Lionel returned to his apartment's desk, holding the thick package from England.
Outside, the hustle and bustle of Paris continued, but the letter in his hand connected him to another world.
He opened the package, which contained several latest issues of "The Nineteenth Century" Magazine and a letter.
The sender on the envelope was Harold Thompson, the editor-in-chief of "The Nineteenth Century" Magazine.
He wrote in fluent, elegant French:
"Dear Mr. Sorel,
Please allow me, on behalf of the editorial department of "The Nineteenth Century" Magazine, to extend our sincere greetings and high appreciation.
Your short story, "my uncle jules," which you kindly allowed us to publish, has received a far more enthusiastic response than anticipated among our readers.
Your refined writing style, profound social insights, and subtle portrayal of human nature have earned the admiration of many intellectuals, including Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Arnold.
However, the more important purpose of this letter is regarding your article, "Family Ties and Individual Responsibility," published in the August issue of the "Modern Life Seminar" column.
Mr. Sorel, I must frankly state that the views you put forward in the article—
that in the irreversible process of industrialization and urbanization, the traditional model of "unlimited" family responsibility, based on land economy and close communal living, is disintegrating, while a new modern family ethic, based on the spirit of contract and "limited" mutual assistance, has not yet been fully established, which is the root cause of many social tragedies—
have sparked an extremely broad and serious discussion among the readers of "The Nineteenth Century" Magazine, prompting people to move beyond simple moral criticism and instead reflect on the underlying social dilemmas.
On behalf of the "Savile Club" in London and a group of loyal readers, I extend our most sincere invitation to you: we hope you can find time to visit London in the near future.
Furthermore, the editor-in-chief of "Good Words," the esteemed Mr. Norman Macleod, is very interested in reprinting "hometown," "my uncle jules," and serializing the English translation of "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button" in "Good Words," and looks forward to meeting you in person.
We believe that your arrival will be a highlight of London's literary season. We eagerly await your favorable reply."
Lionel put down the letter and pondered for a moment.
London's clubs were equivalent to France's salons, but with a stronger elite and masculine character.
He wasn't very interested in them; after all, in the three months before London's spring and summer social season ended, he attended at least two salons every week and was already aesthetically fatigued.
What attracted Lionel most was the collaboration with "Good Words."
As a literary journal that had serialized works by Thomas Hardy, George MacDonald, and others, Good Words also had considerable influence in France.
Moreover, the British manuscript fees were higher than in France; Hardy, for example, could receive the high price of "10 pounds per thousand words" (10 pounds being approximately 250 francs).
Now, with the opportunity right before him, how could he miss it?
The next day, Lionel first sent a reply letter to Harold Thompson, thanking him for his invitation and informing him that he would be able to travel to London the following day.
Then Lionel went to the bank to exchange enough pounds—a stack of pound banknotes of different denominations, and a small bag of copper and silver coins.
Next, he needed to arrange a place for Alice and Petty.
The stench of Paris was still ongoing, and he really couldn't bear to let the two of them return to the apartment on Lafitte Street.
So he wrote a short note to Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting that the two ladies continue to stay for a few more days.
Afterward, he hired a carriage and went to "Paris Gare du Nord" to buy a "through ticket" at the ticket window for London's "Charing Cross Station" for the day after tomorrow.
A hard cardboard train ticket, with the route clearly printed on it: Paris—Calais—Dover—London.
This was a very mature commercial route, which could be reached as early as the same day, even more convenient than him returning to Montiel.
London, like Paris, had everything available for purchase if one had money, so no special preparations were needed.
The next morning, at first light.
Lionel carried a light leather suitcase and took a hired carriage to Paris Gare du Nord.
Inside the suitcase, besides essential clothing and toiletries, were notebooks, a fountain pen, ink, and several copies of "Modern Life," just in case.
In the North Station hall, steam locomotives spewed thick white columns of smoke, whistles sounded one after another, mixed with the shouts of train conductors, the clamor of passengers, and the footsteps of porters; the air was full of coal smoke.
He handed his suitcase to a uniformed porter, watched it being tagged and sent to the luggage car, while he himself only carried his small handbag and boarded the train.
Since the journey was not long, Lionel did not choose a first-class carriage this time, but instead rode in a second-class carriage, with a ticket price of 60 francs.
The second-class carriages also had separate compartments, each with two opposing wooden cushioned benches, but with eight seats.
Although not as spacious and luxurious as the first-class carriages, it was much more comfortable than the crowded, noisy third-class carriages, which often didn't even have a roof.
Sharing Lionel's compartment were a silent British businessman, a French mother with her child, and an old gentleman who looked like a scholar.
At 7:30 AM, the whistle blew loudly, and the train slowly departed from the North Station on time.
The street scenes of Paris gradually receded, replaced by low-rise houses in the suburbs, scattered small factories, and fields.
The train picked up speed, its wheels rhythmically clattering on the tracks, emitting a monotonous and hypnotic "clack-clack" sound.
Lionel looked out the window at the fleeting rural scenery of northern France: flat fields, lush beet fields, red brick houses, pointed church spires…
It was distinctly different from the landscapes of Southern France or the Alps, peaceful, yet slightly monotonous.
Along the way, the train conductor checked tickets and distributed white cardboard cards—customs declaration forms.
Lionel only brought some personal items and manuscripts, so he quickly completed the declaration.
He even had time to help the French mother fill out her customs form.
After about three hours, a salty smell began to waft through the air.
Outside the window, the land became increasingly flat, with occasional wide estuaries and mudflats.
The train began to slow down; Calais was here; if one wanted to go to Dover, then the prepared boat ticket needed to be found.
Calais station was bustling, and Lionel followed the signs and the crowd, quickly arriving at the dock.
A paddle steamer with a black chimney and white hull was docked at the berth, its name, "Invincible," written on its side.
Passengers lined up, boarding the ship with their tickets; Lionel went up to the deck and found a sheltered spot to stand.
The whistle roared, and the ship slowly departed from the French coast.
Soon, the mainland became a blurry line, eventually disappearing from view.
All that remained was the grey-green, undulating sea.
After about two hours, amidst a hazy sea fog, a white cliff gradually appeared—the White Cliffs of Dover—England had arrived.
Stepping onto the solid ground of Dover pier, Lionel felt a completely different "exotic flavor" from Jersey.
The British customs here were strict, so the line moved slowly; customs officials meticulously checked passports, inquired about itineraries, and randomly inspected luggage.
However, Lionel's French passport and declaration form encountered no problems, and he was quickly granted entry.
Immediately afterward, he followed the road signs to board the "boat train."
The design of British train carriages was slightly different from that of France, being open corridor-style carriages where passengers could move freely.
The conversations of passengers around him also changed from French to English—Lionel was a bit unaccustomed at first, but gradually adjusted.
The train quickly started, embarking on a picturesque journey through Kent.
The English countryside scenery was again different from that of northern France: more grasslands, denser hedges, and leisurely grazing cattle and sheep on neatly trimmed pastures.
The houses in the villages were mostly brick or half-timbered, appearing more rustic and verdant, almost having the same wonderful effect as Montiel.
Only, the weather gradually turned gloomy along the way, with light rain occasionally tapping on the train windows.
After more than an hour, continuous suburban houses began to appear outside the window, streets became denser, chimneys became more numerous, and the smell of coal smoke in the air grew thicker.
Finally, the train slowly pulled into "Charing Cross Station" in London.
Lionel checked his pocket watch; the total journey from Paris Gare du Nord took about nine and a half hours, and although he was tired, the trip was smooth.
After retrieving his suitcase, he followed the crowd out of the station hall, truly stepping onto the soil of London.
Immediately afterward, he was hit hard by the palpable stench that greeted him, as if by two punches.
Lionel's vision went black, and he almost fainted: how could there be a city in this world that smelled twice as bad as Paris!