In the large living room on the second floor of "Charpentier's Bookshelf," used for salons, the morning sun shone through the glass windows, creating what should have been a peaceful and relaxed atmosphere.
However, this warm space, usually filled with the scent of tobacco and the rich aroma of coffee, was now enveloped in a cloud of sorrow.
Georges Charpentier slumped dejectedly in his large armchair, occasionally tapping the floor with his cane, making dull "thudding" sounds.
His brows were furrowed so tightly it looked as if water could be wrung from them.
Seated around him were Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Joris-Karl Huysmans, Paul Alexis, Léon Hennique, Henri Céard...
Even Alphonse Daudet and Edmond de Goncourt were conspicuously present.
The names of these people resonated throughout the Parisian literary scene and even the entire French literary world.
With Lionel, who had just entered, they nearly comprised half of Paris's literary salon.
However, at this moment, their faces lacked the usual spiritedness or rebelliousness, replaced instead by expressions of dejection, and sighs and laments rose one after another.
Lionel took off his hat and coat, hung them on the coat rack by the door, and casually asked,
"Gentlemen, what's wrong?"
His arrival slightly livened the atmosphere, but it only prompted a few listless gazes in his direction.
Lionel quickly realized,
"You didn't all invest in the Panama Canal, did you? Oh my God... how much money did you lose?"
He couldn't imagine a second reason that would make all these people so despondent.
Georges Charpentier lifted his eyelids, sighed, and nodded heavily.
"Yes, it is indeed the Panama Canal.
The excavation encountered obstacles, the sea level difference, yellow fever... stocks and bonds have plummeted!"
Paul Alexis chimed in with a tearful face,
"It's more than a plummet! It's a cliff! It's an abyss! My God, my eight thousand francs... a whole eight thousand francs! Just like that... just like that, gone!
Four thousand of those francs were a loan I took from the bank, mortgaging my own salary..."
He waved his arms vigorously, as if trying to grasp something, but only caught a handful of desperate air.
Henri Céard added, his face pale,
"I invested fifteen thousand francs, and more than half of that was borrowed from my brother-in-law.
He's chasing me every day asking about it, and I don't know how to answer..."
Léon Hennique's voice was even lower,
"I invested a little less, also eight thousand francs, but that was almost all my savings.
I had hoped to earn a fortune to buy a small house in the suburbs where I could spend the summer to escape the heat. But now..."
Even Huysmans, usually acrimonious and demanding, had lost his composure at this moment, groaning,
"My manuscript fees, the seven thousand francs I saved through frugality, all gone.
Now, I even have to think twice before listening to Wagner's new opera."
Even the steady Émile Zola's face was grim.
"I invested twenty thousand francs. I had hoped this profit would help cover the cost of the new wing at my Médan villa.
Now... alas, the project is less than halfway through, and I'm suddenly very short on funds."
Edmond de Goncourt also couldn't hide his disappointment.
"I just established the 'Goncourt Academy' fund, hoping to provide some support for young people in France.
Now, before the fund has even started distributing, I've lost almost a third. I was truly foolish!"
Alphonse Daudet smiled bitterly and mocked himself,
"It seems that for a long time to come, my 'little thing' and I will have to live frugally.
Perhaps we should switch the coffee at home to chicory root? At least that stuff is cheap."
For a moment, the room was once again filled with sighs and complaints.
Everyone seemed eager to recount their losses, as if doing so could alleviate a sliver of their pain.
Listening to this chorus of lamentations, Lionel's gaze swept across the crowd, finally resting on the only person in the corner who had not joined the ranks of complainers—Guy de Maupassant.
In stark contrast to the others, Maupassant, while also frowning, expressed more sympathy than heartache.
He even had the leisure to meticulously trim the end of his cigar with a small knife.
Lionel asked with some curiosity,
"Guy, it seems you've escaped this disaster?"
Upon hearing this, Maupassant looked up, put the trimmed cigar in his mouth, then spread his hands, his mustache twitching with his helpless expression.
He said with a tone of relief and self-mockery,
"Me? Investments? Lion, look at me, do I look like someone who can save money for such 'great ventures'?
Ha, turning gold coins into champagne and women, at least you remember the taste.
Today, I'm purely here to accompany these unlucky fellows and see if I can mooch a meal off Georges."
His blunt words somewhat diluted the tragic atmosphere in the room.
Lionel was a bit speechless.
He hadn't expected the most unrestrained Maupassant to be the lucky one in this disaster.
Just then, Émile Zola cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention.
He looked at Georges Charpentier, his tone solemn,
"Georges, we are gathered here today not only to lick our wounds but also hoping to ask for your help.
Everyone knows that 'Charpentier's Bookshelf' has always done good business. Could you possibly advance us some money, using our future royalties as collateral?
My losses are significant, but bearable. However, the Médan villa project has indeed left me very strapped for cash right now.
But for some of the other young people, even eating has become a problem."
Émile Zola's words represented the feelings of most people present, and they all turned their expectant gazes towards Charpentier.
However, Georges Charpentier rubbed his forehead hard, his voice hoarse,
"Friends, it's not that I don't want to help you. If I had the ability, I would never stand by idly. But I myself... I lost fifty thousand francs on Panama Canal bonds just yesterday."
Huysmans gasped, "Fifty thousand!"
Charpentier nodded heavily,
"Yes, fifty thousand francs. Moreover, the bookstore and publishing house's cash flow is also very tight right now.
The end of the year is approaching, and the printing factory, paper merchants, and everyone's royalties... money is needed everywhere.
Returns from booksellers in various places won't be in our accounts until at least January next year. Before then, I'm truly powerless to help!"
He spread his hands, making a gesture of helplessness.
The last glimmer of hope was extinguished, and the room fell into a deeper silence, almost thick enough to hear despair crackle.
Daudet buried his face in his hands, Goncourt looked up at the ceiling's relief, Alexis and Céard exchanged empty glances.
After hearing their accounts, a sense of powerlessness welled up in Lionel's heart too.
These people, Zola, Maupassant, Daudet, Goncourt... which one wasn't a figure who left a brilliant name in literary history?
Their works explored human nature, depicted society, and possessed immense influence.
However, in the face of real-world financial speculation, their wisdom and fame seemed useless, and they might even have been more prone to falling into traps due to romantic imaginings of a "century project."
In some aspects, such as speculation, these literary giants behaved like the most ordinary citizens, or even more naive.
Although only two people had just admitted to borrowing money from banks and relatives, Lionel knew them too well; besides Zola, most of them probably borrowed some money.
The "Médan Group," which had just risen to prominence as popular authors last year with "Soirées de Médan," had now become the "No Money Group."
Just then, Huysmans suddenly seemed to grasp a lifeline, his eyes gleaming as he looked intently at Lionel.
He stammered, "Lion, I... I remember now, you... you seemed to have sold your bonds a long time ago? I wonder... I wonder if you could..."
He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear: he wanted to borrow some money from Lionel to get through this difficult time.
Instantly, all eyes—desperate, expectant, embarrassed—were fixed on Lionel like spotlights.
Everyone here knew that Lionel was now the highest-paid author in all of Europe, especially with his serialized "Sherlock Holmes" in England, which earned him a huge fortune.
Moreover, he had continuous dividends from theater box office, making him practically a walking human ATM.
Lionel met their gazes and slowly shook his head,
"Joris, I'm sorry. I've invested almost all my money in 'Sorel-Tesla Electric' and 'Sorel-Peugeot Mechanical Manufacturing Plant.'
Last month, just to purchase the carbon filament light bulb patent license from Sir Joseph Swan, a fellow of the Royal Society, and to order his small lamp beads, I paid thirty thousand francs in one lump sum.
Currently, all the operating funds for my industries are managed centrally by Monsieur Delaroche, the notary. Even I cannot transfer a large sum of money for personal loans."
The spark of hope that had just ignited in Huysmans and the others' eyes was completely extinguished by these words.
Alphonse Daudet muttered to himself,
"It seems chicory coffee and black bread are truly beckoning me..."
Edmond de Goncourt also sighed deeply and said no more.
The room was once again enveloped in an almost suffocating atmosphere of despair.
Lionel was silent for a moment, his gaze slowly sweeping over their crestfallen faces, from Zola to Goncourt, from Huysmans to Daudet, seemingly weighing something.
Finally, he spoke again,
"However..."
This turning point once again attracted everyone's attention.
"I have a way that might allow everyone to make some quick money!"
Almost everyone asked in unison, "What way?"
Everyone involuntarily leaned forward, their eyes once again sparkling with light.
Lionel looked at them, his tone steady,
"It's just that this method requires everyone to, well, go on a long trip."
(End of Chapter)