The stench of Paris was primarily the periodic fishy smell of the Seine River, combined with the putrid odor of human and animal waste and accumulated garbage on some streets; it was a relatively primitive smell.
The stench of London, however, built upon this, adding the "gifts" of over a hundred years of the Industrial Revolution:
Tens of thousands of chimneys, like the fiery mouths of hell, ceaselessly spewed sulfur-rich coal smoke day and night, acrid and choking.
The Thames River was a giant open sewer, a pervasive mix of excrement, industrial wastewater, and rotting organic matter, steaming and inescapable.
Furthermore, the daily deposits of countless horses' manure and urine on the streets were compacted and fermented by footsteps and wheels, creating a smell that was almost palpable.
All these odors were then trapped and concentrated by London's common fogs and damp weather, making them not only nauseating but also extremely aggressive.
Lionel couldn't help but curse under his breath, "My God… Paris compared to this is a perfume shop on the Champs-Élysées!"
He quickly pulled out his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose, but the smell still stubbornly seeped through.
Aside from the smell, the environment outside the station was equally unimpressive.
The streets were muddy and filthy, with horse manure and rubbish mixed into the black sludge.
Newsboys, shoeshine boys, and street urchins swarmed around newly arrived travelers like flies, their voices shrill as they hawked or begged.
The air was filled with shouts in various accents, the creaking of carriages, and the whistles of policemen, creating a chaotic and noisy scene.
Lionel gripped his small bag and the wallet in his pocket warily.
Sure enough, just as he paused to get his bearings, he felt a light bump from behind.
He instinctively felt his inner jacket pocket, and his expression changed slightly—the pocket's button had been unfastened at some point!
He spun around abruptly, seeing a ragged, small, and nimble figure quickly disappearing into the crowd.
Lionel let out a low growl, forgetting all etiquette, and grabbed the arm of the boy who was trying to slip away.
It was a boy who looked no older than ten, his face so dirty that his features were obscured, only his eyes darted around, full of cunning and devoid of fear.
The boy struggled and cried out, "Sir! Let me go! I didn't do anything!"
Lionel's hand quickly went into his inner pocket; thankfully, his wallet was still there. He guessed it had just been unbuttoned and he was discovered before he could make a move.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but his anger hadn't subsided, and he glared fiercely at the boy.
The boy immediately put on a pitiful expression: "Sir, please, I'm so hungry…"
Lionel ultimately didn't call the police; he simply let go.
The boy darted into the crowd and disappeared like a startled rabbit.
Lionel shook his head, refastened his inner pocket button, and looked around with increased vigilance, walking quickly towards the line of hansom cabs to head to his pre-selected hotel.
He had done some homework in advance, booking a hotel called "Bedford" in the "Bloomsbury" area via telegram.
This area was near the British Museum, relatively quiet, and home to many scholars and literati, so it should be more comfortable than the vicinity of 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, and he mumbled a response: "Alright, sir. Get in."
Lionel squeezed into the narrow but relatively clean carriage; the cab immediately set off, joining the ceaseless flow of traffic on London's streets.
London's streets were even more crowded than Paris, and the traffic was more chaotic.
Various carriages and pedestrians intertwined, and along both sides of the street were densely packed, soot-blackened buildings, creating a sense of oppression and gloom.
Initially, Lionel tried to remember the route, but he quickly got lost in the complex network of streets.
He felt as if the cab had gone in circles in some places, but being new to the city, he couldn't be sure.
After quite a while, the cab finally stopped in front of a four-story brick building that looked quite old.
A faded sign hung above the doorway, indeed reading "Bedford."
The driver opened the small hatch on the roof and quoted a price: "15 shillings, sir."
Lionel's heart sank. He had checked beforehand, and the fare from Charing Cross Station to Bloomsbury should be around 7 shillings (about 9 francs).
This driver had doubled the price; it was blatant robbery!
"15 shillings?" Lionel repeated, trying to keep his voice calm but with a hint of skepticism: "That seems a bit excessive for this distance."
The driver's face immediately darkened, and his tone became firm: "That's the price, sir. The road's very jammed, and time is money!"
Lionel knew arguing further would be fruitless, especially on the driver's home turf.
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 with his cab.
Lionel stood by the roadside, looked at the hotel sign, and sighed, thinking this must be London's final lesson for him, right?
—Of course not!
The "Bedford" hotel, from outside to inside, exuded an air of age and dullness.
The front desk was manned by a serious-faced middle-aged manager 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, small in size, with simple furnishings: an iron-frame 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: "…" The conditions were even worse than the 5-franc-a-night small hotel he had booked for Chekhov.
The porter set down the suitcase and looked at Lionel expectantly.
Lionel gritted his teeth and pulled out a sixpence coin to give him—a bad habit that the French certainly did not have.
The porter took the money, looking disappointed, but still thanked him and quietly retreated.
While Parisian service was perhaps a bit hypocritical, at least it was outwardly warm and attentive; London's service didn't even qualify as perfunctory.
He collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, and the mattress creaked.
Looking at the dim gas lamp on the ceiling, Lionel felt that this city was like a massive, indifferent, industrially foul-smelling beast.
Perhaps there were more opportunities and more wealth here than in Paris, but it was also too ruthless.
He thought, this must surely 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 and demanded to know what was happening.
The front desk apologized profusely, saying they were cleaning the hotel chimneys, and the last one was the fireplace in Lionel's room, which would be done soon.
Indeed, a few minutes later, Lionel witnessed a scene he would never forget:
A small boy, looking no older than four or five, covered in pitch-black soot, was being lowered to the ground by a rope from the rooftop.
An adult man was waiting for him downstairs, seemingly displeased with the boy's work, and slapped him across the face.
The little boy was already used to it; he didn't cry or speak, but instead showed his white teeth and smiled.
A shiver ran down Lionel's spine.
The duty manager at the front desk said with a smile, "Tom is already 6 years old, the golden age for this kind of work!"
Lionel turned incredulously: "Golden age? Then how long will he live?"
The front desk manager shrugged: "God knows… He'll probably live to adulthood? If he doesn't get stuck in a chimney and can't get out…"
Lionel was speechless. He felt his body and realized he had come downstairs in his pajamas, with nothing in his pockets but his key.
Now, he was beginning to regret coming to London…