Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 506 "The Storm Is About to Rise!"

The gentleman called "Louis," whose full name was Louis-Étienne de Chantreux, was a minor banker in Paris.

He also had another identity: one of the former directors of the "United Corporation"!

Before the "United Corporation" incident, he was a quintessential member of Parisian high society, always impeccably dressed; but now, he felt like he was sitting on pins and needles.

His small bank, Chantreu-Flomon, has mainly handled the scraps of business that spilled over from the "United Corporation" in recent years.

Thanks to this powerful backer, his life was quite comfortable; now that the backer has fallen, his small bank is like a thatched hut with its roof blown off by a storm, teetering on the brink of collapse.

Worse still, as a director, he could be implicated, face judicial investigation, and even be sent to prison.

So he spent several thousand francs to barely get into Madame Eleonore de Rothschild's literary salon.

This lady was not only a top Parisian socialite, but also the matriarch of the French Rothschild family, possessing unimaginable capital and connections.

He participated enthusiastically in the literary discussion today, and even just now, when interpreting "The Old Man and the Sea," he deliberately steered the conversation towards the Prussians regarding the "shark"...

He just wanted to show his "patriotism" and "insights" in the hope of attracting his wife's attention.

He reasoned that if he could get funding from the Rothschild family bank, or even just be acquired, "Chandro-Flomon" could be saved.

Then he himself can climb out of the quagmire of bankruptcy and lawsuits, without even falling out of his social class.

But Mrs. Rothschild's words shattered his pitiful pride.

Louis-Étienne de Chantreau's cheeks flushed instantly, but he still managed to force a smile, though it looked as stiff as if it had been painted on.

He tried to keep his voice from trembling: "Madam, I... I just feel that Mr. Sorel's metaphor may have multiple interpretations."

The Prussians were indeed like sharks, greedily tearing at our French territory…

Madame Rothschild interrupted him: "Mr. Chantreux, you are probably the only one in all of Paris who calls a 'shark' a 'Prussian'."

She stopped waving her fan and looked at Chantelle with eyes that showed no emotion, as calm as a still lake.

Her tone was as flat as if she were talking about the weather: "I've heard that everyone is saying that 'sharks' are us bankers."

The salon fell silent as other guests either looked away or picked up their coffee cups to hide the awkwardness of the moment.

Everyone knows the mess that "United Corporation" is in, and everyone knows how much resentment there is towards bankers in the market right now.

Madame Rothschild's words essentially revealed Chantlou's little scheme.

Louis-Étienne de Chantreau's face went from an embarrassed red to a bloodless pallor.

He opened his mouth, wanting to argue that his small bank was different from the "United Corporation," wanting to say that he was a victim... but all the words stuck in his throat.

Mrs. Rothschild's calm gaze told him that she knew everything.

She knew his situation, his intentions, and how hypocritical and weak his rhetoric was.

In the end, he could only lower his head and vaguely reply, "Is...is that so? Then...maybe I misunderstood."

The conversation at the salon was quickly diverted by another lady to a new opera that was about to be staged, but Chantlou could no longer listen.

He sat there, feeling that all the luxury around him—crystal chandeliers, Persian carpet patterns, expensive perfumes—had become a silent mockery.

He knew that his path had been subtly blocked by this shrewd hostess before it even began.

The Rothschild family's money will not flow into his small, hole-ridden bank.

He will likely face only the cold faces of the bankruptcy court and his creditors.

He needs to think of another way; there must be another path—and he also has his own trump card!

He remembered a line from Sorel's play "Thunderstorm" and recited it to himself with a fierce intensity:

"Don't push a disappointed woman too far; she's capable of anything!"

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"Sharks, those are the ones who own banks!"

At the same moment, in a bustling bistro on Boulevard Saint-Michel in Paris, this sentence was like a lit match thrown into a room full of dry wood.

The place was packed with people, mostly middle-aged and elderly men, dressed in decent coats, their faces flushed with excitement.

They are all typical “pension class” people – retired civil servants, small shop owners, and fallen gentlemen who live off inheritance and pension interest.

And then there are those unlucky souls who poured their life savings into “United Corporation” bonds or stocks.

The air was thick with the smell of tobacco, and the tabletop was being slammed shut with loud thuds.

"That's right! It's them! Look! 'Sharks are coming!' It's written so clearly! Our property is that marlin tied to the side of the boat!"
"I worked hard all my life, saved up a little bit of meat, and they ate it all up! They didn't even leave me a bone!"

“My annuity! My father’s inheritance, a 3% annuity! Last month it could sell for 88 francs, but today when I went to ask, nobody wanted it for 78 francs! They said the market has lost confidence! Confidence? My confidence has been eaten by dogs!”

"Dogs? Dogs have more conscience than them! Where are those big directors of the 'United Corporation'? Where did they go? I heard they swam off to London a long time ago! With our money!"

This sentence was like lighting a fuse in a coffee shop, instantly igniting everyone's emotions.

"London? What gives them the right to go to London?"

"Where is the government? Where are the police? Why didn't they stop them?"

"Stop them? I think they deliberately let them go!" "Think about it, who are these pension holders? It's us! But does the government care about us? I think they'd love for us old bones to be 'digested' by the crisis as soon as possible, so we won't get in their way! They've long since stopped paying 3% interest!"

This conjecture is too malicious and too cruel. But in the anger and despair of this moment, it immediately found fertile ground.

The café was quiet for a few seconds, then erupted into an even stronger wave of anger.

"That's right! That's it!"

"Reduce the number of pension holders...eliminate us...that's their plan!"

"Those bankers are accomplices! The government is the mastermind behind it all!"

"We can't just let it go!"

"Yes! We can't let this go! They have to pay the price!"

"Go find those board members who haven't fled yet! Go find those small bankers! They definitely know what's going on, and they might have even profited from it!"

"I know one, from the 'Chandro-Flomon' bank, they used to be in cahoots with the 'United Corporation'!"

The crowd in the coffee shop was outraged.

The alcohol amplified their anger, and the speculation about a "government conspiracy" pushed their resentment and suspicion to their peak.

A dangerous "action" began to brew in the minds of these usually cautious middle-class people.

They felt robbed and betrayed, and now they wanted to "punish" the plunderers, at least to get an explanation and vent their anger.

If you were to ask them why they did it, the answer would be like a line from that young man's play, *Thunderstorm*:
"It's fate, an unfair fate that sent me here!"

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"That Sorel has gotten us into trouble again! 'Shark'? What's he up to?"

In Paris, in the office of the Finance Minister of the Third Republic's cabinet, Pierre Mathieu was equally unhappy.

He was in his fifties, with his hair neatly combed and a meticulously trimmed gray beard. He was dignified and elegant.

At this moment, however, he frowned and threw a copy of Le Parisien on his desk.

The newspaper was spread out on the page of "The Old Man and the Sea," and the word "shark" was circled in bold red pen.

He had certainly heard about the sensation and frenzy of interpretations surrounding "The Old Man and the Sea."

The public is pointing the finger at the bankers, the directors of the "United Corporation," and even, implicitly, at the government that condoned it all…

At this critical juncture of widespread anxiety, such a metaphor is like pouring oil into a fire.

At this moment, his deputy, Count Louis-Philippe de Rohan, spoke up: "Minister, everyone knows what 'shark' refers to."

Minister Pierre Mathieu poked the newspaper with his finger: "Knowing? Just because you know, doesn't mean you can write whatever you want. He's not writing a novel, he's inciting public opinion!"
The bankruptcy of the 'United Corporation' is an economic problem and a consequence of excessive speculation. The government is doing its best to handle the aftermath and stabilize the market!
And what's worse, with just one novel, he's directed everyone's anger towards the bankers, even... towards us!

He became increasingly angry as he spoke: "Also, there's been a lot of talk about the 'United Corporation's' main directors going to England! Can we stop them? How can we stop them?"
How many connections and how much capital are involved behind those people? Their departure leaves some debts uncollectible, which may not necessarily be a bad thing for maintaining stability!

Do those rioters understand these principles? Does that writer understand them? All he knows is how to write his 'Shark'!

Count Rohan listened quietly, and only after the minister had finished venting did he slowly speak: "Your Excellency, if the matter involves that writer, please be cautious."

I believe Prime Minister Fressine would also not want to see you drag him into the political vortex again.

Pierre Mathieu abruptly stopped talking, as if he had choked on something, and his face flushed red.

He was certainly aware of Lionel's influence and the role he played in the downfall of Jules Ferry's cabinet.

Newly appointed Prime Minister Charles de Frésiné certainly did not want to drag Lionel into this mess, lest it lead to unpredictable consequences.

Minister Pierre Mathieu took a deep breath, picked up another document from the table, and abruptly changed the subject: "Alright, let's not talk about him anymore."

"Let's talk about the latest assessment report from Crédit Lyonnais. They don't seem very keen on taking over the 'United Corporation's' assets?"

Count Rohan nodded slightly, said no more, and began to report on his work.

But suddenly, a line from the play "Thunderstorm" popped into his mind: "The storm is about to rise!"

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In the apartment at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, a large, finely detailed architectural design drawing is spread out on the living room table.

Lionel, who was brewing the "storm," was now completely focused on the blueprints in front of him—

Above is a villa in the style of southern France, with beautiful lines and a well-organized structure, exhibiting typical characteristics of Alpine architecture.

Lionel leaned over, scrutinizing every detail, and occasionally uttered questions.

In front of him, an elderly man with white hair and beard, full of vigor, was patiently explaining, sometimes even sketching a few lines on it with a pencil.

This old man was none other than Charles Garnier, the renowned architect who designed the Paris Opera.

He originally only needed to send one student to explain the blueprints to Lionel, but Lionel suddenly added 2 francs to the budget.

Looking at the kind and approachable master architect before me, and recalling the rumors I had heard about his arrogance...

A line from the play "Thunderstorm" involuntarily popped into Lionel's mind:
"No one in this world can be trusted except money!"

(Two chapters complete. Thank you everyone, please vote with your monthly tickets.)
(End of this chapter)