Lionel's suggestion stunned everyone.
Huysmans glanced at the sky outside the window:
"Now? To see what?"
Céard also asked curiously,
"Lion, what are you up to?"
Zola remained silent, but his eyes showed keen interest.
He knew Lionel well, understanding that the young man never acted without purpose.
Lionel spoke concisely:
"To see a possible answer."
He picked up his coat from the back of his chair:
"It's right here in Paris. If we leave now, we'll get there before evening."
This action completely piqued their curiosity.
They exchanged glances and eventually all stood up.
Zola took the lead in agreeing:
"Alright, Lion, I'll see what surprise you've prepared for us."
The group put on their coats and hats, then boarded two carriages, heading towards the city center of Paris.
The carriages passed through brightly lit commercial districts and dark, quiet alleys, speeding along Paris's asphalt roads.
Inside the carriages, the writers were still guessing Lionel's destination—
Was it a salon patronizing female artists?
Or a new type of girls' school?
Lionel smiled but remained silent, only promising,
"You'll know when we get there."
About an hour later, the carriages stopped in a rather disorderly neighborhood.
Lionel led them to a simple-looking building, which appeared to be a small warehouse or workshop, with bright gaslight streaming from its windows.
Even before entering, a strange, dense "clack-clack-ding" sound reached their ears.
The sound was rhythmic, continuous, like a symphony.
Maupassant pricked up his ears, his face full of confusion:
"What is that sound?"
Huysmans surveyed the building:
"What is this place? A factory?"
Lionel didn't answer, simply pushed open the "warehouse" door.
The sight inside made these well-traveled writers collectively hold their breath, their faces filled with astonishment.
It was a spacious hall, its walls simply whitewashed, appearing clean and bright.
Multiple gas lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating the entire space as if it were daylight.
But what most captivated their attention were the desks neatly arranged in the center of the hall, and the typewriters on them!
Counting them, there were exactly fifteen!
Behind each typewriter sat a woman.
They varied in age, were simply dressed, and looked focused, their fingers rapidly rising and falling on the keyboards, producing the "clack-clack-ding" sound.
Some moved with great skill, their eyes sweeping over manuscripts, their fingers tapping the corresponding keys as fluidly as if playing a piano.
Others were a bit less practiced, needing to occasionally look down at the keyboard, but their attitude was equally earnest.
Besides the clacking of keyboards, the rustling of turning pages filled the air.
And behind these "typists" stood a familiar figure—Alice-Clémence Rochat.
Alice, at this moment, was no longer the somewhat shy girl they remembered.
She wore a neat dark long dress, her hair pulled back, holding a manuscript in her hand, leaning over and quietly instructing a young girl beside her.
Her demeanor was calm and confident, occasionally extending a finger to point out errors.
"Relax your wrist, Angèle, don't use so much force... Yes, just like that."
"Madame Doucet, this line is a bit crooked. Next time, remember to check the carriage position before hitting return."
Her voice was gentle, yet carried an undeniable authority, truly like a teacher instructing students.
Alice quickly noticed the movement at the door.
She looked up, saw Lionel and the others, her face showing surprise, then she smiled.
She whispered a couple of instructions to Madame Robert beside her, then quickly came forward to greet them.
Alice's voice held surprise:
"Lion! Monsieur Zola, Monsieur Maupassant, Monsieur Huysmans, Monsieur Céard... What brings you here?"
Zola was the first to recover, embracing Alice:
"Alice, this is..."
His gaze swept across the entire room, still incredulous.
The impact of this scene on him was far more direct than reading any book.
Alice smiled as she introduced, her tone proud:
"This is the 'Sorel-Rochat Typewriting Cooperative.'"
Huysmans sharply picked up on the phrase:
"Typewriting Cooperative?"
Alice nodded and briefly explained the background.
She led the group a few steps further inside so they could see more clearly.
Meanwhile, she continued to explain: how they secured business, how work was distributed, how quality was ensured, how income was allocated...
Alice's face glowed with an unprecedented radiance:
"We are officially registered and now have thirty full-time and part-time typists.
Monsieur Delaroyak has brought us many orders—we undertake transcription work for shops, offices, newspapers, and even some government departments in various districts..."
She pointed to the working women:
"Among them are widows like Madame Robert, raising children alone;
There are also young women hoping to earn a dowry for themselves; and those who used to do mending or laundry odd jobs...
But as long as they are literate, they can learn to type here and then work with their own skills."
Lionel also sighed with emotion:
"When I came last week, there weren't this many machines, were there?"
Alice nodded:
"Only 9 last week, but then there were simply too many people..."
Zola watched Alice move freely, guiding, within this vibrant little "factory," and felt a profound shock in his heart.
His gaze finally fell upon the rows of working typewriters, and upon the women with bright eyes and straight backs.
He couldn't imagine that the "Remington" he had originally given to Alice would develop into such an enterprise, one he had never seen before.
Maupassant's mouth hung open.
He looked at the busy women, then at the confident and composed Alice, and finally at Lionel.
After a long moment, he murmured,
"My God... this is... this is..."
Céard, Huysmans, and the others also had incredulity written on their faces.
The scene before them shattered their preconceived notions.
Zola patted Maupassant's shoulder:
"Guy, do you see? This isn't the end for men; this is the beginning of the era of 'people.'
When women can achieve economic independence through work, only then can they truly escape the fate of 'dolls.'
This is more realistic and constructive than any romantic elopement or desperate revolution."
Lionel stood beside his friends, observing the changing expressions on their faces, and calmly spoke:
"What happens after Nora leaves?"
He extended his hand, pointing to the brightly lit typing factory:
"Here, is one of the answers."
————
The group toured for a long time before reluctantly leaving.
They all assured Alice that they would mention this "respectable work" in their future writings, letting more women know that such an option exists in life.
Lionel and Alice watched the two carriages disappear from the doorway.
Only then did he ask Alice,
"How late will you be working?"
Alice, however, didn't answer his question, but instead said something that thrilled Lionel:
"Today, I met Mademoiselle Sophie."
(End of chapter)