Chapter 19: Elena

Gabriel Marrel, the owner of The Clamor Gazette, had recently been feeling both joy and anxiety.

The joy came naturally from the newspaper’s soaring sales, which exceeded 200,000 copies per issue in Paris alone, with strong numbers in the provinces as well.

This success was largely thanks to the new column, “An Honest Parisian’s Provincial Travels.”

Though each installment contained only two or three short stories—sometimes just forty or fifty lines—they had become the main reason Parisians bought The Clamor Gazette.

Everyone eagerly anticipated the misadventures of “An Honest Parisian” in Burgundy, Brittany, or Provence.

Especially notable were the clergy portrayed in these stories, who transcended the usual stereotypes of being stuffy, lustful, selfish, and hypocritical; instead, they were elevated to another level, where whispered scandals were brought to light with subtle humor.

Of course, the cast was not limited to clergymen—it included landowners, farmers, wealthy merchants, officials, beggars, and prostitutes, all depicted vividly and humorously.

What was even more astonishing was how “An Honest Parisian” managed to depict these affairs with such detail and from such peculiar angles in every issue.

However, The Clamor Gazette also faced unprecedented pressure.

Gibert Boan, the bishop overseeing the Paris diocese, had petitioned the government three times to ban the newspaper, demanding that both the owner Gabriel and “An Honest Parisian” be dragged to court—though the bishop secretly wished to see them executed by guillotine.

Fortunately, this was Paris, where money could solve almost anything.

After presenting costly gifts to Ferdinand Herold, the senior official of the Seine department, Albert Gigot, the chief of Paris police, and Lyon Sey, the Minister of the Interior, Bishop Boan’s complaints were temporarily shelved.

Yet this only gave these powerful men leverage to extort The Clamor Gazette in the future.

As for the 13 sous per piece paid to “An Honest Parisian,” it was a mere pittance compared to the overall revenue growth of the paper.

Each copy of The Clamor Gazette sold for 3 sous; after deducting costs of paper, printing, labor, contributions, and distribution, it yielded a net profit of half a sou per copy, making 1,000 francs from 200,000 copies.

But this was not the main source of income—the advertisements from brothels, independent courtesans, mistresses’ agents, and mummy aphrodisiacs brought in an additional 500 to 1,000 francs per issue, fluctuating with circulation.

Of course, 20 to 30 percent of these earnings went to greasing the palms of various hands reaching out.

For Gabriel, as long as The Clamor Gazette kept selling, it was a machine that endlessly printed francs; no expense was too great to keep it running.

As on every morning, he arrived early at the newspaper office—a building he had purchased outright, a two-story house tucked away in a small alley in the Eighth District on Saints Street. The upper floor housed offices, below were the typesetting room and printing presses.

He sat down, pulled out a half-smoked cigar from the drawer, lit it again, drew in a deep, satisfying puff, and began opening the day’s submissions.

After discarding a dozen or so worthless manuscripts, an envelope signed “An Honest Parisian” appeared before him.

“Hm? Didn’t he just send all the stories for this week yesterday?” Gabriel wondered, but his hands did not pause; instead, he tore open the envelope faster and extracted two thin sheets of paper.

The first page was filled with writing, and after reading only a few lines, Gabriel froze—

“...The two arrived beneath the grapevine arbor, where a set of Spanish-style chairs and table stood, alongside a harp and a bow and arrow. Miss Elena sat beside the harp, gently plucking its strings, producing melodious sounds; Mr. Simons took aim with his bow. They agreed that for each bullseye, Elena would accompany Simons with a glass of wine. Soon, Simons struck ten bullseyes, thoroughly intoxicating Elena. Her cheeks blossomed like roses, her eyes resembled the autumn waters of the Seine. Simons fetched more wine to the room, adding mummy powder to his glass and downing it in one. Upon returning, Elena had already laid a mattress and silk quilt beneath the arbor, and she herself... [two lines deleted here] lay supine on the mattress, wearing only a pair of red shoes on her feet and holding a white silk fan. Simons approached, finding her unmoved, and, emboldened by drink, ... [twenty lines deleted here]. He bound Elena’s feet to the arbor and hung her upside down, ... [fifteen lines deleted here]. Simons ... [ten lines deleted here] ... Elena lay face up, ... [ten lines deleted here] ... Simons chuckled: “[one line deleted here]” ... Elena ... [twenty lines deleted here] ... finally fell into a deep sleep.”

Gabriel sat speechless.

As the famed proprietor of The Clamor Gazette and an uncelebrated writer of ribald jokes and risqué tales, he prided himself on being well-read—from Boccaccio’s Decameron to the Marquis de Sade’s Philosophy in the Boudoir.

Yet he had never encountered prose so exquisite, so explicit, and yet so artfully entertaining. The frequent “[deletion marks]” only made him itch with impatience.

At last, he flipped to the second page—only to find it blank except for a single line: “Dear Gabriel, this is a section from a novel I am conceptualizing. If you are interested, we can discuss publication plans in detail…”

Gabriel slammed the paper onto the desk. “Bastard... no, devil!”

A fragmentary, tantalizing passage had ignited the flames of desire within this successful man, who already had a wife and several mistresses. He even needed a glass of whiskey to calm down.

Returning to his desk, he swept aside the other submissions and, smacking his lips, reread the first page.

“A masterpiece! A masterpiece! An unparalleled masterpiece!” By now, Gabriel was fully appreciative of the text, discerning its brilliance.

The setting, imagery, actions, and dialogue—all were gripping in ways unseen in any European novel before.

The only problem was its sheer audacity; if published, both the author and publisher would face enormous risks.

Yet if released, its sales and profits would surely be astronomical.

In the end, his thirst for money outweighed his fear of the courts. With trembling hands, Gabriel wrote beneath the second page:

“Agreed. But we must meet to discuss…”

Having penned this, he slipped the letter into a fresh envelope, addressed it to the “Poste Restante” box on Saint Martin Avenue, and shouted, “Pierre, you lazy donkey, get in here quickly!”