"Going on a long journey?"
Maupassant was the first to break the silence, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
Before Lionel could explain, he eagerly pressed,
"How far? Italy? Switzerland? Or like last time, to Vienna?"
Lionel shook his head, calmly uttering an answer that surprised everyone:
"No, further than that. It's America."
"America?!"
This exclamation burst out from several mouths almost simultaneously, followed by a chorus of incredulous whispers and questions in the room.
Huysmans made no secret of his disdain:
"That barbarian country full of cowboys, Indians, and nouveau riche?"
He didn't even want to mention the word "America," as if speaking it would tarnish his taste.
Paul Alexis's eyes widened:
"Good heavens, Lion, are you serious? Crossing the Atlantic and coming back? That would take weeks!
And what could we do there? Read our works to millionaires who only care about steel and railways?"
Lionel was not surprised by their reaction.
In the elite circles of Paris in 1881, America's image was complex and extremely divided.
On one hand, due to their ties during the War of Independence, the two countries maintained political friendship, and France was even busily preparing a grand gift for America—
—a bronze statue designed by Bartholdi, nearly 50 meters tall, to celebrate America's upcoming centenary.
But on the other hand, culturally, Parisian literati and connoisseurs generally condescendingly regarded the New World as a "civilization-less" desert.
Talleyrand's scathing and widely quoted remark from the Napoleonic era—"terrible pigs, and arrogant pigs at that"—was still cited as a classic in various salons.
They acknowledged the astonishing speed of elevators in American buildings but would then turn around and mock the fact that not a single decent mural could be found on the walls of the entire building.
Facing America, the French felt like they were staring at a high-speed train filled with gold—they wanted to jump on and make a fortune, but also feared being crushed by it.
Lionel raised his voice, quelling the noise in the room:
"Hear me out. Levi Morton, the U.S. Ambassador to France, had previously extended an invitation for me to visit, but I didn't pay it much mind at the time.
But now, I see this as an opportunity. We shouldn't view it as a simple visit, but rather as a grand 'literary sermon.'"
"Literary sermon?" Émile Zola mused.
Lionel nodded: "Precisely, gentlemen, think about it. A delegation of French literature, comprised of all of you present and myself, setting foot on the New World.
This in itself would be sensational news. We can organize a series of public readings, literary lectures, and salon discussions. Boston, New York, Philadelphia...
American tycoons and intellectuals are inwardly eager to be 'certified' by European culture, especially French culture, and they will be generous to invite us.
Newspapers will scramble for reports, and curious citizens will pack the venues. I assure you, if handled properly, the profits from this trip will be enough to cover your losses on the Panama Canal."
This prospect was quite tempting, but the others' doubts did not immediately dissipate.
Henri Céard hesitated before speaking:
"But, Lion, will Americans understand our works?
They're accustomed to thrilling Western novels and cheap magazines; can they appreciate the subtle beauty of French literature?"
Léon Hennique added:
"And there's the language barrier. My English is limited to ordering food in a restaurant, and I believe it's similar for the others."
Huysmans' concern was even more practical:
"I hear the food there is terrible; besides roast beef and oyster stew, you can barely find anything decent.
And there are garrulous journalists everywhere; they'll twist our every word into sensational headlines!"
Edmond de Goncourt, being older, was more cautious:
"More importantly, how do we ensure the organization and profitability of this trip? Who will we liaise with?
Venues, promotion, ticketing... these matters are both trivial and important. Are we writers expected to handle them ourselves?"
Facing these scattered doubts, Lionel appeared exceptionally calm and confident.
These people probably wouldn't imagine that within a few decades, the heart of world literature would be transplanted from the European continent to the American continent to continue beating.
He raised a hand, making a calming gesture:
"Gentlemen, the questions you've raised are all very practical. But please trust me, as long as everyone embarks on this journey, none of this will be an issue."
His tone was very firm:
"Can't understand French works? That's precisely what we want! If they understood everything, what would we go for?
Language barrier? Please speak French from beginning to end, even when ordering food at a restaurant! Translators? Let the Americans hire them themselves!
If they can't understand our French speeches, that's their regret, not ours!
As for the itinerary, we will receive the most dignified reception—
Every city, every university, every club will open its doors to us!
This will not be a pathetic begging, but a glorious cultural expedition.
Remember, we are not going to cater or to please; we are going to 'preach!'"
After saying this, Lionel looked around at everyone, his gaze finally resting on the silent Émile Zola.
"Émile, what do you think? Should the new wing of Médan Villa be halted because of a failed investment?"
Émile Zola took a deep drag from his cigar and slowly exhaled smoke.
He weighed the pros and cons—Lionel's past Midas touch, and the risks of crossing the Atlantic...
Ultimately, the pragmatic need for money outweighed the reserve for cultural integrity.
He nodded heavily:
"Lionel's judgment is rarely wrong. I agree!"
Zola's statement was like a reassurance.
Maupassant immediately raised his hand with a grin:
"Of course I'll go! I have nothing to lose anyway, and it'll be a good chance to see if the girls in the New World are really as passionate and uninhibited as rumored!"
Daudet and Goncourt exchanged glances, then nodded slightly:
"We are also willing to give it a try."
Seeing that the key figures had all agreed, Huysmans, Alexis, Céard, and Hennique also successively expressed their agreement.
After all, for them, deeply mired in financial difficulties at this moment, Lionel's proposal was the only straw to grasp.
Seeing everyone nod, Lionel showed a satisfied expression.
He stood up, took his hat and coat from the hanger:
"Very good. I will report the specific details to everyone after I've spoken with Ambassador Morton."
Watching Lionel's back as he left the living room, everyone present breathed a sigh of relief.
Only Georges Charpentier had a strange feeling.
It wasn't until Zola, Maupassant, and the others had taken their leave that he suddenly realized—
"Since Lionel wasn't scheduled to meet with the others, did he come to me for something else?"
Somehow, Georges Charpentier felt a sense of loss, as if something important had slipped away from his heart.
————————
A day later, the U.S. Embassy in Paris.
Ambassador Levi Morton warmly received Lionel in his office.
The decor here was entirely American style: spacious, practical, with the Stars and Stripes and a portrait of Washington hanging on the wall.
Ambassador Morton greeted him with a beaming smile, gripping Lionel's hand so tightly that it almost left fingerprints on the back of Lionel's hand.
His voice was equally enthusiastic:
"Mr. Sorel, allow me to congratulate you again! Your brilliant performance at the International Electrical Exposition not long ago truly opened all our eyes.
The 'Miniature Paris' you and Mr. Tesla demonstrated, along with your explanation of the prospects of alternating current, was simply brilliant!
Even my colleagues in Washington heard about it."
Lionel smiled humbly:
"You flatter me, Ambassador. That was just a small attempt to combine science and art.
In fact, my presumptuous visit this time is to discuss some 'big business' with you."
Big business?
The word seemed to carry magic; as soon as it entered Levi Morton's ears, his blue eyes lit up instantly.
As a native-born American, he believed in pragmatism, and for a diplomat, doing business was inherently routine, and could even be touted as an achievement.
"Oh? What kind of 'big business'? Please tell me in detail, Mr. Sorel.
You know, the United States of America welcomes 'big business' most of all!"
————————
Meanwhile, Thomas Edison was holding a few thin sheets of paper, a survey report that Samuel Insull had just submitted.
Edison's fingers traced the items listed on the paper, his brows furrowed:
Small carbon filament bulbs, from Joseph Swan of Britain;
AC generator, purchased from British engineer James Gordon;
Transformer, provided and authorized by Lucien Gaulard of France;
On-site storage batteries, from Siemens-Halske of Germany;
...
Edison put down the report, letting out an ambiguous hum.
He hadn't expected such a young man, deeply skilled in the art of "integration," to appear in Europe.
Nikola Tesla had skillfully stitched together technologies from Britain, France, and Germany to create the "Miniature Paris."
Edison muttered to himself, "Patchwork..." His tone revealed neither disdain nor approval.
But this "patchwork" had indeed overshadowed his "Tower of Light."
This made him unhappy, but it wasn't without its gains.
He looked up at Samuel Insull, seemingly reassuring himself, and mumbled:
"Well, well, for now, it seems Sorel is only that famous in France..."
(End of chapter)