Maupassant's face turned pale, then red.
He glanced at Lionel, sighed, and said solemnly,
"I... of course, I'm going to Saint-Lazare Station! It's closest to home!"
Lionel laughed,
"That's good!"
Maupassant snapped back,
"Hey, Lion, you're dodging the question—what exactly is your philosophy?
Sometimes I feel you're very much like me; the works you write are exactly what I dream of writing myself, like 'My Uncle Jules';
Other times, I feel you have a touch of romanticism, like 'Letter from an Unknown Woman,' and 'The Affair of Benjamin Button'...
You're too changeable. Even our teacher once told me, 'Lionel isn't so much creating as he is experimenting...'"
Lionel laughed,
"What 'ism' or 'school' isn't really important; what's important is that I'm writing, and publishers are willing to pay for it.
Guy, let's forget tonight's argument! Tell me, what are you writing lately?"
Maupassant brightened at the question,
"Ha, talking about this, I'm not sleepy anymore—do you know the newspaper 'Gil Blas'?"
Lionel nodded.
He was quite impressed by this new newspaper that had tried to freeload the reprint rights to his "Old Guards."
Maupassant was even more pleased,
"After 'Boule de Suif' was published, they commissioned me!
Now, they're about to serialize my 'Madame Tellier's Establishment,' for three whole weeks!
Hey, look, I have my own serialized work now! Earlier than Huysmans and them!"
Lionel politely asked,
"'Madame Tellier's Establishment'? What's it about?"
Maupassant proudly declared,
"Prostitutes! I'm writing a story about a brothel madam leading her girls to a village for their first communion!
Lionel, just as 'children' are the inspiration for your works, 'prostitutes' are my muse!"
Lionel: "..."
Maupassant's words weren't wrong.
In terms of the breadth, height, and depth of works depicting prostitutes, few in literary history could rival him.
Maupassant suddenly remembered something and burst into laughter,
"I never imagined I spent so much money on the girls, and now it's all come back!"
At this moment, the outline of the train station became clearer, and a long whistle sounded, interrupting their conversation.
——————
January in Edinburgh, like London, had damp and chilly air that seemed to seep into one's bones.
Arthur Conan Doyle emerged from the medical school laboratory, tightened his rather thin overcoat, and hurried towards his lodging.
The sky was dim, but his mood wasn't gloomy, because a thick letter from Paris lay quietly in his mailbox, the familiar handwriting on the envelope making his heart beat faster.
Back in his cramped rented room, Conan Doyle eagerly tore open the envelope.
Inside was a thick stack of manuscript paper filled with French, and a short letter addressed to him; he picked up the short letter first and began to read it under the light of a kerosene lamp.
Lionel first inquired about his recent situation and expressed admiration for Dr. Joseph Bell, then cut straight to the detective novel centered on the method of deduction.
In the letter, Lionel wrote enthusiastically:
[...I firmly believe that Dr. Bell's exceptional powers of observation and reasoning ought to be presented to the world in a more dramatic fashion.
I have attempted to create a consulting detective named "Sherlock Holmes," who resides on Baker Street in London, possesses a keenness comparable to Dr. Bell's, yet also has some eccentric habits not tolerated by common society. His power stems from knowledge, logic, and insight into details.
Enclosed with this letter is the scene of Mr. Holmes's first meeting with his new roommate, a young doctor named John H. Watson.
I have tried to once again demonstrate the so-called 'deductive method,' the one I learned from Dr. Bell.
I humbly ask you, with your understanding of Dr. Bell and your rigorous attitude towards medicine and science, to please offer your valuable suggestions and see if there are any absurd or illogical points?
Enclosed with this letter are 50 pounds, as starting funds for the research work.
...]
Conan Doyle flipped through the envelope and, sure enough, 50-pound banknotes fell out.
He carefully put the money away, then picked up the stack of novel manuscript papers, took a deep breath, and began to read.
The title on the manuscript paper was: "A Study in Scarlet."
He quickly immersed himself.
Lionel's writing was fluid, precise, and concise.
He saw a character—Sherlock Holmes—who was uncannily similar to Dr. Bell yet distinctly different.
He also possessed the astonishing ability to instantly discern a stranger's background, but the reasoning process in Lionel's writing was more detailed and layered than Dr. Bell's impromptu lessons in the ward.
It was as if he had stretched and magnified a fleeting spark of thought, providing convincing evidence for each step.
From deducing "Watson's" identity as a surgeon from the condition of his hands, to interpreting the rise and fall of his family through subtle marks on his pocket watch...
Conan Doyle read, dumbfounded.
This was not merely imitation, but a distillation and sublimation.
Holmes's deductions were more systematic, more dramatic, and also more captivating than Dr. Bell's.
Conan Doyle murmured,
"My God... he's captured the essence... no, he's even surpassed the essence! He's turned it into an art!"
Especially Holmes's "inhuman" eccentricities—
His indifference to everyday social interactions, his fanatical focus on specific areas of knowledge, his almost arrogant confidence, and his disdain for emotional thinking—
All these made the character possess a mysterious, dangerous charm beyond his extraordinary intelligence.
This was indeed different from Dr. Bell, who always maintained a professor's dignity and a doctor's meticulousness.
Lionel pushed the power of pure reason to its extreme, creating an unforgettable image of an extreme genius.
Conan Doyle felt a strong surge of excitement.
He could almost imagine the sensation such a novel would cause if published in a magazine.
At the same time, a faint tinge of jealousy quietly passed through his heart:
Why had he never thought of literaryizing his teacher Bell's talents in such a way?
But this thought was quickly drowned out by greater enthusiasm.
It didn't matter; he was now an "insider" in this great creative project!
Conan Doyle picked up Lionel's letter again.
The latter part detailed a series of materials he needed assistance in collecting.
However, this list instantly plunged Conan Doyle, who had just been in an excited state, into confusion.
He frowned,
"What... what is all this?"—
[Detailed weather records for London over the past two months, including daily temperature, precipitation, wind direction, and presence of fog.
Detailed morphological records of cigar ash after burning, from various origins, brands, and price points, including color, texture, whether flaky, granular, or flocculent.
Detailed description of a typical slum neighborhood in London, including architectural style, materials, colors, street width, ground soil type, etc., the more detailed the better.
An overview of the "Mormon Church's" spread and activities in Britain in recent years, focusing on collecting definite records of illegal activities or social lawsuits.
Geological survey reports of major clay and loam producing areas within and around London, focusing on their color, composition, viscosity, and other characteristics.
A collection of recent "Missing Persons" and "Lost & Found" columns from major London newspapers.
...]
These materials were already strange enough.
In addition, there were some miscellaneous items:
Descriptions of common poisons' smells and symptoms of poisoning; a rough layout map of London's underground pipes; structural diagrams of several different types of commonly used London locks...
Conan Doyle was utterly bewildered.
What did any of this have to do with a detective story set in London?
(End of chapter)