Lionel frowned slightly, feeling a bit strange.
He actually hadn't had much direct contact with the Church—the hidden dangers of The Decadent City had largely been eliminated after the swindler Edward Benoit was disfigured and went mad.
Although Lionel had pushed for the "French Writers' Association" to interfere with the exorcism ritual, he had been a thoroughly "behind-the-scenes" operator.
How could the Church know what he had said at "Flaubert's Sunday"?
If there had to be a conflict, it was when he had made a few snarky remarks to Father Peltier in Montiel two weeks ago.
But that really shouldn't have alarmed any important figures in Paris.
After pondering for a long time, Lionel had no clue, so he simply stopped thinking about it.
What he craved most at this moment was a comfortable bed and complete rest; his experience at St. Thomas' Hospital in London had been anything but pleasant.
Although the initial idea for "Sherlock Holmes" had taken shape, actually starting the creation would require time for preparation, and he would also have to wait for the serialization of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button to conclude.
While Lionel was interested in manuscript fees, he didn't yet have the ambition of Balzac or Alexandre Dumas to write serials for several newspapers simultaneously.
——————
The next day, Lionel slept until 10 AM before getting up.
After making himself a simple breakfast, Lionel prepared to leave.
He wanted to go to "Orby Trading Company" first to let Sophie know he was safe; then he would go to Maizière Villa to pick up Alice and Petie.
They had been living there for a month now.
It was early autumn, and the weather had cooled down; after a few autumn rains, the stench on the streets was no longer so strong as to blind people.
Lionel, having just returned from London, even felt that the air in Paris was somewhat "fresh"!
But literary creditors always arrive uninvited, never giving one a moment's respite.
As Lionel walked downstairs, the administrator told him he had two letters, and they hadn't come by post.
The delivery person had asked the administrator to tell Lionel to open and read them immediately.
Lionel took the envelopes, glanced at the addresses, and smiled—one was from Le Petit Parisien, and the other from Modern Life magazine.
The content was largely similar, but the tone grew more anxious with each.
The editor of Le Petit Parisien wrote in his letter:
[Dear Mr. Sorel,
We hope this finds you well. First, please accept our sincere condolences once again for your unfortunate illness in London, and we are delighted to hear of your recovery and return to France.
It is with great reluctance that we disturb your rest, but the stored manuscripts for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button are only enough to last until this week.
We are now facing immense layout pressure, and we earnestly request that you, by all means, send the subsequent manuscripts as soon as possible to resolve this urgent matter.
Our readers are eagerly awaiting the next turn of fate for Benjamin and Delphine...]
Only then did Lionel remember that although he had been traveling during this period, he had indeed been continuously writing the subsequent story for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.
However, the overall progress was only about two weeks ahead of the newspaper's serialization.
He had been ill in London for 10 days, plus the weekend spent with Sophie, and the trips to and from Paris and London—his manuscript backlog had indeed run out.
Serialization relies on popularity; once it stops, not only will the newspaper have a headache finding articles to fill the pages, but readers will also complain bitterly.
He then opened the letter from Modern Life, which was also a request for manuscripts, though in a more tactful tone.
Lionel pondered for a moment and decided to postpone visiting Sophie and picking up Alice and Petie for a few days.
He would first write the next two weeks' worth of serialization.
Sending a letter would suffice for reporting his safety.
With this thought, Lionel put away the letters, returned to his apartment, sat down at his desk, pulled out his quill pen, and began to write.
In terms of content, the story of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was already past its halfway point.
Benjamin Button and Delphine Villeneuve had both "grown up"—though Benjamin had become younger and more vibrant.
Like in the film, Benjamin became a sailor on a ship, traveling along the Mediterranean coast and even across the Atlantic to America.
Delphine, meanwhile, went to Paris, wanting to become a court dance teacher and an outstanding opera singer.
Although their lives had become parallel lines, they maintained the habit of corresponding with each other.
And before going to sleep, they would both say goodnight to the other, who was not by their side.
Lionel closed his eyes, trying to recall the hazy ideas he'd had before and after his recovery, and then attempted to capture those two souls who moved against the current of fate, yet cared deeply for each other.
[On a Mediterranean night, the sea breeze carried a salty, acrid scent, rustling the sails of the "Siren" with a low, whimpering sound.
Benjamin Button had just finished his lookout duty.
He leaned against the ship's rail, pulling a letter from his inner pocket.
It was Delphine's letter. Her handwriting was slender and clear, like her fingers or her calves—
「...Paris autumns always rain, and the streets are muddy, but the opera house is always warm as spring. I finally passed Madame Garçon's assessment and became a dance troupe trainee. Although I can only dance in the corps de ballet for now, every time I go on pointe, I feel one step closer to my dream...
—Yours, Delphine」
Benjamin's lips unconsciously curved upwards.
He could imagine the scene: Delphine, like a light lark, dancing on a smooth wooden floor.
At this moment, beneath his feet was the pitching deck, above him rough ropes, and facing him the salty, damp sea breeze...
These were two vastly different worlds.
...
He took out the pencil stub he carried with him and, by moonlight, began to write a reply:
「...I just rounded the Peloponnese Peninsula. The winds were strong, and I threw up a few times, but I'm better now, could eat an ox. The spices in Tunis are a bit pungent, but I bought you a small packet of frankincense, said to soothe the mind...
—Yours, Benjamin.」
He wrote his signature, carefully folded the letter, and tucked it into a waterproof envelope.
This letter would have to wait until the next port call to be mailed; receiving a reply would be several months away. ...]
Time slipped away quietly in their continuous exchange of letters.
Benjamin was now almost a "half-old man"—his back could be held very straight, the number of black hairs surpassed white, and he could see things clearly with glasses.
Delphine, meanwhile, traveled further and higher on her path to becoming a court dance teacher and opera singer.
Her outstanding beauty, graceful figure, and elegant dance moves attracted the attention of more and more people.
Finally, Delphine had her first solo dance—
[Applause. A tidal wave of applause.
Delphine Villeneuve gasped slightly, bowing to the audience. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, driven by an immense, almost overflowing joy and excitement.
She saw Madame Garçon in the audience smile approvingly, and she saw the envy, even jealousy, in the eyes of the other dancers.
...
Delphine smiled and responded, but there was a subtle, small empty space in her heart.
She subconsciously glanced at the dressing table, where only a bouquet of flowers from the troupe rested.
How she wished that next to that bouquet, there could be a letter, or even just a telegram, that read:
「Happy for you. —Benjamin」
But where was he now?
The Atlantic?
The Caribbean Sea?
Was he safe? ...
......
She pulled up the covers, looked at the empty ceiling, and whispered, almost inaudibly:
"Goodnight, Benjamin."
Then, she quietly added:
"I danced very well today."]
——————
Lionel locked himself in his room and wrote for three days, only coming downstairs for meals, finally catching up on two weeks' worth of manuscripts.
However, this time he didn't plan to send them to Alice at Maizière Villa—there wasn't enough time.
He decided to send them directly to Modern Life, asking them to transcribe them and return the original manuscript to him, then send a copy to Le Petit Parisien.
After all this was done, he stretched with a sigh of relief, tucked the manuscripts into an envelope, and prepared to go downstairs to mail them.
As he reached the living room, the doorbell rang.
Lionel thought Alice and Petie had returned early and rushed to open the door.
Standing outside were two strangers, with the apologetic apartment administrator behind them.
The elder of the two was a man around fifty, with a lean face and sharp eyes; the younger one behind him had his gaze cast down, hands clasped in front of him.
The older man spoke first:
"Excuse me, are you Mr. Lionel Sorel?"
Lionel stepped back defensively:
"And you are?"
The man nodded slightly:
"We are from the 'Order of Saint Martha.' We apologize for the intrusion. We are here at the request of the Mother Superior to cordially invite you to our headquarters for a discussion."
(End of Chapter)
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