The stench of Paris primarily came from the seasonal foulness of the Seine River and the putrid smell of accumulated human and animal waste and garbage on some streets; it was a relatively primitive kind of odor.
The stench of London, however, layered upon this foundation the "gifts" of over a century of industrial revolution:
Tens of thousands of chimneys, like mouths of hellfire, ceaselessly spewed sulfur-rich coal smoke, pungent and choking;
The Thames River was a colossal open sewer, with feces, industrial wastewater, and decaying organic matter mixing and pervading everything.
Moreover, the countless horses daily left behind manure and urine that, compacted and fermented by footsteps and carriage wheels on the streets, created a smell that was almost palpable.
All these odors were then trapped and concentrated by London's common heavy fog and damp weather, making them not only nauseating but also extremely aggressive.
Lionel couldn't help but curse under his breath,
"God... Paris compared to this is like a perfumery on the Champs-Élysées!"
Then he quickly pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose, but the pervasive smell stubbornly seeped through.
Aside from the smell, the environment outside the station was equally uninspiring.
The streets were muddy, with horse dung and garbage mixed into the murky sludge.
Newsboys, shoe-shine boys, and street urchins swarmed around newly arrived passengers like flies, hawking or begging in sharp voices.
The air was filled with shouts in various accents, the creaking of carriages, and the shrill whistles of policemen, chaotic and noisy.
Lionel vigilantly clutched his small handbag and the wallet in his pocket.
Sure enough, just as he stopped to try and discern his direction, he felt a slight bump from behind.
He instinctively touched his inner coat pocket, his expression subtly changing—the pocket button had been undone at some point!
He whirled around, only to see a ragged, small, and nimble figure quickly darting into the crowd.
Lionel let out a low growl, disregarding etiquette, and grabbed the arm of the scamp who was about to slip away.
It was a boy who looked no older than ten, his face too dirty to discern his features, only a pair of eyes darting about, full of cunning and devoid of fear.
The boy struggled, crying out,
"Mister! Let go of me! I didn't do anything!"
Lionel's hand quickly went into his inner pocket; thankfully, his wallet was still there.
He figured it had just been unbuttoned and discovered before the thief had a chance to act.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but his anger had not subsided, and he glared fiercely at the boy.
The boy immediately put on a pitiful expression: "Mister, please, I'm so hungry..."
Lionel ultimately did not call the police; he simply released his hand.
The boy vanished into the crowd like a startled rabbit.
Lionel shook his head, re-buttoned his inner pocket, and, glancing around even more cautiously, hurried towards the queue of hansom cabs to head to his pre-selected hotel.
He had done a little research in advance, booking a hotel named "Bedford" in the "Bloomsbury" district via telegram.
This area, near the British Museum, was relatively quiet and home to many scholars and literati, so it should be more comfortable than near the train station.
Lionel walked to the nearest cab and told the driver the address.
The driver was a burly man with a red face, chewing tobacco, who mumbled a reply:
"Alright, sir. Get in."
Lionel squeezed into the narrow but fairly clean carriage; the cab immediately set off, merging into the continuous stream of traffic on London's streets.
London's streets were even more crowded than Paris's, and the traffic situation was more chaotic.
All sorts of carriages and pedestrians intertwined, with densely packed, soot-blackened buildings lining both sides of the streets, making it feel oppressive and dreary.
Initially, Lionel tried to remember the route, but he quickly got lost in the complex network of streets and alleys.
He felt the carriage seemed to be circling in some places, but as a newcomer, he wasn't sure.
After quite some time, the cab finally stopped in front of a four-story brick building that looked quite old.
A faded sign hung over the lintel, indeed reading "Bedford."
The driver pulled open the small trapdoor on the roof and announced a price:
"15 shillings, sir."
Lionel's heart sank.
He had checked beforehand; from Charing Cross Station to Bloomsbury, it should be around 7 shillings (roughly 9 francs).
This driver was asking for double, which was blatant robbery!
"15 shillings?"
Lionel repeated, trying to keep his voice calm but tinged with skepticism,
"That seems a bit excessive for this distance."
The driver's face immediately fell, and his tone hardened:
"That's the price, sir. The traffic was awful, and time is money!"
Lionel knew that arguing further would be futile, especially on the other person's home ground.
He took a deep breath, suppressed his displeasure, counted out 15 shillings from his wallet, and handed them over.
The driver took the money, mumbled a vague "Thank you, sir," and drove off.
Lionel stood by the roadside, looked at the hotel sign, and sighed, thinking this must be London's last lesson for him.
—Of course not!
The "Bedford" Hotel, from exterior to interior, exuded an old, dreary atmosphere.
The front desk was managed by a serious-faced middle-aged man in a black suit.
After Lionel stated his name, the manager flipped through the register:
"Ah, yes, Mr. Sorel. We received your telegram. A single room with a fireplace, 10 shillings per night (approximately 12 francs), meals not included."
Lionel paid for the first night's stay and was led up the stairs by a porter.
The room was on the top floor, the fourth floor.
It wasn't large and was simply furnished: an iron bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, a writing desk, and a chair.
The walls were covered with dark patterned wallpaper, some areas already damp and bubbling, emitting a faint musty smell.
Lionel: "..."
These conditions were worse than the 5-franc-a-night small hotel he had booked for Chekhov.
The porter set down the suitcase and looked expectantly at Lionel.
Lionel gritted his teeth, fished out a sixpenny coin, and handed it to him—a vice French people absolutely did not have (this custom of expecting tips).
The porter took the money, looking disappointed, but still thanked him and quietly withdrew.
While Paris's service industry might be slightly hypocritical, it was at least outwardly warm and attentive.
London's service industry couldn't even be called perfunctory.
He wearily collapsed onto the bed, which groaned under his weight.
Gazing at the dim gaslight on the ceiling, Lionel felt that this city was like a massive, indifferent, industrial-smelling giant beast.
Perhaps there were more opportunities and more wealth here than in Paris, but it was also far too harsh.
He thought, this surely must be London's final lesson for him, right?
—Of course not!
The next morning, Lionel, still asleep, was woken by rustling noises from the roof.
He angrily went downstairs to the front desk, demanding to know what was happening.
The receptionist profusely apologized, explaining that they were cleaning the hotel's chimneys, and the last one was the fireplace in Lionel's room; it would be done soon.
Indeed, a few minutes later, Lionel witnessed a scene he would never forget:
A small boy, who looked at most four or five years old, covered head to toe in black soot, was being lowered to the ground from the rooftop by a rope.
An adult man, who seemed displeased with the little boy's work, slapped him across the face as he reached the ground.
The little boy, accustomed to it, neither cried nor spoke, but instead flashed a smile, revealing his bright white teeth.
Lionel shivered all over.
The duty manager at the front desk next to him chuckled and said,
"Tom is six years old now, it's the golden age for this line of work!"
Lionel turned incredulously:
"Golden age? How long will he live, then?"
The front desk manager shrugged:
"God knows... Probably until adulthood? If he doesn't get stuck in a chimney and can't get out..."
Lionel was speechless.
He felt his clothes and realized he had come downstairs in his pajamas; he had nothing in his pockets except his key.
Now, he was already starting to regret coming to London...
(End of this chapter)
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