Under the slanting sunlight, Notre Dame Cathedral cast a colossal shadow over the city.
In the Archbishop's luxurious but musty reception room, Gariel Maurel sat on a hard, intricately carved high-backed chair, feeling his bottom ache.
"Damn it, when will Gibert replace these stupid chairs? Chief Gigo's sofa is so much more comfortable!" The strong scent of frankincense and myrrh in the air made him a little dizzy, but he could only grumble inwardly.
Finally, the side door slid open silently, and Bishop Gibert entered slowly, his face bearing an expression of mingled pity and solemn dignity. His purple everyday habit was immaculate, and the golden cross on his chest gleamed with a cold light.
He looked down at Gabriel.
"Mr. Maurel!" The Bishop's voice was deep and weary, as if he had worried himself sick saving the souls of Parisians: "To see you at a time like this is truly… complicated."
Gabriel immediately stood up, his face filled with twelve parts of respect and just the right amount of apprehension, and bowed slightly: "Your Grace, I am truly sorry.
As a devout believer, and as a publisher who feels deeply responsible, I believe it is necessary for me to personally explain to you, to clarify some possible… misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings?" Bishop Gibert slowly walked behind the massive oak desk, sat down elegantly, pressed his fingertips together to form a steeple shape, and a mocking curve played on his lips.
"Mr. Maurel, when countless souls are being enticed and corrupted by the words in the decadent city, you tell me this is just a 'misunderstanding'?"
Gabriel's face remained sincere: "Your Grace, please understand! I absolutely did not mean that…" He then proceeded to explain the difference between the "two versions" of the decadent city again.
Finally, he added indignantly: "That pamphlet, as I told Chief Gigo, was absolutely not from The Clamor! This is shameless counterfeiting and slander! It is the work of some underground workshops envious of the decadent city's literary value!
What we published is a naturalistic work of profound social critical significance, strictly reviewed and with inappropriate content removed! The copyright registration at the 'Bureau of Books and Libraries' is the best proof of this!"
"Proof?" Bishop Gibert let out a sneer: "Gabriel, we are all adults, why play these word games?
You and I both know what readers are frantically chasing! The spaces in those blanks filled with infinite imagination! The deleted details, even without the pamphlet, can be completed in everyone's mind!
Even without that pamphlet, the decadent city is a novel destined for hell!"
Gabriel frowned. The reason Bishop Gibert was more difficult to deal with than Chief Gigo was that he didn't need to quibble over legal details, but could directly attack the moral attributes of the work.
"Your Grace," Gabriel took a deep breath: "I understand your concerns, completely understand! As a father, I also worry about the influence of bad reading material on young people. It is precisely for this reason that we made the maximum possible deletions.
But you know, literary creation… it needs to reflect certain social realities, even the dark side… just as Zola's works once caused controversy, but were ultimately proven to be valuable…"
Bishop Gibert abruptly interrupted him: "Don't mention Zola! His so-called 'scientific naturalism' is in itself a blasphemy against the order of God's creation!"
A brief silence fell in the room. Gabriel knew that pure defense and literary discussion were now useless; he had to reveal his true bargaining chip.
Gabriel's voice dropped even lower, with a tone of heartfelt candor: "Then, what do you think… how can this storm be quelled? I am willing to do everything in my power to cooperate with the Church… to purify the reading atmosphere of Paris."
Bishop Gibert leaned back in his chair, his fingers rhythmically tapping the smooth desktop, and his voice returned to its previous calm: "Quelling the storm? The source, Mr. Maurel, the key lies in the source. The true devil hidden behind the ridiculous pseudonym, An Honest Parisian!
The culprit who blasphemes God with words and poisons souls! As long as he exists for one day, similar poisonous weeds will continuously sprout!
Tell me, who is he? Where is he? Hand him over to secular law… and divine judgment!"
"Alas!" Gabriel sighed heavily, his face full of helplessness and distress, "Your Grace, this is precisely what grieves me most! An Honest Parisian is as cunning as an eel, only submitting manuscripts via anonymous post office boxes, and only accepting cash, money orders, and bearer checks for payment.
I have never seen his true face! He is like… like a ghost in the sewers of Paris, leaving behind only these words."
As Gabriel spoke, he spread his hands, his expression full of vexation: "I swear to you, if I knew who he was, for the purity of Paris's soul, to appease your anger, I would never shield him!"
Bishop Gibert let out a light, unidentifiable chuckle: "A ghost? Heh heh… I hope your glib tongue can also convince the envoy from the Holy See when he arrives in Paris."
Gabriel's scalp tingled; he knew he had miscalculated.
The reason he dared to openly publish the abridged version of the decadent city was, on the one hand, due to France's increasingly lenient cultural environment after 1871. Although Flaubert, Zola, and the Impressionist painter Édouard Manet had all been accused of corrupting morals, ultimately no artist was brought to court for it.
Whether it was madame bovary, the Rougon-Macquart series, or The Luncheon on the Grass, they were all normally distributed or sold.
On the other hand, it was due to the significant weakening of the Vatican's authority; even the "Papal States" had been completely lost, let alone intervening in the politics of various countries.
From Gibert's words, it seemed he didn't care if he would be arrested and imprisoned by the Paris police, but had a grander plan that could easily crush him.
Gabriel straightened his back, his tone becoming serious: "Your Grace, I deeply reflect! Although we strictly conducted content review, and although that supplementary pamphlet is an illegal imitation—
But it is undeniable that the popularity of the decadent city has, objectively… possibly triggered some undesirable discussions and attention. As a responsible publisher and a devout believer, I am deeply troubled and willing to make amends with concrete actions!"
Bishop Gibert was expressionless; only the fingers that had been lightly tapping the desktop stopped: "Mr. Maurel, it is good that you recognize your responsibility and have a heart for repentance and atonement. This shows that you still retain reverence in your heart and that your conscience has not been completely extinguished."
Half an hour later, in Bishop Gibert's office
"May the Lord forgive your transgressions and guide your future path, Mr. Maurel." Bishop Gibert stood up, a sacred smile on his face, and raised his well-maintained hand, adorned with the ring symbolizing authority, towards Gabriel.
Gabriel quickly bowed, respectfully took the plump hand, and kissed the ring: "It is my honor to serve you and the cause of the 'Paris Good Books Association'!"
Watching Gabriel's figure disappear at the door, Bishop Gibert curled his lip in disdain: "Fox!"
And when Gabriel walked out of Notre Dame and breathed the air of the Paris streets, smelling of horse manure and coal smoke, he spat fiercely: "Viper!"
As agreed, this week he was to sponsor the "Paris Good Books Association" 10,000 francs!
Bishop Gibert, having accepted this "atonement money," would temporarily close the door on the Church's push for severe accountability.
Chief Gigo, without the Bishop's sustained strong pressure, and with his own additional contribution of 5,000 francs, would also relax the investigation.
Currently, the decadent city alone brought him at least 5,000 francs daily, nearly half of which was profit, and this figure continued to rise as the decadent city spread beyond Paris.
One week, just one week, would be enough to make up for the donations he gave to Jige and Gibert.
He sat in the carriage, leaning back wearily against the seat.
"Master, where are we going?" the coachman asked.
Gabriel did not answer the question, but leaned half his body out of the window, turning his head back: "Pierre, you said you only saw that shabby young man at the post office entrance on Saint Martin Boulevard, and no one else?"
"Yes, Master." A tall, thin man in the servant's standing area at the back of the carriage answered humbly and affirmatively.
"Hmm, I see." Gabriel pulled back inside, "To the newspaper office. I need to write another letter to Mr. An Honest Parisian."