Chapter 22: The Decadent City
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The letter contained only part of the character introductions and plot outline, yet it had already left Gabriel utterly enthralled.
Only when the final line passed beneath his eyes did he reluctantly set the pages down.
At first, Gabriel had assumed that “A Decent Parisian” had written nothing more than the sort of unabashedly sensational, thoroughly immoral erotica found in the Marquis de Sade’s works, such as *The Misfortunes of Virtue* and *Juliette*.
He had never expected it to be such a monumental work, conceived in a manner bordering on “critical realism.” Even with the erotic passages removed, he was certain it would not be a mediocre novel.
Gabriel became even more convinced that the young man before him was merely the agent of the true author.
Doing his best to keep his expression under control, Gabriel offered a mild compliment. “It is an excellent idea, but at the end of the day, it is only an idea… Until I have seen the complete manuscript, I can hardly promise you anything.”
Lionel thanked Gabriel with an utterly sincere expression, then swiftly tucked the letter and envelope away. He rose to his feet and prepared to leave.
Caught completely off guard, Gabriel hurriedly stood as well, nearly knocking over his chair. A large clump of cigar ash fell from its tip. “Er… er… what exactly do you mean by that?”
Lionel looked bewildered. “Did you not ask for the complete manuscript? I do not have it with me. Let us meet again once it is ready!”
Gabriel’s face became uglier than that of a corpse.
In his expectations, the person sitting opposite him today would have been a middle-aged or elderly man who had slipped in through the back of the café, the collar of his overcoat turned high, his voice lowered to a murmur, perhaps wearing a shoddy false beard—or simply a mask.
The two of them would have been evenly matched, haggling and probing one another, endlessly negotiating until they finally reached terms satisfactory to both sides.
Having once dreamed of a literary career himself, Gabriel had even imagined that through such dealings they might become “old friends”… What an extraordinary friendship that would have been…
Instead, the other party had sent over such a raw young fool, someone who understood nothing of “the art of negotiation,” let alone possessing any “patience for negotiation”!
Left with no alternative, Gabriel could only grit his back teeth and say, “Please, sit down! Even without the complete manuscript, we can still discuss the matter.”
Lionel did not object. He cheerfully sat back down, then fixed Gabriel with a pair of unblinkingly direct eyes. “Very well. How much are you prepared to pay?”
Gabriel did not answer. Instead, he countered, “How much does Mr. A Decent Parisian want?”
Lionel tilted his head and thought for a moment. “Naturally, the more the better!”
A mouthful of old blood nearly burst from Gabriel’s throat. In his twenty years in the trade, he had never encountered an author who spoke like this.
He struggled to suppress his anger and forced himself to remain calm. “You must understand that publishing this book would be an enormous risk for me—in fact, for any publisher!”
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Lionel did not respond. He merely looked at Gabriel with the clear, guileless eyes peculiar to university students, as though asking, “It is only a novel. Is all this really necessary?”
Gabriel could not determine whether Lionel had even read the novel. He could not even be certain that the young man was literate. Perhaps he was merely some factory worker or workshop apprentice whom A Decent Parisian had casually hired for two francs.
If so, explaining the risks of publishing the book would be like playing music to a cow.
Gabriel now understood why A Decent Parisian had sent such an inexperienced young man to negotiate with him: the other party had no intention of negotiating at all, and even less intention of revealing his identity.
Gabriel drew deeply on his cigar, then slowly exhaled a pale-blue cloud of smoke, creating a hazy barrier between them.
“Tell me, Mr. A Decent Parisian. How much are you asking for this novel?”
Lionel lowered his head slightly, as though recalling something, but soon raised it again. “Twenty thousand francs. In cash, not a bill of exchange. Half paid in advance within two days, with the remainder due upon delivery.”
Gabriel started. “Has he gone mad? Who does he think he is—Alexandre Dumas fils?”
Lionel still looked puzzled, as though he did not even know who Alexandre Dumas fils was. “A Decent Parisian believes the novel is worth that much.
“If you agree, he can deliver the manuscript before Ascension Day.”
Ascension Day fell forty days after Easter, roughly sometime between May and June.
Gabriel repeatedly shook his head. “Impossible, impossible. That price is insane! Besides, I do not even know who he is. He refuses to appear, and we cannot even sign a publishing contract. What is to stop him from taking the money and disappearing?”
Lionel stood up again. “Very well, then. We can discuss it once the novel is finished.”
Gabriel nearly collapsed. In his heart, he had already sent A Decent Parisian to the guillotine a thousand times.
Of course he was not going to wait four months for the so-called “complete manuscript.” Who knew what changes might occur during that time?
A talented writer was like porcelain from the Far East before the nineteenth century: its price rose by the day, sometimes even by the shipload.
Before the premiere of Victor Hugo’s play *Hernani*, his entire fortune amounted to less than one hundred francs. Yet when the third act ended, a bookseller dragged him into the theater corridor and offered five thousand francs for the play.
Hugo asked why he did not wait until the entire performance was over. The bookseller snarled in explanation: “When the second act ended, I thought I ought to give you two thousand francs. When the third act ended, I felt I had to give you at least four thousand. I was afraid that if I waited until the end, I would have to give you ten thousand!”
A Decent Parisian plainly possessed tremendous potential. Gabriel even suspected that he already enjoyed some reputation in literary circles, and wrote erotic works only because he needed money.
What if he became famous one day? That was likely another reason he insisted on remaining hidden.
Gabriel once again stopped Lionel. “I cannot give you twenty thousand francs. The risk is simply too great. Even if he were Alexandre Dumas fils, it would be the same.”
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Lionel did not sit down. He asked directly, “Then how much will you give?”
Gabriel’s thoughts churned. At last, he clenched his teeth and named a price.
“One final offer: five… six thousand francs…”
Lionel replied decisively, “Done!”
Gabriel: “…!!!???”
He could scarcely believe his ears, but he immediately realized that he had been tricked.
This must have been A Decent Parisian’s bottom line from the beginning—perhaps even less. He might have agreed to five thousand francs, or even four thousand.
Gabriel hurriedly added, “I have not finished. Three thousand francs in advance: fifteen hundred in cash and fifteen hundred by bill of exchange, payable in three months. The remainder will be paid after delivery…”
Lionel nodded. “No problem. Please pay the full advance within two days.”
Gabriel: “…”
Had he rushed into that offer as well?
He stared intently at the young man before him, his thoughts thrown into confusion. For a moment, he could not tell whether everything had unfolded according to A Decent Parisian’s calculations, or whether the young man had simply improvised on the spot.
But the words had already left his mouth, and he could not take them back.
“…Tell A Decent Parisian to send me a letter by tomorrow so that we can confirm the details.”
Lionel agreed without hesitation. “All right!”
With that, he prepared to leave the Café de Flore.
Gabriel was somewhat unwilling to let him go and called after him. “Did Mr. A Decent Parisian tell you what the novel is called?”
Lionel did not turn around. “I think it is called *The Decadent City*.”
“What an apt title…”
Gabriel savored the profound implication of the name as he watched Lionel’s figure disappear around the corner.
At that moment, a furtive figure came over from the other side of the café and whispered, “Shall I follow him?”
Gabriel said bitterly, “He is only a puppet on a string. What would be the point of following him? Go and keep a close watch on the post office on Saint-Martin Boulevard!”
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