While Charles de Bron was leaving Ferdinand Buisson's private residence, Lionel knocked on the door knocker of 66 Champs-Élysées.
Soon, he was led by the butler through the imposing corridor to the living room of the mansion.
Count Rohan was standing in front of a large map of France, his brows furrowed, seemingly studying something.
Hearing Lionel's footsteps, he turned around and said in a cool tone,
"Lionel, are you looking for Albert? Please have a seat."
He gestured to the sofa by the fireplace, then walked towards the liquor cabinet:
"Albert won't be back for a while—would you like some Bordeaux? Or brandy?"
Lionel bowed slightly and sat down:
"Thank you, Your Excellency the Count, Bordeaux will be fine."
Count Rohan handed the wine glass to Lionel, then sat down in an armchair, awaiting the other's questions or requests.
He had even prepared his words, a set of tactful excuses, trying to explain the current predicament, and hoping Lionel could understand—
"For the greater good of reform," "temporary difficulties," "there will be opportunities in the future"...
Lionel gently swirled the deep red liquid, a smile on his face:
"Excellent wine, Your Excellency. It seems you have a deep knowledge of Médoc vintages."
Count Rohan was momentarily stunned, then smiled back:
"Our family has a few small vineyards there..."
After exchanging a few pleasantries about wine, Lionel took a sip, set down the glass, and said nothing more.
Count Rohan asked, pretending indifference:
"What brings you to Albert?"
Lionel answered casually:
"Albert recently wants to write a novel, and he wants me to help him brainstorm..."
Count Rohan was very interested:
"Oh? Albert has finally come to his senses? What a miracle! Tell me, what does he want to write?"
Lionel gave a mischievous smile:
"Well, he wants to write a story about a knight with a sharp blade, killing a dragon that has abducted a princess..."
...
Half an hour later, Lionel left 66 Champs-Élysées, encountering Albert, who had just returned, at the door.
Albert looked at Lionel, completely bewildered:
"Lion, what are you doing here?"
Lionel patted his shoulder:
"Keep up the good work, Albert, I have high hopes for you!"
Albert was even more confused:
"...Good work? What am I writing? Professor Taine's homework?"
Lionel looked back and pointed:
"The novel! Ask Count Rohan, I've already told him."
——————
Two days later, an interview with Lionel Sorel was published in Le Petit Parisien, attracting widespread attention.
The reporter brought up old news, asking about the widely discussed rumor of "three works selected for The French Reader" from a while ago.
Lionel's response was as calm as ever:
"Regarding this matter, I believe it reflects more the great affection of readers for me and an unexpected trust.
I am flattered and deeply humbled by it.
The French Reader carries the important responsibility of shaping the spirit of French citizens, and the selection criteria are rigorous and sacred.
My works are still immature, both in terms of my experience and depth, and I truly dare not hope to receive such a high honor.
I believe it is already an unparalleled honor if any of the gentlemen on the committee ultimately deem one of my articles worthy of being among so many masters."
The reporter was clearly prepared, following his lead and asking in a half-joking tone:
"Monsieur Sorel, you are too modest.
However, please allow me, on behalf of curious readers, to ask a perhaps somewhat vulgar question—if, and I mean if—
One of your works truly had the honor of being selected, do you know how much royalties The French Reader typically pays authors?
It is said to be a rather symbolic sum."
Lionel looked at the reporter with clear eyes:
"Royalties? No, sir. If the Republic truly considers one of my works barely qualified for The French Reader, that itself is the greatest affirmation and reward for my creation, immeasurable by any amount of money.
Therefore, I solemnly declare here—no matter which of my works is favored in the future and selected for The French Reader or any official textbook designated by the Republic, I will never demand a single cent of royalties from the state!"
Lionel gradually became more impassioned:
"Not only that, to express my unreserved support for the Republic's education cause, and to allow more children the opportunity to access literary works, I hereby voluntarily pledge—
I will gratuitously and permanently donate my three works caught up in the ridiculous rumors previously—The Old Guard, My Uncle Jules, and The Homeland—to France! To all the people of France!
This means that any public educational institution can freely print, publish, and teach these works without paying any fees!"
Lionel concluded with a slight smile:
"My pen belongs to myself, but my works, if they can serve a higher public good, serve the future of France, that is their best destination!"
After the interview was published, it instantly caused a sensation!
All the previous rumors and slanders suddenly seemed extraordinarily small, despicable, and ridiculous in the face of this frank and generous declaration.
"A true patriot!"
"Selfless literary dedication!"
"The civic spirit the Republic needs!"
"A noble soul! Shaming the slanderers!"
Public sympathy and admiration poured towards Lionel like a tide.
His reputation was elevated to a new height, and his image became closely associated with "selflessness," "patriotism," and "support for education."
At the same time, another question surfaced:
Lionel donated The Old Guard, My Uncle Jules, and The Homeland, but what about others?
Alphonse Daudet, also considered highly promising, immediately issued a statement supporting and following Lionel's righteous act, declaring that any of his works, if selected for The French Reader, would be donated to France, without a single cent of royalties.
Following this, Victor Hugo also announced through La République his intention to donate his works to the educational cause of France free of charge.
Even deceased authors like George Sand, Balzac, Mérimée, Chateaubriand... had their copyright heirs declare willingness to donate their works.
Not to mention living authors like Zola, Flaubert, and others.
For a time, the French literary scene was bustling—"donating works to France's education cause" became a fashionable act.
In the minds of most writers, the public, and the media, The French Reader selecting works by specific authors meant either short/medium stories or excerpts from longer works.
Great figures like Monsieur Hugo might have several pieces selected; other less famous authors would probably only have one.
Even if calculated at the highest standard royalty rates, it would only be a few hundred to a thousand francs.
For these well-off writers, it was merely a drop in the ocean, and it was better to use that money to gain a good reputation.
This trend quickly spread from Paris to distant lands, and even the "Shakespearean Theatre Research Association" in England sent an official letter, stating that if French textbooks used excerpts from Shakespeare's plays, no royalties would need to be paid.
"Bélin Publishing House," which held the copyright to A French Boy's Adventures in France, was completely baffled.
(End of Chapter)