1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Chapter 99 The King of Booksellers

News of Michel's return to London reached him almost as late as he did.

The day after returning to London, as soon as Michel got out of bed in the afternoon, he saw a scene through the window that sent chills down his spine...

At least seven or eight newspaper carriages were blocking the entrance to the apartment building. The drivers were chatting idly against the carriage shafts, while groups of reporters squatted on the steps, some smoking and others munching on bread, clearly setting up camp.

As soon as the window was slightly ajar, countless questions flooded in...

"Mr. Michel! Is the exclusive report in the London Express true? Did you really attack the fraudster with a lead plate?"

"Did your attack on the fraudster with a lead plate constitute intentional assault?"

All sorts of problems could be heard clearly through the floorboards, causing a headache.

Michelle sighed.

He should have expected this outcome.

Michael warned him yesterday.

"You're the hottest name in London right now, so be prepared for a hunt."

"It would be best to find somewhere else to stay and lay low for a while."

At the time, Michelle thought Michael was exaggerating.

Should I temporarily avoid their sharp edge?

In retrospect, Michael was even underestimating the situation.

These reporters have the air of someone from two hundred years in the future...

Having lived two lives, this was the first time he had faced such a situation.

Michelle rubbed her temples in exasperation.

He wanted some peace and quiet, but judging from the current situation, he wouldn't be able to get any anytime soon.

Just as Michelle was pondering how to deal with the group of enthusiastic reporters downstairs, a crisp, rhythmic sound of horses' hooves approached from afar, drowning out the noise of the crowd.

The noise downstairs suddenly and eerily quieted down.

At the end of the street, a black four-wheeled carriage was slowly approaching.

Calling it a horse-drawn carriage is an understatement; it's more like a work of art.

The car body was jet black and shiny, gleaming with a deep luster in the sunlight.

A gold family crest was inlaid on the car door. Although the design was too far away to see clearly, the craftsmanship and the grandeur of it were definitely not something an ordinary family could possess.

The two black horses pulling the cart had glossy coats, neatly trimmed manes, and even silver-plated horseshoes.

The driver, dressed in a well-tailored dark uniform, sat ramrod straight, not even glancing at the dumbfounded reporters on the roadside.

The carriage came to a stop in front of the apartment building.

The reporters, who had been blocking the way, suddenly retreated to both sides.

It wasn't out of fear, but rather a subconscious reaction.

Some auras don't need to be spoken; their mere presence is enough to make people back down.

The butler-like coachman got off his seat and gracefully opened the carriage door.

A foot wearing a shiny leather shoe emerged first, landing firmly on the ground.

An elderly gentleman dressed in a dark gray tuxedo stepped down.

His hair was already gray, but he combed it meticulously, and he held an ebony cane in his hand, the top of which was a silver lion.

"Let me find out."

The old gentleman spoke to the reporter who was closest to him.

"Where does Mr. Michel LeBlanc live?"

The reporter opened his mouth and answered instinctively.

"The house with the date palm tree in front of it."

"Thanks."

The old gentleman nodded slightly and stepped onto the stairs.

His attendant followed closely behind, carrying an exquisite leather folder.

The reporters downstairs looked at each other in bewilderment, and then an uproar ensued.

"That family crest... I recognize it, it's the Murray family!"

"John Murray?! The King of Books has come in person?"

"My God, wasn't the last time Murray personally visited a writer when he went to see Lord Byron?"

In the British publishing world today, the name John Murray is an insurmountable mountain.

He was a close friend of Lord Byron, the publisher of Jane Austen, and his Murray Books was a mecca for all of English literature.

Compared to Chapman Hall, which collaborated with Dickens, Murray Books represented a different world.

A world belonging to nobles, scholars, and the elite.

Michelle heard about these comments.

It's this person, if I remember correctly.

In the near future, Darwin's *On the Origin of Species* will also be published by this publisher...

There was a knock on the door.

Three strokes, with even pressure, neither too light nor too heavy.

He exudes the manners of a seasoned gentleman.

Michelle opened the door.

The old gentleman standing outside the door had a composed expression.

It was as if he wasn't visiting Michelle's apartment, but rather welcoming an old friend in his own living room.

"Mr. Michelle LeBlanc?"

"it's me."

"John Murray." The old gentleman extended his right hand.

"50 Albemarle Street, Murray Bookstore. Please excuse my intrusion."

Michelle shook hands with him and then spoke.

"Please come in, Mr. Murray. But I must mention beforehand that the house is a bit messy, if you don't mind."

John Murray paused for a moment, then smiled.

"I've seen Lord Byron's study, and it was even messier than this."

After a while, the atmosphere in Michelle's apartment living room became somewhat tense.

Because neither of them spoke...

John Murray sat gracefully on the sofa, his ivory cane resting beside him.

Michelle, however, did not feel embarrassed and remained calm.

He sat opposite Murray, poured himself a cup of tea, and waited quietly for the other to speak.

Murray's sharp gaze lingered on Michelle for a moment, seemingly surprised by his calmness.

Few writers could remain so calm in order to be summoned to meet him in person.

After all, he represents too much in the British literary world.

"Mr. Michel, I won't beat around the bush."

"Speaking."

"The fact that I can sit here in person represents an attitude."

Murray speaks slowly, but every word carries weight.

"In London, publishing a book is easy. Just find any printing factory, and they can print a thousand rubbish copies in three days."

"But it's difficult to be remembered by history."

He paused for a moment after saying this.

"Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott sat in front of the fireplace at 50 Albemarle Street. The leather of that chair still bears the dents left by Lord Byron sitting on it—he had gained quite a bit of weight around that time."

50 Albemarle Street is the address of Murray Books.

At this point, Murray showed a rare hint of humor.

But his expression quickly returned to seriousness.

"Their works remain the crown jewels of all of Europe to this day."

"Once you sign this contract, your name will be listed alongside these great souls, and your book will be permanently collected by the British Library."

The attendant opened the exquisite leather folder at the opportune moment, took out a contract, and neatly placed it on the coffee table.

Michelle glanced down.

The contract was made of handmade textured paper with an exceptionally smooth and dense surface.

The font is handwritten cursive English, with each letter written beautifully.

The terms and conditions were densely packed, but the core content was highlighted in bold.

"The contract is for a three-year term, during which Murray Books will have exclusive rights to publish all literary works."

Michelle did not reach out to touch the contract.

To be honest, he needs time to think.

Money is important, but the friendship with Michael and Dickens is even more important...

Moreover, he himself had other plans—

"Mr. Murray, to be honest, this condition..."

Before he could finish speaking, a rapid sound of horses' hooves came from downstairs, followed by the sharp screeching of wheels screeching as they braked violently.

Then came a series of noises.

"Make way! Make way! Please move aside!"

Footsteps pounded loudly, hurried and rapid, completely lacking Mr. Murray's composure and dignity.

Michelle and Murray both turned to look at the door.

The door was pushed open.

To be precise, it was knocked open.

My door!

Michelle felt a pang of pain in her heart.

He must pay a hefty compensation.

A middle-aged man stood at the door, sweating profusely, his suit jacket wrinkled in the front.

He looked to be in his forties, slightly overweight, with messy blond hair from running.

But his clothes were all very expensive, clearly high-end items.