Chapter 18: The Poor and Upright Leonal

Before Lionel lay a hundred francs in cash and a telegram. The hundred francs was an advance payment from The Clamor for the coming week’s manuscript. Gabriel had eagerly taken the submissions of “An Honest Parisian” as a serialized column in The Clamor, even moving its placement from a secondary page to the second page.

Since the “Priest Trilogy” was published, The Clamor had swiftly crushed other lowbrow publications like The Lantern and The Jester, increasing its circulation by over twenty thousand copies per issue and becoming the favorite reading for Parisians in the restroom.

Each story, blending elements of erotica, homosexuality, and other popular themes with subtlety and wit, left readers utterly captivated.

The French could hardly believe such matters could be conveyed through so many veiled hints, and they reveled in the delight of sudden realization.

Yet this had a side effect—

Recently, many Parisians had sought medical treatment for ruptured hemorrhoids caused by laughing too hard while on the toilet.

For a time, Parisian restrooms became scenes of “bloody storms.”

Under these circumstances, Gabriel not only agreed to raise the payment for “An Honest Parisian” to thirteen sous per line but also consented to pay a weekly advance of one hundred francs.

“An Honest Parisian” was required to submit no fewer than 150 lines of manuscript to The Clamor by every Tuesday.

The Clamor understood well: since the author collected payment anonymously, if these terms were not accepted, “An Honest Parisian” might easily submit work to rival papers like The Lantern.

Such was the nature of tabloids—the payment was often polarized: they ruthlessly exploited fledgling writers while willing to pay handsomely for works that boosted sales.

Thirteen sous per line was a rate reserved for writers of some repute in Paris’s publishing circles.

Guy de Maupassant, who had cemented Lionel’s reputation as “poor” and “upright,” earned no more than ten sous per line, and his published works were scant.

Yet Lionel could not feel elated, for the telegram from the Alps bore grim news—

The day before Lionel’s telegram arrived home, the Sorel family had handed over a full 5,000 francs in cash to a swindler named “Emile,” who had been sent to Paris to purchase bonds for the Panama Canal.

Lionel’s actions had already been swift: within three days of receiving the previous letter, he had investigated Emile’s background and sent a telegram warning his family.

But in this era, telegraphs were not yet widespread in every town.

Lionel’s telegram was first sent to Laragne, the largest city near his hometown. Only then did the Laragne telegraph office notify the recipient by mail, requiring them to travel to Laragne to retrieve the message.

The round trip took three days.

By then, Emile had vanished with Lionel’s sister’s dowry and most of the family’s savings.

The Sorels panicked upon receiving the telegram. They first examined the gifts Emile had given their daughter and found the ring, necklace, and dazzling jewels were all fake.

They then traveled to Gap, the provincial capital, to visit the office of the Orly Trading Company, which flatly denied any knowledge of Emile.

As for the grand plantation in Guyana, the Sorels lacked both the means and reason to verify its existence.

The family was on the verge of collapse—the father was dazed by the terrible news, no longer able to work; the mother still managed household affairs but wept quietly when thinking of it; the sister was inconsolable, washing her face daily with tears and no longer leaving the house.

At the end of the lengthy telegram, the father made a difficult “request,” just as in the previous letter: to drop out of school and return home.

Only now he could no longer promise the office job paying 260 francs per month. More likely, he would have to start as a lowly copyist earning 120 francs monthly in some company or plantation, and after many years—like the father, who had lost his sight—might only reach 200 francs.

Lionel sighed, folded the long telegram, and put it away.

Returning to the Alps was now out of the question.

Not because he lacked deep feelings for these “strange” relatives, but because going back would sacrifice his own future without any benefit.

If The Clamor did not change its stance, he could already earn nearly 400 francs a month, roughly 5,000 francs a year, which for someone of the “commoner” class meant a life that could be called “decent”—though far from stable.

If The Clamor were banned—an all-too-common occurrence—or if his stories lost their appeal, his income could be halved at any moment.

Moreover, anonymity offered a double-edged sword: it protected him from exposure and the moral condemnation of a courtroom, but it also meant he held no control over the pseudonym “An Honest Parisian.” Paris abounded with talented yet unrecognized writers, and The Clamor could replace him at any time, saving at least 50 francs weekly.

After all, the Laughing Forest Chronicles consisted of brief jokes, a limited genre that was “fresh” to the French but hardly “profound.”

Such novelty could last only two or three months before imitators like “An Honest Parisian,” “A Simple Parisian,” “A Genuine Parisian,” or “A Sturdy Parisian” would spring up like mushrooms after rain.

But regardless, the solution to the Sorel family’s crisis lay not in the Alps but in Paris.

Lionel first wrote home, claiming he had secured a part-time position as a tutor for a noble family, earning 200 francs per month—enough to cover his living expenses and Sorbonne tuition—and enclosed 100 francs to prove his words.

He also asked his family to provide a detailed description of Emile’s appearance and, if possible, a portrait drawn by an artist, to be sent to him.

He promised to search for any trace of the swindler in Paris.

Finally, he earnestly expressed that although the family had lost a vast sum of 5,000 francs, the most important thing was not to be crushed; as long as he and his father could work, there was hope for the Sorels to rise again.

After finishing the letter, the round skylight was already bathed in pale moonlight. He sighed, slipped the letter into an envelope, and pulled out a stack of writing paper.

He filled one page completely, then took a second sheet but wrote only a single line—

“Dear Mr. Gabriel, this is a segment of the novel I am conceptualizing. If you are interested, we can discuss its publication plan in detail...”