After class in the afternoon, Lionel hurried to the post office on Saint-Martin Avenue, intending to look up the addresses of "Orby Trading Company" and "Panama Interoceanic Canal Global Company."
This was, of course, to expose the lies of his "cheap brother-in-law," Émile.
In this era, let alone the internet, even "Yellow Pages" (a directory listing business names, addresses, and phone numbers) hadn't been invented.
However, most legitimate businesses would leave their addresses at the post office.
As Paris was the most commercially developed city in France, and even in all of Europe, not only French companies but almost all companies with trade relations with France could have their contact information found there.
He handed the names of the two companies through the window, paid 4 centimes, and quickly received their addresses.
"Orby Trading Company" was in the 2nd arrondissement of Paris, near the stock exchange; "Panama Interoceanic Canal Global Company" was in the 8th arrondissement, operating out of the French Overseas Chamber of Commerce Club.
They both seemed like legitimate companies—now he just didn't know if Émile himself was legitimate.
Lionel planned to take a day off tomorrow or the day after to personally visit "Orby Trading Company"—since Émile claimed to be a manager-level figure in this company, he should be able to verify the truth of this identity.
Of course, if the name and position were real, but the person was fake, that would be troublesome...
In France of this era, and indeed throughout Europe, there were no mandatory identity documents.
Documents that could prove one's identity included birth certificates, travel passports, letters of introduction or recommendation, professional certificates, residency permits, court judgments...
In short, they were incredibly complex and somewhat interconnected.
Moreover, due to the high cost of photography, photo IDs were not widespread, making forgery very easy and swindlers rampant.
This is also why, when we read 18th and 19th-century European novels, a swindler pops up from time to time—it's practically a cultural feature.
Nonetheless, this step still needed to be taken.
After getting the addresses, he incidentally inquired about the "Poste Restante" mailbox he had just opened that morning.
To his surprise, after verifying the registered name and password, an envelope was directly handed out from the window.
"That fast?"
Lionel was somewhat taken aback.
Although Paris's "intra-city postal service" was highly developed, allowing for several communications a day even between opposite ends of the city, the speed of Le Vacarme's reply still exceeded his expectations.
Such a tabloid would not bother sending rejection letters; the letter surely meant his manuscript had been accepted.
Touching the envelope, it didn't feel thin—could the royalty payment also be inside? Although money orders and checks were already well-developed, for small sums, people still typically put cash directly into envelopes and mailed them.
Just like the letter from his family that contained 20 francs in cash.
Lionel suppressed his inner excitement, tucked the envelope into his inside breast pocket, and hurried out of the post office.
However, with that delay, by the time he returned to the apartment, it was already completely dark again.
The tenants were gathered around the dining table in the first-floor restaurant, eating Mrs. Martin's cooking by the dim candlelight.
Seeing Lionel enter, bringing in the wind and snow, Mrs. Martin couldn't help but scoff again:
"Young Master Sorel is back?
Which fancy restaurant did you have a grand meal at today?
Looks like you don't have to sit and eat dinner with us common folk again!"
Lionel was unmoved, raising and shaking the bag he was carrying:
"I went to the 'Hotel Meurice' for lunch today.
Their owner was very generous and allowed me to pack some food to enjoy later.
Petty, I brought you some fried sausages, sprinkled with black pepper.
You can come upstairs to get them later."
Petty poked her tiny head out from between the adults' elbows and happily replied,
"Okay, Mr. Sorel!"
Lionel nodded, and in the astonished and envious gazes of the others, he quickly went upstairs, leaving only the "thump-thump" sound of his leather shoes on the floorboards.
Back in his small attic room, Lionel first lit the thickest candle, then propped a thin iron sheet above the candle.
Then he took out the food from the bag—fried sausages, roasted chicken breast, croissants—and placed them on the iron sheet to heat.
This setup was basically standard for poor students in Paris.
While it wouldn't make the food steaming hot like a frying pan, at least it wouldn't be like chewing on ice.
Before long, an enticing aroma of food wafted through the attic.
In the interim, Lionel had already opened the reply from Le Vacarme.
As expected, the envelope contained two 10-franc banknotes and a letter, which was why it felt particularly thick.
Lionel was a little surprised.
Royalties in this era were calculated by the "line," where "line" referred to the standard width of printed typesetting, not the number of lines a writer wrote on manuscript paper; each line was roughly 10 to 12 words.
The royalty standard per line varied for different levels of writers.
For an unknown newcomer like him, each line was usually 2 or 3 sous (10-15 centimes, 0.1-0.15 francs); while for established writers, getting more than 2 francs per line was not uncommon; top-selling authors like Alexandre Dumas could even command the exorbitant price of 5 francs per line.
20 francs, about 200 lines of royalties?
Lionel found it hard to believe, because he had estimated the word count of the two pages of manuscript, which, converted to standard lines, would not exceed 80 lines at most.
He didn't believe he could get royalties of more than 5 sous per line at this point.
The content of the letter explained why—
[Your work possesses an unparalleled sense of humor and satire, a masterpiece of contemporary French literature!
Le Vacarme is willing to pay 3 sous per line for your story.
The 10 francs enclosed here are the royalties for these three pieces.
The other 10 francs are an advance for your future works.
I believe you have many more such stories within you! If you are willing, we can sign a long-term contract, with the price calculated as it is now! Believe me, this is a generous price.
To my knowledge, Le Journal des Bouffons and Le Lantern pay new authors 1 sou per line...]
Lionel scoffed, tossing the letter aside, then put away the 20 francs in cash.
3 sous per line was a fair price for a new author, but by no means generous.
The 10-franc advance was merely a pretense of generosity, an attempt to entice him into signing the so-called "long-term contract."
However, it confirmed that the short stories he wrote did indeed have a market and generated money quickly—there was no other way, the survival strategy of tabloids differed from major newspapers; they had almost no fixed subscribers and relied entirely on sensational content to attract individual buyers.
He was about to get out paper and pen to write a few more stories for Le Vacarme and discuss the royalty issue with its owner when there was a knock on the attic door.
Petty's clear voice came through:
"Mr. Sorel, are you free now?"
Lionel smiled, got up, and opened the attic door:
"Petty, you can eat the sausage here before going downstairs."
He deliberately spoke loudly, so even those on the first floor could hear.
Then he heard a "bang" downstairs, someone's door being heavily shut.
(End of Chapter)
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