That name instantly reminded Lionel of the "Paris Bookstore" and the pirated books bearing his name displayed on the shelves.
Lionel's face immediately darkened. He leaned against the doorframe, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his tone:
"Ah, Mr. Marx. I have long heard of you. Your exquisitely printed and 'faithful' publications in the 'Paris Bookstore' certainly left a deep impression on me."
Adolphe Marx first showed surprise, but then chuckled easily, clearly unconcerned by Lionel's taunt.
His tone suggested Lionel was praising him:
"You visited the 'Paris Bookstore'? Ha, that is truly my honor! Mr. Sorel, I completely understand your anger. Any writer would feel displeased upon seeing it."
Lionel let out a cold laugh:
"Displeased? You put it lightly."
Adolphe Marx shrugged, feigning helplessness:
"Please face reality, sir. This is how things are in Russia. The copyright of any foreign author is unprotected here.
Even if I don't do it, there are plenty of people in Saint Petersburg, Moscow, and even Kyiv who will. You cannot stop me, nor can you stop them—that is the rule of the Russian Empire!"
Lionel forcefully suppressed the urge to slam the door in his face:
"Then, respected Mr. Marx, why have you honored me with a visit today? Surely you didn't come all this way just to explain this glorious Russian tradition to me? I have already learned my lesson; please leave!"
As he spoke, he started to close the door.
Adolphe Marx leaned slightly forward, blocking the door that was about to shut:
"I came to offer you a solution—I wish to sign an exclusive authorization agreement for all your works within the Russian Empire. Of course, the condition is that I must receive your new works first."
Lionel almost laughed in frustration:
"Exclusive authorization? Mr. Marx, you just told me yourself that foreign authors' copyrights are unprotected in Russia. What use is it if I authorize you? Will other publishers suddenly become law-abiding just because you hold a contract?
Or perhaps you plan to advise me to renounce my French citizenship and become a Russian national so I can enjoy the protection of Russian law?"
The smile on Adolphe Marx's face did not change:
"I have my own methods—in Russia, some rules are above the surface, and some are below. As long as you are willing to dedicate your works published in Russia, via an inscription, to His Imperial Highness, Tsarevich Alexander Alexandrovich... then I guarantee you that within Russia, no other publisher will dare to print and sell your works on a large scale."
Lionel stared into Marx's shrewd eyes:
"Mr. Marx, your 'kindness' is truly moving. But I will not use my name and my works as candles to decorate the facade for your Tsarevich."
He stepped back, his hand on the doorknob, making a gesture of seeing his guest out:
"Now, please leave!"
The smile finally vanished from Adolphe Théodore Marx's face; he clearly had not anticipated that this young French writer would refuse so bluntly.
He still tried to salvage the situation:
"I also attended the funeral today—tomorrow, I will go see Madame Anna. I will buy up the copyrights for all of Dostoevsky's works. Guess how much I would be willing to pay for that?"
Lionel looked at him coldly and did not press for an answer.
Adolphe Marx looked somewhat awkward, so he answered himself, though his tone lowered, laced with temptation:
"200,000 rubles! Equivalent to 500,000 francs! Mr. Sorel, believe me, I am certainly not a miser! Printing your books without permission was unavoidable—everyone was doing it.
If I didn't print them, I would face losses! But if you are willing to give me 'exclusive authorization,' you will absolutely receive a massive income beyond your expectations..."
Lionel remained silent, making a gesture requesting him to leave.
Seeing this, Adolphe Marx said no more, nodded, turned, and left down the hallway, leaning on his silver-headed cane.
Lionel slammed the door shut with a "bang," shutting out the cold of Saint Petersburg.
He didn't know if this Adolphe Marx was smart or foolish.
He was actually encouraging a French writer to dedicate his works to the future emperor of Russia just to earn gold roubles...
He took a deep breath, thinking of Paris, his desk, and the unfinished Thunderstorm.
He had to leave this city in two days.
Lionel had not yet returned to Paris, but news about him was once again sweeping the city.
His eulogy at Dostoevsky's funeral had preceded him, spreading rapidly through the Parisian cultural circles via telegraph and mail.
First, Le Figaro published the entire grand funeral of Dostoevsky, along with Lionel's eulogy, in a large feature.
Le Figaro even added an editor's note, praising the eulogy almost without reserve:
[It is a magnificent piece that transcends mere mourning and goes straight to the essence of literature and the spirit of the age.]
And it concluded that Lionel Sorel:
[With his unique acuteness and depth, has painted a spiritual portrait of a Russian literary master belonging to the entire civilized world.]
The French media also began hotly discussing the "extraordinary" reception the young writer was receiving in Russia—the warm welcome from the Alexandrinsky Theatre and the pursuit by Saint Petersburg high society were both excavated and embellished.
But most of the discussion centered on the eulogy itself.
People connected this speech with his address at Flaubert's funeral six months prior, and a clear consensus gradually formed: the biggest difference between Lionel Sorel and other writers and critics of his time was that he always spoke in a tone almost like "prophecy," precisely explaining the revelation and value these departed literary giants would bring to the "future," rather than merely praising the achievements they had already made in the present.
A commentary in La Débats read:
[Mr. Sorel seems to hold a telescope capable of seeing the future. When he analyzed Flaubert, we saw the germination of twentieth-century literature; when he mourned Dostoevsky, we saw a preview of the human spiritual predicament. He is not summarizing the past; he is interpreting the value of these souls for the readers of tomorrow.]
Le Temps pointed out more directly:
[This young "Conscience of the Sorbonne" seems innately equipped with a strange ability to imbue "classics" with "contemporaneity." He makes us realize that those great departed are not lying in coffins, but are alive in the tomorrow we are about to step into.]
These appraisals made all the salons in Paris even more eager for Lionel's return.
(End of Chapter)