The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 693 - 336 Red and Black

"I come from humble beginnings, madam, but I am not lowly,"

he sighed, "The mortal world’s Hell is right here, once I step in, I can never escape it!"

——"The Red and the Black"

London Fleet Street, "British" editorial department.

Great Dumas settled himself into the comfortable armchair, contentedly sitting by the fireplace.

Under normal circumstances, he would certainly have complained about the misty, drizzly London winter.

But today, his attention was completely captured by the manuscript from Paris on his hands.

As a playwright with an excellent appreciation for literature, Great Dumas hardly ever regarded second-rate works with any interest.

As for Paris, the capital of literary and artistic talent, countless fresh novels and plays emerged every year, yet few caught his discerning eye.

However, this novel entitled "The Red and the Black" made Great Dumas feel more than a little ashamed.

From a standpoint of fairness, Great Dumas believed he had yet to create any work that could compare with "The Red and the Black".

Even worse, his fondness for "The Red and the Black" surpassed that for the new work by Hugo from Paris, sent by the second literary society of France — "Notre-Dame de Paris".

Worse still, both "The Red and the Black" and "Notre-Dame de Paris" made Great Dumas deeply embarrassed.

Such feelings directly breached the wall of pride he had built over the past year while writing "The Count of Monte Cristo".

The Frenchman slapped the manuscript against his face, shouting enviously and jealously, "Alexander, look at the rubbish you are writing! This is a novel, this is literature! Being defeated by Victor is tolerable, but where did this Mr. Stendhal spring from? If he can write a work of this caliber, how come he was completely unknown before?"

While he couldn’t help but loudly complain, the Red Devil squatting numbly behind him spontaneously said, "Damn! This novel is truly splendid!"

To show his love for the work, Agares, who had a strong memory, even began to recite sections from the novel: "His cheeks were flush, he looked down at the ground. The young man was eighteen or nineteen, quite delicate in appearance. Although not handsome, his features were pretty, with a sharp nose and large, black eyes, which, when quiet, seemed deep, studious, and full of fire, but now wore an expression of deep resentment."

The Red Devil savored this description of Yulian, the protagonist of "The Red and the Black", as if reminiscing about some old memory, grinning with his sharp teeth.

"Yulian, the son of a carpenter, was determined to make something of himself, but helplessly found no opportunity in the army and eventually chose the path of the Church. By chance, he was noticed by the mayor, became a tutor in his household, and later, a secretary to the Marquis, thereby making his way up the ranks, but in the end... hehe..."

The Red Devil did not continue.

His eyes, flickering with red light, glanced through the door panel and saw Mr. Hasting from Scotland Yard, who had just finished his work, standing emotionlessly outside the door.

Although Agares did not analyze the interests of any particular human, he had been with Arthur for so long, he could tell from Arthur’s expression that his little client was unhappy, very unhappy.

For Arthur, this was the expression of deep resentment.

Not wishing to say more, the Red Devil slumped into the sofa, casually beginning to recite sections from "The Red and the Black".

"Although this young man is of low birth, he has a very strong sense of self-esteem, and if his pride is wounded, he is capable of acting irrationally. As for so-called high society, all he feels is hatred and disgust, for this society has only accepted him at the very end of the dining table."

Click.

Arthur pushed open the door of the editorial office, and just after removing his hat, saw Great Dumas and Agares sprawled out lazily on the armchair.

Then he turned his head toward Tennyson’s seat, only to find that the rising star of Britain’s poetry world was not faring much better.

He held a manuscript, his hand trembling even as he held it, his lips pale, tears streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks. He lifted his sleeve to dry the tears, but each wipe only seemed to increase the wetness on his face. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Arthur had thought his own mood couldn’t get any worse today, but he hadn’t expected to find two others in the office in even greater distress — certainly beyond his expectations.

However, Tennyson’s situation was clearly worse than that of Great Dumas.

Arthur walked over to Tennyson, inquiring in as light and gentle a tone as he could muster, "Alfred, is there anything I can help you with?"

"No, Arthur..."

Seeing him approach, Tennyson quickly took a drink from his cup in an attempt to calm his emotions: "I... I was just moved by this poem, and indeed, I haven’t had the best year... My father passed away, and my writing has been a mess... so, I just lost control of my feelings for a moment."

Hearing this, Arthur said with a laugh, "Setbacks are only temporary, but if a poem can move a poet of your caliber, it must be of high quality indeed."

The Red Devil on the sofa yawned and said, "Arthur, why bother, do you seriously have the mood to care about others right now?"