Lionel had no choice but to open the door himself and found his visitor was Anatole France.
The writer's face was flushed with a sense of mission:
"Lio, wonderful, you're home!"
Lionel shook his hand:
"Thibault, please come in! What wind has been blowing these last couple of days? It seems like half of Paris's writers have been blown to my doorstep."
(France's real name is Thibault François.)
France hurried into the living room, his voice betraying his excitement:
"It's the wind of the era, Lionel, the wind of the Republic!"
He paused:
"I suspect you've been too busy with the play and the theatre renovations to pay much attention to the excitement in the newspapers?"
Lionel invited France to sit down and poured him a cup of coffee:
"Indeed, I've been dealing with accumulated matters since returning from Russia. I have glanced at the papers, but what are you referring to?"
France's voice rose an octave:
"Hugo! Monsieur Victor Hugo! On the 26th of this month, it is his eightieth birthday! The Republic will hold an unprecedentedly grand celebratory parade for him! All of Paris—no, all of France—is preparing for it!"
Lionel paused slightly, then realized: he had indeed forgotten about it, having been too preoccupied.
Historically, this celebration for Hugo was indeed on an unprecedented scale, representing the highest honor a nineteenth-century man of letters could achieve. He nodded:
"I remember now, that is happening. The government seems determined to make this event a grand occasion."
France's tone became even more fervent:
"Not 'seems,' but 'certainly'! This is not just a birthday gift for a great writer; it is a demonstration of the Republican spirit! It is a declaration to the monarchists, to the Church, to all the specters of the old order, that France has her new, secular saint!"
He paused and continued:
"Bazire, Janin, Catulle Mendès, Gustave... fully thirty young writers have already united! On the 26th, they will march at the very front of the procession! Holding blue and white bouquets, they will sing a new poem, 'Ode to Hugo'!
Mendès has even written a new children's poem, 'To Grandfather,' which a little boy will recite under Mr. Hugo's window..."
He spoke volubly about the coming spectacle, his eyes shining:
"Lionel, we need you, the Republic needs you! We hope you can stand at the very front of the procession with Janin and Catulle Mendès! Let your image, your voice, bring luster to this great celebration!"
Lionel listened quietly, his face showing little expression.
When France finished, he spoke slowly after a moment of silence:
"Thibault, thank you and your friends for this kind invitation. Mr. Hugo is a literary giant worthy of reverence, and he generously helped me when I had nothing."
Anticipation bloomed on France's face, but the next words from Lionel froze his smile.
"However, for an event of 'posthumous canonization' like this—please forgive me—I do not wish to participate."
France asked, stunned:
"Why...? Why? This is a tribute to literature, a promotion of Republican ideals!"
Lionel shook his head:
"I understand your intentions, and I know this is an event for the Republicans to consolidate the people's faith. But to replace the worship of religious saints in the past with the secular adoration of a literary master; to substitute the rites and prayers of the church with parades, floral tributes, and recitations...
This looks too much like the Republic is urgently seeking a new faith to replace the Church—didn't we just officially dissolve the 'Society of Jesus' last year?
I support some of the Republican party's policies, but I do not believe literature should be so directly hitched to the political carriage, even if that carriage flies the banner of the 'Republic.'
Therefore, I will express my congratulations and respect to Mr. Hugo in a private capacity, but I will not participate in this public parade."
The enthusiasm rapidly faded from France's face, replaced by deep disappointment and incomprehension.
He opened his mouth as if to argue, but seeing Lionel's look, he swallowed his words.
He stood up, picked up his hat, and his tone became somewhat stiff:
"I understand... Lionel. It is regrettable that you cannot share this honor with us. I apologize for disturbing you."
Lionel also stood up and escorted him to the door:
"Thank you for your visit, Thibault."
France said nothing more, nodded, turned, and quickly left, his retreating figure looking somewhat forlorn.
Lionel closed the door, letting out a soft breath.
He was not disrespecting Hugo, nor did he disagree with the Republican ideal, but he instinctively remained wary of this grand narrative that deified an individual.
He knew that fervor, regardless of the noble pretext, often concealed danger.
In the following days, the celebration for Hugo's eightieth birthday did indeed become the undisputed "main theme" of all Paris, and indeed, all of France.
Reports and commentaries related to it appeared in the newspapers almost daily; the propaganda machine worked at full capacity, pushing public anticipation to its peak.
The "Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts" announced first that all primary schools nationwide would be closed for one day on the day of the celebration so that children too could participate in this grand event.
This move was widely interpreted as the Republic cultivating citizens' identification with Republican values from a young age.
The happiest person was naturally Patty, as it meant an extra day off.
However, she had also been selected to be in the school's parade contingent, which would pass under Hugo's window.
So the day off was granted, yet also not granted...
While France was lost in feverish preparation for a great writer's birthday, a storm of excitement was brewing across the channel in London.
However, the fervor of the London public was for a magazine.
February 15, 1881, London.
Even before the morning fog had been completely dispelled by the rising sun, winding queues had already formed in front of major bookstores and newsstands.
The air was thick with the anxiety of waiting, even more intense than the grand scene during the serialization of A Study in Scarlet.
"It's here! It's here!"
The crisp shouts of newsboys cut through the cold air, and the crowd stirred.
Bundles of the brand-new Good Words magazine were unloaded and quickly placed on the counters.
Coins clinked crisply against the counter as copies, smelling of fresh ink, were eagerly snatched up.
Almost as soon as they got the magazine, people impatiently began flipping through—ah, The Sign of Four!
The new adventure had begun.
In the reading room of a gentleman's club in St. James's, several early arrivals held copies of Good Words, immersed in the world constructed by Lionel.
The room was exceptionally quiet, with only the rustling sound of turning pages, punctuated by an occasional suppressed exclamation or a knowing chuckle.
A white-templed old gentleman whispered to his neighbor:
"Look, our Mr. Holmes is already 'tormenting' poor Watson again. Merely by observing the wear on a gold coin, he deduces what its owner has experienced..."
The neighbor pointed to a passage in the magazine with his finger:
"The key is, his writing is convincing! Look at this description of the smell around the London docks... It's so accurate! I was just there last week, and that's the smell! Compared to those phony versions where detectives just shoot people and chase women, this is the real 'Holmes'!"
Similar discussions were unfolding in countless corners of London.
The opening of The Sign of Four had once again successfully captured the hearts of all readers.
The mysterious commission, the inheritance from the East, the strange wooden leg...
Lionel's skill at setting up suspense was becoming more mature, making readers itch with anticipation.
And this wave of fervor even blew across to the highest level of imperial power!
(End of Chapter)