eliminated with the disfigurement and madness of the swindler Edward-Benoit.
Although Lionel had pushed for the French Writers Association to intervene in the exorcism ritual, he was a complete "behind-the-scenes" figure, so how would the Church know what he had said at "Flaubert's Sunday"?
If there had to be a conflict, it was the few sarcastic remarks he had made to Father Peltier in Montiel two weeks ago.
But that really couldn't have alarmed the important figures in Paris.
After much thought, Lionel still had no clue, so he simply stopped thinking about it.
What he craved more at this moment was a comfortable bed and complete rest; his experience at St. Thomas Hospital in London was certainly not pleasant.
Although the initial idea for "Sherlock Holmes" had taken shape, actually starting the creation still required time for preparation, and he also had to wait for the serialization of the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button to finish.
While Lionel was interested in manuscript fees, he didn't have the ambition of Balzac or Alexandre Dumas to write serials for several newspapers at the same time.
— — — — — —
The next day, Lionel woke up at 10 AM.
After making and eating a simple breakfast, Lionel prepared to go out.
He wanted to first visit Orby Trading Company to let Sophie know he was safe; then go to Médan Villa to pick up Alice and Petty.
By now, they had lived there for one month.
It was early autumn, and the weather had cooled down; after a few autumn rains, the stench in the streets was no longer so overwhelming that one couldn't see clearly.
Lionel, who had just returned from London, even found the air in Paris somewhat "fresh"!
However, literary creditors always came uninvited, never giving anyone a moment's respite.
As soon as Lionel went downstairs, the administrator told him he had two letters, and they hadn't been delivered by the postman.
The messenger had asked the administrator to tell Lionel to open them immediately.
Lionel took the envelopes and smiled at the addresses—one was from Le Petit Parisien, and the other was from Modern Life magazine.
The content was largely similar, but the tone of each was more anxious than the last.
The editor of Le Petit Parisien wrote in the letter:
[Dear Mr. Sorel:
Hope you are well. First, please accept our sincere condolences again for your unfortunate illness in London, and we are delighted to hear of your recovery and return to France.
It is with great reluctance that we disturb your rest, but the existing manuscripts for the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button are only enough to last until this week.
We are now facing immense page pressure, and we earnestly request that you, by all means, send the subsequent manuscripts as soon as possible to help us out of this urgent situation.
Readers are eagerly awaiting to see the next fateful encounter between Benjamin and Delphine…]
Only then did Lionel remember that although he had been traveling during this period, he had indeed been continuously creating the subsequent story of the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button.
However, the overall progress was only two weeks ahead of the newspaper's serialization.
He had been ill in London for ten days, and combined with spending the weekend with Sophie and the trips to and from Paris and London, his stored manuscripts had indeed run out.
Serialization relies on popularity; once it stops, not only will the newspaper have a headache finding articles to fill the pages, but readers will also complain bitterly.
Opening the letter from Modern Life, it was also a request for manuscripts, but the tone was more subtle.
Lionel pondered for a moment and decided to postpone visiting Sophie and picking up Alice and Petty for a few days, and first finish writing the next two weeks of serialization.
Sending a letter would suffice for reporting his safety.
With that thought, Lionel put away the letters, returned to his apartment, sat down at his desk, pulled out a quill, and began to write.
In terms of content, the story of the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button was already past its halfway point.
Benjamin Button and Delphine Werner had both "grown up"—except Benjamin had become younger and more vibrant.
Like in the movie, Benjamin became a sailor on a ship, traveling the Mediterranean coast with his voyages, and even crossing the Atlantic to visit America.
Delphine, on the other hand, went to Paris, where she aspired to become a court dance teacher and an excellent opera singer.
Although their lives had become parallel lines, they maintained the habit of corresponding with each other.
And before going to sleep, they would both say goodnight to the other, who was not by their side.
Lionel closed his eyes, trying to recall the hazy ideas from before and after his recovery, and then tried to grasp the two souls who moved against the current of fate yet cared deeply for each other.
[On a Mediterranean night, the sea breeze carried a salty scent, caressing the sails of the "Siren" and emitting a low, mournful moan.
Benjamin Button had just finished his lookout duty; he leaned against the ship's rail and pulled a letter from his inner pocket.
It was Delphine's letter.
Her handwriting was slender and clear, like her fingers or calves—
"…Autumn in Paris always rains, the roads are muddy, but the opera house is always warm as spring.
I finally passed Madame Garson's assessment and became a dance troupe reserve. Although I can only dance in the chorus now, every time I stand on my tiptoes, I feel one step closer to my dream…
—Yours, Delphine"
Benjamin's lips unconsciously curved upwards. He could imagine the scene: Delphine, like a light lark, dancing on the smooth wooden floor.
And at this moment, under his feet was the pitching deck, above him were rough ropes, and facing him was the salty sea breeze…
These were two completely different worlds.
…
He took out the pencil stub he carried with him and, by moonlight, began to write back:
"…I just rounded the Peloponnese; the waves were very rough, and I vomited a few times, but I'm better now, I could eat a whole ox.
The spices in Tunisia are a bit pungent, but I bought you a small packet of frankincense, which is said to calm the mind…
—Yours, Benjamin."
He wrote the signature, carefully folded the letter, and tucked it into a waterproof envelope.
This letter would have to wait until the next port of call to be mailed; and receiving a reply would be several months later. …]
Time quietly passed in their endless correspondence.
Benjamin was now almost a "middle-aged man"—his back could stand very straight, the number of black hairs exceeded the white, and he could see clearly when wearing glasses.
Delphine, on the other hand, was going further and higher on her path to becoming a court dance teacher and an opera singer.
Her outstanding beauty, graceful figure, and elegant dancing attracted more and more attention.
Finally, Delphine had her first solo dance—
[Applause. A wave of applause.
Delphine Werner breathed slightly, bowing to the audience.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest from the immense, almost overflowing joy and excitement.
She saw Madame Garson in the audience give an approving smile, and saw the envy, even jealousy, in the eyes of her other dance partners.
…
Delphine smiled, responding, but there was a small, empty space in her heart.
She instinctively looked at the dressing table, where only a bouquet of flowers from the troupe lay.
How she wished that next to that bouquet, there could be a letter, or even just a telegram, on which was written:
"Happy for you. —Benjamin"
But where was he now? The Atlantic? The Caribbean Sea? Was he safe? …
… … … …
She pulled up the covers, looked at the empty ceiling, and softly, almost inaudibly, said: "Goodnight, Benjamin."
Then, she quietly added: "I danced very well today."]
— — — — — —
Lionel locked himself in his room and wrote for three days, only coming downstairs for meals, finally completing two weeks' worth of manuscripts.
However, this time he didn't plan to send them to Alice at Médan Villa—there wasn't time.
He planned to send them directly to Modern Life, have them transcribe it, then return the original manuscript to him, and send a copy to Le Petit Parisien.
After all this was done, he stretched again, put the manuscripts into an envelope, and prepared to go downstairs to mail them.
Just as he reached the living room, the doorbell rang.
Lionel thought Alice and Petty had returned early and rushed to open the door.
However, outside the door stood two strangers, with the apartment administrator behind them, looking apologetic.
The man in the lead was about fifty years old, with a gaunt face and sharp eyes; the one behind him was slightly younger, with downcast eyes and hands clasped in front of him.
The older man spoke first: "Excuse me, are you Mr. Lionel Sorel?"
Lionel defensively stepped back: "May I ask who you are?"
The man nodded slightly: "We are from the Saint Martha Society. We apologize for the intrusion.
We have been entrusted by the Mother Superior to sincerely invite you to our headquarters for a discussion."