For the next two days, the delegation of French writers held several more ticketed commercial lectures in New York.
The result?
Tickets were snatched up even more frantically than for the premiere of "Thunderstorm" at the Comédie-Française, scalpers drove ticket prices sky-high, and still, tickets were hard to come by.
The lecture halls were always packed to the brim, with people three layers deep inside and out, just to catch a glimpse through the windows of those "living legends of French literature."
Money flowed in like water, so much that it was dizzying.
--------------------
The grandeur of New York was still buzzing in their ears: the cheering crowds, the rustling banknotes, the clinking glasses...
These sounds seemed to linger, but Zola, Lionel, and the others had already boarded the train to Boston.
As usual, it was the most luxurious compartment, with spacious soft seats, mahogany paneling, velvet curtains, capable of seating ten people.
Amidst the regular "clack-clack" of the train wheels, the writers, having just left New York, were somewhat fatigued, yet also a little bewildered after the excitement.
The compartment door slid open with a "whoosh," and a man squeezed in.
He was about forty, his face flushed, hair a little disheveled, and his eyes full of excitement.
He spoke fluent French, but with a slight American accent:
"Gentlemen, masters! Good morning!"
Everyone recognized him: Eric Morton, nephew of Ambassador Levi Morton, responsible for all the miscellaneous affairs of this trip to America.
However, they had only met him once on the "Péreire," and he had rarely appeared since.
He excitedly shook hands vigorously with everyone, and when it came to Lionel, he shook his hand several times with extra force.
Eric Morton's face broke into a wide smile:
"New York! New York was simply too successful! Beyond everyone's expectations!"
As he spoke, he pulled out an exquisite leather wallet from his pocket, opened it with a "snap," revealing a stack of brand new checks.
Like dealing cards, he handed a check to each person:
"This is the first installment of your share, the box office revenue from the New York leg!"
Maupassant took the check, glanced down at it, and his eyes instantly widened, his mustache bristling:
"H-how much? Two thousand? US dollars?"
His fingers clutched the thin piece of paper as if it weighed a thousand pounds.
Next to him, Huysmans, Alexis, and Céard were much the same, all stunned;
Henri Céard even subconsciously took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Two thousand US dollars!
At the current exchange rate, that was well over ten thousand francs!
What was the concept of ten thousand francs?
Several people present, such as Huysmans, Céard, and Alexis, would struggle to write novels for a year, get them all published, and be lucky to save three to five thousand francs.
Maupassant earned more, but he spent even more extravagantly!
And now, they had only been in New York for a few days?
Given a few talks?
Attended a few banquets?
They had done almost nothing and received over ten thousand francs?
Huysmans clutched the check, his hands trembling slightly:
"My God, my seven-thousand-franc debt... is it... is it covered just like that?"
He felt like he was dreaming.
Paul Alexis let out a long breath, as if a huge burden had been lifted; his four thousand francs owed to the bank could be paid off immediately!
Even the well-traveled Zola and Daudet couldn't hide their astonishment.
Zola held the check:
"This... this is indeed much more than expected."
He was already planning to use this money to restart construction on the new wing of his Médan villa.
Eric Morton looked at the stunned expressions of the French writers and smiled triumphantly:
"Gentlemen, this is America!
People here crave culture, and they are willing to pay for it! New York is just the beginning!"
Huysmans finally recovered from his shock, revealing a somewhat greedy smile:
"Mr. Morton, if the subsequent cities can all be like New York, then..."
Eric Morton showed a troubled expression:
"Hey, you know, New York is an exception—it has the largest population and is the wealthiest. The next few stops, I'm afraid..."
Before he finished speaking, Maupassant, Huysmans, and even Zola showed expressions of understanding and relief.
But Lionel suddenly coughed, interrupting him; Zola and the others were also startled and looked at Lionel.
The compartment instantly fell silent!
Lionel turned to Eric Morton, his tone calm:
"Mr. Morton, we are very grateful for the success in New York!
As you said, New York is the most prosperous city in America, unique, but if the revenue from subsequent cities significantly decreases, what would that mean?
It would mean that the influence and appeal of us, 'symbols of French literature,' are declining, that your meticulous arrangements are not effective—
And even more, it would mean that the commercial value of this visit, strongly promoted by Ambassador Levi Morton, would be greatly discounted.
Our reduced income means a reduction in the Ambassador's income, and also a reduction in your income.
I believe no one wants to see such a situation, do they?"
Lionel's words were like cold water, waking Huysmans and the others who were immersed in the joy of sudden wealth.
That's right, how could they show their hand at the beginning and imply they were easily satisfied?
The triumphant expression on Eric Morton's face froze for a moment, then he immediately reacted and quickly assured:
"Of course! Mr. Sorel, you are absolutely right!
Please rest assured, I will do my utmost, use all my connections, to ensure that the revenue at every stop remains at a high level! Every event will be as successful as New York!
I guarantee it with my honor!"
He thumped his chest, making a solemn vow.
Only then did Lionel lean back in his seat, saying no more.
--------------------
One day later, Boston.
The welcome ceremony wasn't as frantic as in New York, but it was equally enthusiastic.
The people here were more reserved, full of gentlemanly demeanor, and the necklines of the ladies' dresses were privately complained about by Maupassant as "so high they could strangle someone, not a hint of collarbone visible."
Harvard University, Boston Public Library, Boston Athenæum, New England Historic Genealogical Society... it was still one lecture and dialogue after another.
Zola left his famous quote at Harvard:
"A doctor is not accused of spreading the plague because he studies it, nor does a writer create evil by describing it."
He concluded with an additional remark—"Reality is more dangerous than my novels."
These words were immediately noted by reporters and became the headline of the Boston newspaper the next day.
Lionel was asked:
"You and your French colleagues seem particularly concerned with eroticism and male-female relationships. Is this at the core of French culture?"
His answer was rather clever:
"Ancient Chinese philosophers said, 'Eating and sex are human nature.' This statement is simple, but it is the truth.
Therefore, we French merely acknowledge it and write about it when necessary."
This answer made some conservative Bostonians frown, but also caused many young people to secretly smile.
Someone also asked Edmond de Goncourt for his opinion on American literature.
Mr. Edmond Goncourt's answer was somewhat ambiguous:
"American literature? Ah, very young, full of vitality.
But I envy this youth, for it possesses something that our French literature has lost—innocence."
These words left the American audience present with mixed feelings, both proud of being acknowledged and confused as to the meaning.
They found it difficult to judge whether the evaluation "innocence" was praise or criticism.
Back at the hotel, Maupassant predictably couldn't help but complain to Lionel and Huysmans:
"Boston is good, but it's too 'Puritanical'!
Look at those ladies, wrapped up so tightly, not even a wrist exposed! God, it's absolutely boring!
I still prefer New York, at least the girls there are more uninhibited, ah, and that beautiful and charming widow..."
--------------------
The three-day Boston itinerary concluded, and the harvest was still considerable.
Although box office revenue was slightly lower than in New York, under Eric Morton's full efforts, it still remained at a high level that left no one complaining.
Next, at the invitation of the Carnegie family, they departed for Pittsburgh, the industrial center of Pennsylvania.
As the train entered the Pittsburgh area, the scenery outside the window began to change.
The sky was no longer the clear blue of Boston, but was covered by a layer of grayish-yellow haze, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur mixed with coal smoke.
Dense railway lines spread out like a spiderweb, flanked by endless factory buildings, towering chimneys reaching into the clouds, and mountains of coal slag and ore.
The river was murky, shimmering with an eerie hue.
They visited the largest and most modern steel mill in the area—the Edgar Thomson Steel Works.
Built in 1875, this factory was one of the first steel mills in America to use the Bessemer converter, specializing in the production of railroad steel rails and ingots, and was hailed as a symbol of American industry.
Upon entering the factory grounds, a tremendous roar and wave of heat assailed them, as if they had stepped into another world.
The blast furnaces were like giant volcanoes, spewing hot flames and thick smoke.
In the converter shop, glowing red molten steel churned in containers, emitting a deafening roar.
Massive steam hammers pounded on incandescent steel ingots, shaking the ground.
Overhead cranes slowly moved tons of steel, producing creaking sounds.
Workers, in their uniforms, with faces covered in coal dust, toiled silently amidst the high temperatures and noise, like cogs in a giant machine.
Immense in scale, astonishingly efficient, strictly disciplined, technologically advanced... all of this deeply shook these French literati.
Zola watched the flowing molten steel and the workers toiling in harsh conditions, his expression growing more and more solemn.
He tried to use his rationality to understand and analyze this industrial behemoth, but what he felt more was a tremendous sense of oppression.
He murmured to himself:
"Is this the power of the future? In comparison, our France, alas..."
He shook his head, a look of dejection on his face; the French mining areas and factories he had observed now seemed so backward and insignificant.
Huysmans also put away his usual acerbity and pickiness, his lips pressed tightly, his face somewhat pale.
Even the most volatile Maupassant was subdued at this moment.
He watched the scorching molten steel being cast into railway tracks, and couldn't help but whisper to Lionel beside him:
"God, if this stuff were laid all over the world...
Our rural areas in France, still using horses to pull goods, would seem like relics from the last century.
Everything here is surging forward, prosperous, and full of light!"
The few of them were all awestruck by this industrial spectacle, their minds filled with complex emotions: amazement, reverence, and a sense of loss as Frenchmen.
In contrast, France indeed gave off a feeling of being old and faltering.
This was completely different from the buildings and bridges they saw in New York a few days ago, where they still had a critical eye.
Perhaps the only one whose mood was not heavy was Lionel; he even had the leisure to look around, appearing absent-minded.
At this moment, Andrew Carnegie, who was accompanying them on the tour and serving as their guide, asked:
"Mr. Sorel, it seems my factory doesn't surprise you?"
(End of Chapter)