Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 534 Heading to London!

August in Paris is just as unbearably hot.

In the apartment at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, the windows were open, but there was little wind, and the curtains hung motionless.

Lionel sat at his desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Three letters were spread out on the table, along with a stack of British newspapers. The newspapers had been mailed from London, and the postage wasn't cheap.

Besides the letter from Dr. Norman MacLeod, the other two letters on the table were from Conan Doyle and George Longman, the owner of Longman Publishing.

Bad news comes one after another.

Dr. Norman McLeod is no longer the editor of Good Words, and Pirates of the Caribbean will no longer be serialized in Good Words.

Conan Doyle's new novel, "A Scandal in Bohemia," was rejected by all of London, and the "Criminal Trace" project was also halted.

George Longman stated that the "Pirates of the Caribbean" picture book series would not be released in the UK, but sales in the colonies would continue.

Lionel picked up the stack of British newspapers again—The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Morning Post, The Standard…

He quickly flipped through them, which were all from the last two weeks, mainly editorials, commentaries, and reader letters.

The articles use different wording, but the meaning is similar: Pirates of the Caribbean corrupts the minds of young people and weakens the prestige of the navy; it is France's "cognitive warfare."

Several articles mention his helping the poor write letters at the Bentham Bar, but the tone is subtle—acknowledging it as a good deed, but immediately saying that it is a separate matter from the harm caused by his works.

He turned to the Palmer and the Star newspapers. Both tabloids carried interviews with East End residents.

Dockworkers, seamstresses, apprentices... they all said he was a good man who had helped them.

The article also mentions the petition from Whitechapel, saying that the letter led to improvements in the water supply.

Lionel put down the newspaper; now he understood.

The controversy surrounding "Pirates of the Caribbean" was exactly what he expected; a French writer depicting pirates outwitting the British Navy was bound to make some people uncomfortable.

But usually such controversy will gradually subside—as long as the work is good enough, people will eventually accept it and even regard it as a classic.

Norman McLeod and George Longman were willing to take risks based on this experience.

But this time it's different. The problem isn't in the story itself, but in what lies outside of it. His unintentional actions during those few days at the Bentham Bar have now become the key.

He helped the poor write letters and listened to their complaints. To them, he was not a distant French writer, but "Mr. James Bond" sitting among them.

He bent down to listen, wrote carefully, and left all his money behind when he left.

This connection made London's elite nervous.

A foreign author not only wrote a bestselling story, but also won the genuine support of the grassroots people, who then took unified action!
This is more dangerous than any literary criticism.

So they took action, without issuing a public injunction or resorting to legal action.

They forced the editor-in-chief to resign, changed the magazine's direction, made the publishing house self-censor, and terminated collaborative projects.

Quiet, dignified, and effective.

Lionel stood up and walked to the window. There weren't many people on the street. Parisian summer afternoons are always hot and languid.

He recalled the French government's approach—prosecution, banning, and expulsion. The ensuing uproar ironically made the writer a hero.

Hugo went into exile in England and became a symbol of resistance against tyranny; Zola was prosecuted, but his works sold even better; and his own reputation rose even higher because of last year's lawsuit.

But Britain is different. It doesn't give you the chance to be a hero. It will make you disappear slowly, without a sound.

Your works still exist, but no one can buy them; your name is still remembered, but no one dares to mention it.

You've become invisible! That's the art of masterful rule!

Lionel returned to his desk and looked at the three letters—Norman lost his job, Conan couldn't get his manuscripts accepted, and Longman castrated himself—all because of him.

He couldn't just stand by and do nothing, but what could he do?
He thought for a moment, then sat down and began writing a letter.

First, write back to Norman, telling him not to rush back to Yorkshire and to wait for news in London; then write back to Conan, telling him to continue writing and to keep the manuscript for now.

Finally, he replied to Langman in a calm tone, expressing his understanding of the company's decision but leaving open the possibility of future cooperation.

After writing the three letters, he went downstairs and handed them to Mr. Bonjaman, asking him to mail them when the postman came to his door.

Back in the apartment, Lionel went to the wardrobe and began packing his luggage.

He's going to London!

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In mid-August, the sea breeze in Dover carried the smell of salt and coal smoke, the sky was grayish-white with low-hanging clouds, and the green seawater was constantly churning.

The port was bustling. The sounds of steamship whistles, the clanging of chains as cargo was hoisted, and the shouts of customs officers mingled together.

The ferry from Calais, France, has just docked, and passengers are disembarking from the gangway.

The man was wearing a dark travel jacket, and the woman was holding a parasol and carrying a suitcase. There were many people queuing up for inspection.

The customs checkpoint was located at the dock exit; it was a wooden shed with several long tables inside.

Two customs officers sat behind a table, collecting entry registration forms and occasionally asking to open suitcases.

This era marked the peak of free trade, and although "passports" existed, they were essentially useless.

Regarding entry checks, the UK is stricter than France, but they generally don't actually stop anyone.

Young Thomas Griffin stared at each passing passenger, a mix of nervousness and excitement in his eyes. This was his first "special mission"!
The group moved forward slowly when suddenly a tall man appeared, wearing a gray travel jacket, a dark fedora, and carrying a leather suitcase.

He walked to the table, took off his hat, and handed over his immigration form: "Good afternoon, this is my form."

His English was fluent, and although he had a slight accent, surprisingly it wasn't the typical French accent that was mumbled or unclear. Instead, he was relaxed and casual, like an American.

Thomas looked up at him. He had dark brown hair, was in his twenties, was about six feet tall, and had a well-defined face.

Thomas's heart raced—it was him! A portrait had recently been sent down from above, and he was the person who needed "special attention."

He tried to remain calm, glancing at him: "Mr. Lionel Sorel?"

"Yes."

What is the purpose of your visit to England?

"Visiting friends. Also, discussing some publishing matters."

How long are you expected to stay?

"One to two weeks. It depends on the situation."

Thomas nodded and stood up: "Sir, please wait a moment."

He pointed to a chair in the corner of the shed, "I need to confirm some things with my boss."

Lionel looked at him: "Is there a problem?"

Thomas shook his head: "It's just a routine check-up, it won't take long."

Lionel didn't argue. He walked to a corner, sat down, put his hat on his lap, and placed his suitcase beside his feet, without saying a word.

Thomas left the desk and strode towards the back office.

His boss, Harold, was inside drinking tea and looking at documents.

Thomas's tone was a little hurried: "Mr. Harold, that man is here. Lionel Sorel."

Harold put down his teacup: "Are you sure?"

"The name on the entry form is correct, and the appearance is correct too."

Harold stood up, walked to the window, glanced outside, saw the man in the corner, and nodded.

"Ha, doesn't this Parisian look quite honest? Why is he described as so terrible?"
Okay, go back and continue your examination. I'll handle it myself!

Thomas hesitated for a moment and asked, "Should I call the police?"

Harold thought for a moment, then shook his head: "No need yet, it's not that time. You go ahead. I'll handle it."

Thomas breathed a sigh of relief, nodded to his boss, left the office, and returned to his seat.

Because one person was missing, the line to get through grew longer, and some people stomped their feet in frustration.

He quickly sat down and continued collecting forms, but his eyes kept glancing towards the corner.

In the office, Harold didn't rush out. Instead, he stood in front of the mirror, straightened his uniform, and combed his handsome beard with a small comb.

This matter must be handled flawlessly today, leaving that French writer utterly speechless and turning back. He's already come up with a reason—

"Given your record of illegal entry last year, Imperial Customs is temporarily unable to grant you entry into our country!"

How grand and impressive! How flawless! This is how you get the attention of those above you, and maybe you'll have a chance to be transferred from this checkpoint where there's not much to gain.

If only we could go to the cargo terminal, a merchant ship could handle it...

Before he could finish his sweet dream, a commotion arose outside, and he even heard Thomas's anxious voice—

"You...you can't do this! This is the British Customs House! Put it away immediately!"

Harold quickly left the mirror and peered out the window at the inspection area. The sight before him made him freeze in shock—

A dozen or so people who looked like reporters were sitting in the corner, holding notebooks and pencils, asking questions and talking to Lionel Sorel.

Several people had already set up tripods on the ground and were now fixing their heavy cameras on them.

Young border inspector Thomas Griffin and his colleagues are trying to stop these people, but with little success.

Because both border inspectors were away from their posts, customs clearance was greatly affected.

Not only were there a large number of passengers stuck in the passageway, but some people had already left, and the scene was chaotic.

Thomas Griffin, seeing that he couldn't hold on any longer, told his colleague a few words and then ran all the way to Harold's office.

A moment later, he reappeared before Harold, panting, "Mr. Harold, they're all... all French journalists, more than a dozen newspapers..."

Harold said to Thomas with a serious expression, "What's the panic! Calm down, go and get rid of them right now, and maintain order!"
That Sorel, we absolutely cannot let him through customs! Go and send him back right now!

Thomas stared in disbelief, unable to believe his ears: "I...I? Mr. Harold, didn't you just say..."

Harold waved his hand dismissively: "I didn't say anything! Now get going!"

As he spoke, he slipped out of the office through the side door.

(Second update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)