Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 557 Where is he being held now?
"Her Majesty the Queen of the British Empire has actually been won over by Sorel's courage!"

The person who shouted this was a reporter from Le Figaro, so he had a distinct French accent, but it was loud and clear.

This was more like a slap in the face to every "decent person" in the British Empire in the courtroom.

Raymond Lister stared at Lionel: "You... how did you get here? How could you be here?"

Lionel calmly replied, “As a witness for Mr. James McGregor, Mr. Sean Omarah, and the other ten defendants, I am obliged to appear in court to testify.”

Is there anything wrong with that?

The problem? The problem was huge! Lister's mind was in complete disarray. Lionel Sorel should be in Paris, in his comfortable apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain, following the trial through the newspaper—

Instead of standing in the Royal Courthouse No. 1 of the Central Criminal Court in London, standing in front of him!

The commotion in the gallery grew even louder, and Sir Coleridge pounded his gavel furiously: "Silence! Silence!"

Lionel ignored the voices and turned to the judge's bench, then looked at the prosecutor, Charles Foster.

“Your Honor, Mr. Foster. I just said that I don’t need to incite the common people to do anything for me; what I should really incite is the conscience of the British Empire—do you believe me now?”

Then, his tone became more relaxed: "Of course, now that your Queen's pardon has been issued, it is no longer important whether my testimony is credible."

Sir Coleridge opened his mouth, but said nothing. His usually dignified face turned a deep purplish-red.

He looked toward the prosecution box, where Charles Foster stood, holding documents in his hand, his face pale.

He then looked at Raymond Lister, the royal representative who was still frozen in place, clutching the pardon in his hand, leaving him with only his back to him.

Lionel Sorel's appearance had already dealt them a huge blow, but the Queen's pardon made him completely question his existence.

Both he and Foster had been given hints and promises that the trial was never just about convicting a few civilians.

It was a performance, a political statement, a play staged specifically to please Her Majesty the Queen and appease her anger.

But now, the play has gone wrong! The key point is that it seems Her Majesty herself tore up the script—none of them knew beforehand that there would be such a pardon.

Could there really be some kind of unspoken understanding between the Queen and Lionel Sorel? Otherwise, why would he have suddenly appeared two hours ago? Just like that pardon?
Political calculations are not something you can dwell on; the more you think about them, the more chilling they become. Kohlridge and Charles Foster's backs were immediately soaked with sweat.

When the Queen issued a pardon, did she truly acknowledge the innocence of the common people, or did she genuinely approve of Lionel Sorel as a person? God only knows!
But at this moment, in everyone's eyes, the two things are already linked—the Queen was moved by Lionel's courage and therefore pardoned the commoners.

The logic is so perfect it makes you want to vomit blood!

Sir Coleridge took a deep breath; he just wanted to get out of this scene as quickly as possible.
"Given the granting of Her Majesty's Pardon... this Court hereby declares that all charges against the twelve defendants, including James McGregor and Sean O'Mara, are... dismissed. They are hereby released!"

As the bailiffs moved, the "click" sound of handcuffs being opened rang out one after another.

Old Jimmy flexed his wrists, his eyes reddening. He stepped down from the dock, not looking at the judge, the prosecutor, or the royal representative who read the pardon.

He walked straight up to Lionel and bowed deeply. Not a nod, but a full bow that almost reached his knees.

Next was Sean Omara, who also bowed deeply. Then came the third, the fourth… twelve people, one after another, in the center of the courtroom, bowing to a French writer.

In the back row of the gallery, the family members of those being charged also stood up and bowed in Lionel's direction. Joe Harris's wife, holding their child, raised the child's little hand and waved.

There were no cheers, no shouts, only silence, but this silence was more powerful than any cheer.

Raymond Lister watched this scene, his stomach churning, his mind in utter chaos.

He wanted to shout, "You should thank Her Majesty the Queen," but the words stuck in his throat, and he couldn't utter a single one.

Sir Coleridge's last words sounded weak and feeble: "The trial... is over."

The courtroom erupted the moment his gavel fell.

Reporters surged past the bailiffs like a burst dam, rushing towards Lionel. Questions rained down on them like cannonballs:

"Mr. Sorel! When did you arrive in London?"

Aren't you afraid of being arrested?

Do you believe the Queen granted the pardon because she was moved by your courage?

What are your plans for the future?

Before Lionel could answer, four uniformed police officers surrounded him.

They quickly separated the reporters, with two of them grabbing Lionel's arms, one on each side.

“Mr. Lionel Sorel,” an officer said sternly, “you are now formally arrested on suspicion of violating the Seditious Defamation Act and other charges.”

Lionel did not resist, but simply nodded.

"Wait!" Henry Brad squeezed through the crowd, blocking the police officer's path. "He's also my client..."

Lionel interrupted him, smiling. "Mr. Brad, His Majesty pardoned them—"

He then looked at old Jimmy and the others, "but not at me."

The police then led him towards the side door. The reporters tried to give chase, but were firmly stopped by the bailiffs who had realized what was happening.

Old Jimmy also took a step forward, but was stopped by Sean Omara.

The tall dockworker stared at Lionel's retreating figure, his eyes frighteningly red. The side door closed, shutting out the noise of the courtroom.

But the reporters had gone mad. Like a school of sharks that had smelled blood, they turned and charged out—

The stairs were crowded together; some people fell, some stepped on others' feet, but no one stopped.

They needed to race against time and get the news back to the agency before anyone else.

"Carriage! Carriage! Return to the newspaper office!"

"Quickly! Get to the telegraph office!"

"Front page! All front pages!"

"Queen's Pardon! Sorel has appeared! My God!"

The courtroom gradually emptied, leaving only a few court staff tidying up documents and cleaning up the scene.

Raymond Lister still stood in the center of the courtroom, clutching the pardon in his hand like a burning ember, yet unable to let go.

He slowly raised his head and looked at the new portrait of the Queen on the wall—a kind, gentle, and compassionate Queen.

Now this painting looks like a joke.

He turned and stumbled out of the courtroom.

--------------

Buckingham Palace, the Queen's study.

"Bang!" The Queen slammed her hand on the table, making a sound.

This was absolutely impolite behavior, something that had almost never happened in her entire life.

Raymond Lister shuddered and lowered his head even further.

"Continue," the Queen said, trying her best to control her voice so that it wouldn't tremble like her emotions.

"In the courtroom...everyone believed it. Those civilian defendants...they didn't thank His Majesty, they...they bowed to Sorel. Twelve people, one by one, bowed. Their families also paid their respects."

Lister dared not look up, but stared at the pattern on the carpet. He could hear the Queen's breathing, heavy and slow.

After a long pause, the Queen finally spoke: "Him, I mean Lionel Sorel, that Frenchman, where is he now?"

"He was taken away by Scotland Yard. The police arrested him on the spot."

"Arrest..." the Queen sneered. "Good, well done. At least they're right about this."

Victoria felt she had suffered the most humiliation of her life.

Did 1984 insult her? Of course, no monarch could tolerate such an allusion. But she used her anger to force her cabinet to condemn the book and its author.

This would give the Attorney General and the Royal Prosecutor grounds to prosecute these civilians and escalate the matter.

Then, when everyone thought these civilians would be severely punished, she sent someone to announce their pardon in court, thus maximizing the drama.

In this way, she demonstrated both power and magnanimity. She would return to the center of the public eye, no longer the black widow hiding in Windsor Castle.
She will be the benevolent mother of the empire, a wise monarch capable of balancing law and forgiveness. London's political landscape will return to its rightful order.

As for Lionel Sorel, the media can be used to forever brand that French writer as someone who "harms ordinary people." It won't be long before his reputation in Britain is ruined.

But now all of his calculations have become a joke, and his "benevolence" has become nothing more than a backdrop to Lionel's "courage."

This was more humiliating to her than the "Old Lady" in "1984".

Raymond Lister tried to reassure his monarch: "Your Majesty, this is purely..."

"What? A coincidence?" the Queen interrupted him, her voice sharpening. "The timing is perfect! He just finished testifying, and my pardon arrived! Is there such a coincidence in the world?"

She took two steps and stopped in front of the fireplace. The firelight cast a flickering glow on her profile, obscuring her expression.

Immediately, she waved her hand, and a Chinese famille rose vase from the Qianlong period on the mantelpiece fell to the ground.

"Wow!"

Porcelain shards flew everywhere, shattering all over the ground.

Raymond Lister stood frozen in place, too afraid to move.

He had served the Queen for twenty years and had seen her angry and sad, but he had never seen her lose control like this, throwing things in frustration like a common woman.

Queen Victoria stood amidst the rubble, her chest heaving violently.

It took her a full minute to calm down before she walked back to her desk, sat down, and straightened her skirt.

Her movements were meticulous, as if she hadn't been the one who smashed the vase just now.

Her voice regained its calm: "Where is he being held now?"

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(End of this chapter)