The golden carriage procession carrying Zola, Lionel, and others did not drive directly to New York City Hall.
New York's high society began a slow and grand city parade to showcase the muscle and wealth of this burgeoning metropolis.
The first stop was the magnificent St. Patrick's Cathedral.
It was a Gothic Revival building rising from the ground, its greyish-white stone walls appearing exceptionally majestic under the sunlight, with its brand new spires piercing the blue sky.
Young John Morgan proudly introduced:
"This new cathedral's main sanctuary was just completed last year, and it is now the most magnificent church in New York, and even in the New World. Even in Europe, churches like this are rare."
Lionel looked up at St. Patrick's Cathedral's massive rose window and exquisite sculptures.
Even having seen Notre Dame in Paris countless times, the scale of this cathedral was still quite astonishing, especially how out of place its style seemed compared to the surrounding buildings, like an angel on earth.
However, America is, after all, a new nation, and its religious architecture's foundation is still far behind Europe.
Notre Dame was built in the 13th century, its spire already 90 meters high, and its sculptural art far surpassed St. Patrick's Cathedral; even without deep artistic knowledge, one could immediately see the difference.
However, Lionel naturally wouldn't dampen the spirits of the two young men.
He calmly commented,
"Impressive. To complete such a masterpiece in such a short time speaks volumes about the determination and financial resources of New Yorkers."
Anne Morgan smiled and added,
"The power of faith and community is equally important, Mr. Sorel."
The carriage continued to move forward, but the air gradually became murky, and the smell of coal smoke, horse manure, and river water made Lionel think he was back in Paris.
In the distance, over the great river, an even grander architectural silhouette came into view—it was the construction site of the Brooklyn Bridge!
Even from a long distance, the massive stone bridge towers and steel cables as thick as giant pythons were enough to shock the senses.
Getting closer, one could see workers moving freely among the towering framework, looking like ants from a distance.
The clanging of hammers, the hiss of steam engines, and the shouts of workers assailed them, as if they were building a Tower of Babel in the industrial age!
Young John Morgan pointed to the bridge:
"Look over there, Mr. Sorel! When it's finished, it will be the longest suspension bridge in the world! Connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn!
Our American newspapers call it the 'Eighth Wonder of the Modern World'!"
At this moment, Lionel truly felt the difference in spiritual strength between America and France.
In contemporary France, it would be difficult to organize such a large-scale project.
Even if someone had such ambitions, Parliament would not approve the budget; let alone private companies, they would rather throw money into the stock market than invest in real industries.
The two young Morgans stared intently at Lionel's face, hoping to discern something from his expression.
Unfortunately, as a soul baptized by the engineering marvels of an infrastructure-crazed nation, Lionel remained completely unfazed, as if the bridge before him was quite ordinary.
But it was different for the others—Zola, Maupassant, and the rest all poked their heads out of the carriage, their faces filled with shock.
Some even instinctively recoiled, as if oppressed by an invisible force, daring not to look directly at this contemporary industrial marvel.
Next, the motorcade passed Grand Central Station, where the din suddenly increased, and crowds surged in and out of the station entrance like a muddy river.
The sharp whistle of the steam locomotive tore through the air, and chimneys spewed white mist and coal dust, shrouding the station behind a hazy curtain.
Gas lamps flickered in and out of the smoke, casting a dim yellow glow—this was the throat of the Vanderbilt railway empire!
Hurrying businessmen, immigrants carrying luggage, hawkers shouting their wares... Everyone seemed wound up, constantly moving.
Young John Morgan seemed reluctant to say much about this station, only briefly stating:
"This is the pulse of New York."
As they approached Wall Street, the atmosphere changed again; the streets became narrower, and the buildings more crowded.
No factories, no construction sites; men in black suits walked quickly, clutching briefcases or newspapers tightly in their hands.
This place was quite similar to the vicinity of the Bourse in Paris.
Young John Morgan's spirits soared again, and he spoke voluminously, introducing everything.
Especially when passing "Drexel, Morgan & Co.", he was so excited that he almost stood up in the carriage.
Afterward, they passed by landmarks such as Central Park, virtually capturing all the essence of New York in that era.
During the parade, citizens continuously recognized the conspicuous motorcade.
Cheers and whistles rose one after another, and some bold young people even threw a bouquet of flowers towards the carriage.
Maupassant and other young people enthusiastically leaned half their bodies out of the carriage window to wave at the crowd;
Zola, Daudet, and Goncourt were much calmer, only smiling and nodding through the carriage windows at their followers outside.
Lionel mostly just watched quietly, observing the city's details, his emotions the most stable.
More than an hour later, the motorcade finally arrived at its destination—New York City Hall.
It was a white marble building constructed in 1811, with a distinct French Renaissance style, classical and elegant.
On the steps of City Hall, New York Mayor William Grace, leading a group of city officials and city council members, was already lined up and waiting.
Lionel and the others disembarked in turn and stepped onto the stairs, where reporters had already set up their cameras.
Under the guidance of officials, nine French writers lined up across the top of the City Hall steps.
The most prestigious Émile Zola and the oldest Edmond Goncourt stood in the center;
Lionel and Alphonse Daudet stood slightly behind them, while Maupassant and the others lined up along the flanks.
Behind them were the dome and colonnades of City Hall, and in front were dense crowds and countless flashing camera lenses.
"Look here! Don't move!" the photographer shouted loudly.
Flashbulbs flared, permanently freezing this moment, and a photograph destined to be famous in literary history was born.
After the photo, Émile Zola stepped forward to deliver a speech as a representative.
He first praised the architectural style of City Hall, calling it "an elegant fusion of European aesthetics and the vitality of the New World."
Next, he spoke about what he had seen along the way.
"We saw churches soaring into the clouds, steel bridges spanning rivers, bustling railway hubs, and serene and beautiful city parks.
Gentlemen, ladies, New York astonished us!
This city possesses a vitality utterly different from the ancient cities of Europe. Its energy is exceptionally fervent, and the pervasive industrial construction imbues everything with an incredible sense of power, making us feel the ambitious drive of Americans in building their homeland!"
People cheered at the French literary giant's praise.
Immediately, Émile Zola changed his tone:
"Our journey is not only to witness the wonders of America! We also hope that through our pens and our language, we can let the American public feel the French culture of today, feel her spirit, which has endured trials and tribulations yet still thrives!"
His speech earned a warm round of applause.
Subsequently, the writers, accompanied by officials, briefly toured the interior of City Hall.
Then, they re-boarded the golden carriages and headed to their hotel—the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
The hotel lived up to its reputation as New York's most luxurious, with incredibly opulent interior decorations: marble floors, crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains...
It had everything European luxury hotels had; at the same time, it also had something European hotels didn't—an elevator!
The Fifth Avenue Hotel installed a passenger elevator manufactured by "Otis Company," driven by a steam engine-powered hydraulic piston, with a bellhop manually operating the controls.
All of this once again made Zola, Maupassant, and the others marvel.
They were all well-traveled and knowledgeable individuals, but in the face of a full day's barrage of modern industrial products, they felt a bit overwhelmed.
All nine were arranged in the hotel's most luxurious suites, with noon and afternoon dedicated to rest, as the long journey and the morning's intensive activities were tiring.
Their dinner was set at Delmonico's, New York's most luxurious and upscale restaurant, known for its French and Italian cuisine.
New York's high society booked out the entire restaurant for a grand welcoming banquet.
The long tables were laden with silver cutlery and crystal glasses, uniformed waiters moved constantly, and the portion sizes of the dishes were significantly more generous than in Europe.
Lionel even saw an entire roasted peacock brought to the table, still adorned with its magnificent feathers from when it was alive...
During the banquet, bankers, railway tycoons, political celebrities, and their female companions all came forward to converse with the writers, creating a lively and noisy atmosphere.
Lionel tried his best to maintain necessary politeness, but he felt more exhausted than if he had spent a day writing scripts or novels.
But it wasn't over yet.
After the banquet, the group returned to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
In the hotel's splendid ballroom, another social extravaganza—a ball—had already begun.
A band specially brought from Paris played popular waltzes and polkas.
The ballroom gathered almost all of New York's celebrities, so much so that some had to be asked to wait outside temporarily.
After being bombarded with a round of flattery and probing questions, Lionel finally found a relatively quiet corner, holding a glass of champagne, watching the swirling crowd on the dance floor.
Sophie was not with him, so he had little interest in such occasions and declined several invitations, including one from Anne Morgan, who had been their guide today.
If it weren't for the fact that being too "rude" on the first day was unacceptable, he might have already found an opportunity to slip away—one could only say, conquering the world with brothers was too tiring!
Just then, a man in his forties or fifties walked through the crowd directly towards him.
He had golden curly hair and a thick mustache on his upper lip.
He walked up to Lionel, extended his hand, and said in a booming voice:
"Good evening, Mr. Sorel. Welcome to America!
I am Samuel Langhorne Clemens, from Connecticut."
Lionel paused slightly, and almost blurted out:
"Mr. Mark Twain?"
(End of chapter)