A surge of anger rushed into Lionel's heart.
Although he knew that in this era of extremely weak international copyright protection, piracy was inevitable.
Back in England, he had already dealt with pirated forgeries of A Study in Scarlet; however, in England, he could use The Detection Club rules to hold the line.
The influence of Good Words also kept those pirates confined to "underground" activities; they wouldn't dare sell things openly in a large bookstore like this in Russia!
Seeing his works pirated and sold on such a large scale, in a whole series, while he, the original author, didn't receive a single kopeck—the naked sense of plunder made his hands tremble with rage.
Lionel, his face ashen, raised the book in his hand:
"Did your bookstore print all of this?"
Bookstores of this era were often backed by publishers; for example, "Charpentier's Bookshelf" was both the name of the publishing house and the chain of bookstores.
The clerk nodded proudly:
"Yes, sir, we are all the property of Mr. Marx. He is the largest publisher in Russia."
Lionel pressed for details:
"Mr. Marx? What is his full name?"
The clerk replied:
"Adolphe Théodore Marx—oh, by the way, do you still want this book? Lionel Sorel is currently the most fashionable writer in all of Russia; everyone loves reading his novels!"
Lionel shook his head, shoved the book back onto the shelf, and turned to the clerk:
"Is that so? But I think this one stinks!" Then, ignoring the clerk's stunned expression, he walked straight out of the "Paris Bookstore."
The cold air outside hit him instantly, but it could not immediately extinguish the annoyance in his heart.
His previous feeling of relief after completing his mission was completely gone.
Sergei Ivanovich saw Lionel return to the carriage looking displeased and cautiously asked:
"Mr. Sorel, are you alright? At the bookstore..."
Lionel took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down:
"It's nothing."
He got back into the carriage and ordered:
"Take me back to the hotel."
The carriage started moving again.
Lionel leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes.
Fatigue and anger mixed together, preventing his mind from settling.
He knew that trying to stop publishing giants like Adolphe Théodore Marx from pirating his work right now was wishful thinking.
He could only suppress this sense of grievance for the time being:
"I'll find a way later..."
The priority now was to return to Paris as quickly as possible to finalize the script for Thunderstorm and push forward with the renovation of the Comédie-Française.
However, the next train from Saint Petersburg to Paris would not depart until February 2nd.
This meant he was stuck in this snowbound city for another week.
In the following days, Lionel found himself caught in endless socializing.
The Karatagin of the Alexandrinsky Theatre seemed determined to let him experience the full extent of Saint Petersburg high society's "warmth."
Invitations to banquets and balls rained down like snow.
Although he declined a significant portion, the remaining ones consumed almost all of his time and energy.
Whether in luxurious mansions with crystal chandeliers or in literary salons filled with cigar smoke, Lionel was the center of attention.
People discussed his The Old Guardsman, asked about new Holmes stories, and some had even heard rumors that he was preparing a new play.
Lionel had to force himself to keep up appearances, going through the motions of polite conversation, enduring their exaggerated compliments about France and himself.
He felt like a rare animal on display, consumed by an intense longing to return to Paris.
Every night when he got back to his luxurious suite at the "Hotel Europe," he felt more exhausted than after spending an entire day revising a script.
The physical weariness and mental drain intensified his longing for Paris as never before.
It wasn't until the afternoon of January 28th that Lionel finally canceled all appointments and decided to visit one person.
A literary giant of great importance in his mind: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.
Following the address for Dostoevsky's home given by Karatagin, he had Sergei drive him to Kuznetsky Lane, House 5-2.
It was an ordinary apartment building, even somewhat shabby.
The master should not have been so poor, but his passion for gambling and terrible financial management kept him on the brink of poverty his entire life.
He had once received a royalty payment of 7,000 rubles for Crime and Punishment, but it was still not enough to pay off his debts, forcing him to flee abroad to escape creditors.
Yet, if he hadn't been so addicted to gambling, how could he have written such a masterpiece as The Gambler?
With complex emotions, Lionel knocked on the door.
A moment later, the door opened, revealing a haggard middle-aged woman at the entrance.
Lionel knew this was Anna Grigoryevna Dostoevskaya, the author's wife.
Lionel took off his hat and said gently:
"Good day, Madam, I apologize for the intrusion. I am Lionel Sorel, from Paris. I hoped to visit Mr. Dostoevsky to express my respect."
Anna had clearly heard of his name; a flicker of surprise crossed her face, but it was immediately replaced by sorrow:
"Lionel Sorel... Thank you for your kindness. However, Fyodor's health recently... is very poor, very poor. He needs absolute quiet, and it is probably not suitable for receiving guests..."
Her voice choked, and her eyes constantly drifted anxiously towards the interior of the apartment.
Lionel was about to say something more when a dull "thud" echoed from the inner room, like a heavy object falling.
Anna's face changed drastically, and she cried out:
"Fyodor!"
Forgetting etiquette, she turned and ran inside.
Lionel's heart sank, and he immediately followed her in.
The scene in the bedroom tightened his chest.
The great Fyodor Dostoevsky was lying on the floor, his body curled up in pain.
He was coughing violently, and dark red blood continuously poured from his mouth, staining his sparse beard and the front of his shirt.
A small, shocking pool of red had already spread on the floorboards.
"Heavens! Fyodor!"
Anna rushed over, trying to help him up, but her strength was clearly insufficient.
Lionel lunged forward in one step:
"Madam, let me."
He knelt down and carefully but strongly helped Dostoevsky sit up.
The writer was lighter than he had imagined; this body, tormented by epilepsy and emphysema, was practically just a skeleton left.
They managed to settle him back onto the bed together.
Anna frantically wiped the blood from his mouth and chest with a towel, tears silently streaming down her face.
After a while, Dostoevsky's violent coughing and bleeding finally subsided slightly.
He lay on his back on the bed, eyes tightly closed, his face ashen like old cloth, his breathing weak and rapid.
Lionel's heart sank.
He suddenly remembered that Dostoevsky was supposed to die in 1881.
The exact date—was it today?
Lionel felt a wave of dizziness.
First Flaubert, now Dostoevsky...
He could only silently tell himself:
"It's just a coincidence... just a coincidence..."
(End of Chapter)