Chapter 225: First Impressions (3)
“So… what did you say?”
“Huff, huff, huff. This… absolutely… huff.”
Napoleon had suddenly run all the way to where I was staying at this ungodly hour when not even carriages were moving, and now he stood there clutching his knees and gasping for breath.
Sir, no one’s chasing you, so why don’t you catch your breath first and then talk? At this rate, you’re going to pass out. Keep this up and you’ll end up with asthma. Asthma. And that’s on top of the trash-tier medical technology of the late eighteenth century. You’ll die before your time like that, I’m telling you.
And that wasn’t all. If someone collapsed dead in front of the house, people would start whispering. Oh my, I heard someone died in that house? Oh dear, really? And then the property value would plummet. Ah, if it were my own house, I wouldn’t care, but this wasn’t my house.
Why wasn’t it my house? Because I never knew when the two assassins constantly eyeing my neck would come knocking, so I paid Mr. Pétion a generous rent and borrowed a house. My health was worth more than a few coins.
“Guhhh, hrrgh.”
“…Wait a moment.”
I stuck the toothbrush back in my mouth and went into the kitchen. If I didn’t at least bring him some water, this man looked like he was about to collapse on the spot screaming, Gyaaaah! I’m dying! But really, just how far had he run for a human being to make sounds like this?
—Gulp, gulp.
“Whew, now I feel like I can live again.”
After downing an entire mug full of water in one shot, Napoleon wiped around his mouth with his sleeve, rummaged through the bag slung at his side, and held out a bundle of papers to me.
“…What’s this?”
“What do you mean, what? It’s those manuscripts you asked me to read.”
Well, yes, I had asked him to read them… but I hadn’t given him a tight deadline, so why did he have to come sprinting over at dawn like this?
“Are you perhaps addicted to work? Or have you finally been moved by the immense grace of Guillaume—”
“Her name is Jane Augustine—no, she’s English, so Jane Austen. The novel’s called First Impressions. I may not be some great man of letters, but this person is no ordinary person.”
Napoleon ignored my words completely and waved the bundle of papers. So that must have been the manuscript by that Jane Austen person.
“No, how amazing can it really be? She’s only in her early twenties at most, isn’t she? Even if someone in her early twenties wrote something great, there’s a limit.”
“And you’re saying that as someone who became Controller-General of Finance at twenty?”
“……Well, I mean that’s generally how it is.”
As I said that, I took the bundle of papers—no, the manuscript—from Napoleon’s hand and read the cover page. Just how remarkable was it for this picky Corsican to praise it this highly?
“Jane Austen draft, written in 1797. First Impressions.”
—Rustle.
The cover turned, and the opening paragraph came into view.
[It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little the feelings or views of such a man may be known when he first enters a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters…]
Wait a second, I’d seen this before. Where? Where had I seen it? Remember, Guillaume. No—Kichan, Korean Kichan. Haven’t you seen this somewhere before?
“……The Top 100 Korea University Recommended Books for High School Students?”
“What the hell did you just say?”
“Ah, nothing.”
Right. That was it. During evening self-study in high school, I didn’t want to study, but since teachers kept walking past the back of the classroom, I couldn’t sneak away, so I just quietly read recommended books for teenagers. I remembered reading something like this back then.
“Brother, what did you say her name was?”
“Jane Austen.”
“Jane Austen, Jane Austen.”
Oh shit. That was it. That’s right. Jane Austen!
I had heard of her. I’d even read her before. But when I read it back then, I didn’t think it had this title. Ah, what did that matter right now?
“…Ha, I hit the lottery without ever expecting it.”
“Lottery? What the hell is a lottery now?”
“What else? A jackpot.”
Leaving Napoleon standing in the drawing room, puzzled, I hurried upstairs and knocked on the door.
—Bang bang bang!
“Mr. Pétion!”
For a moment, I heard rustling inside, then the door opened with a creak and a familiar face appeared.
“…Y-yes, boss? Yaaawn. What is it this early in the morning?”
“As soon as you get to work today, draw up a writer’s contract and bring it straight to my office! And make the terms the best in the industry!”
Paris, 6th Arrondissement.
University of Paris.
“Let’s see, my next class is…”
Dressed in plain white clothes, Jane opened the notebook where she had written down her schedule and began reading through it as soon as class ended. Since all the French around her was unlike anything she had ever heard in her life, if she did not prepare for class in advance, she would miss the lecture entirely.
And so, while Jane stood there blankly in the corridor flipping through her notebook, someone came running from afar and called out to her. It was English heavily tinged with a French accent.
“Miss Jane Austen?”
“Yes? Ah, yes! That’s me, but what is it?”
At Jane’s reply, the dark-skinned man broke into a bright smile and said,
“Whew, I finally found you! I am Alexandre Pétion, Chief Secretary of Ears of the Nation.”
“Chief Secretary? Why would someone like you be looking for me?”
“Our boss read your First Impressions and seems to have taken a liking to you, Miss Jane. He wants to sign a formal contract with you. That is why he sent me personally.”
“A formal… contract?”
Jane’s eyes wavered for a moment. A formal contract? Then did that mean something she had written would really become a book and be sold?
For years since she first began writing, the only replies Jane had ever received from publishers were things like, We are sorry that we cannot work with you, but we support your future endeavors. Her heart pounded.
“But I’m still in the process of learning…”
“Haha, we’re not forcing you right now. You may read the contract first and then decide.”
At the easygoing smile of the Black man, Jane fell silent for a moment before slowly nodding.
“An excellent choice, Miss Jane!”
Had it been about ten minutes in the carriage called by the Chief Secretary named Pétion? After crossing the Champ de Mars, Jane got down on Grenelle Street and could only widen her eyes in shock.
On one side of the street stood a four-story building about 110 yards long—or, in French terms, about 100 meters—with exactly one sign hanging on it.
[Peuple De Épi]
“This is the headquarters of our Ears of the Nation.”
“It’s very, very large.”
“Haha, is it? Even so, when the boss first started the business fifteen years ago, it began with just two rooms.”
Pétion said that with a hint of pride, then opened the building door and beckoned Jane inside.
Following the Chief Secretary’s guidance into the building, and then into a reception room set off to one side of the first floor, Jane saw two men she had met at the welcome ceremony a few weeks ago rise from the sofa and nod in greeting.
The owner, Guillaume, and the evaluator called Napoleon, was it?
Jane also bowed her head politely to the two of them.
“I’ll be frank, Jane. Both Napoleon and I believe that Miss Jane’s literary talent is very, very, very, very exceptional.”
“Aren’t you praising me too highly?”
“No, no. Of course not! Do you know how discerning our Mr. Napoleon here is? Isn’t that right, Mr. Napoleon?”
No, why was he glaring at me with a sullen face after I’d praised him?
“To add a little more, our Mr. Napoleon said that Miss Jane’s talent is so brilliant that its extent cannot even be measured.”
“…I never said it quite like th—ow!”
Keeping my hand hidden beneath the table, I grabbed Napoleon’s thigh and twisted it as I whispered quietly,
“While I’m doing business here, please play along appropriately. Understood, human?”
“Mmph, mmph!”
Yes, you should have cooperated like that from the start. Why did you have to ruin the mood, old man?
“Ahem, ahem. Now then, where were we, Miss Jane?”
“…That my talent is exceptional…”
“Ah, right! That thing, First Impressions! The moment I saw it, I thought, Ah, this is going to be a huge success.”
As I said that, I crooked a finger. At once, a page boy came over and slid a freshly printed contract right into the middle of the table.
“What is this?”
“A contract. From now on, Ears of the Nation will fully support Miss Jane Austen’s writing career, and in exchange, Miss Jane Austen will become our exclusive author.”
“…And how will you handle the sales proceeds?”
Oh? Look at that. An ordinary person would have stamped the contract the moment I put it down, but as expected of a great writer, her head for business was no joke.
Good. It was better for both sides to get all the contract terms clear in their heads and agree cleanly now, because if disputes came up later, it would be a headache for everyone.
“Miss Jane, are you aware that standard royalties run between 8 and 10 percent?”
“…Yes.”
“We’ll offer a generous 15 percent.”
“…Pardon?”
“Because talent like Miss Jane Austen’s cannot be bought with a few coins.”
In truth, if she were not Jane Austen, there would be no reason to invest like this. Since she was a world-class literary giant destined to leave her name in history, of course I had to lock her down at this level as a cheap sunk cost.
Think about it. If a football manager who knew the future could sign the child Lionel Messi, would he save a few measly coins? He’d pour in ten billion, a hundred billion, whatever it took to get him. It was that kind of thing.
I slid the contract toward Miss Jane and added,
“So, will you do it?”
Jane studied the contract for a moment, then nodded and said,
“There’s no reason not to. I look forward to working with you.”
People really do need to read books. Thank you, Korea University Recommended Reading for Teenagers!
Now we could go on slurping up royalties all over the world for more than two hundred years!
“Ah, by the way. That novel of yours, First Impressions—have you perhaps thought of another title?”
“Another title?”
She thought for a moment, then slowly spoke.
“In truth, I had been thinking that Pride and Prejudice might be a good name…”
“As expected!!!”
Jane Austen—she was a god!
“Then I’ll be going now.”
“…Pardon?”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? The work here is done, so I should leave. …Ah, though if you two wish to talk, you’re welcome to continue using the reception room. Khehehe.”
—Click.
That damned Guillaume said that, winked at Napoleon, and disappeared.
The door closed, and in the reception room, where only the two of them remained, an awkward atmosphere slowly rose up and wrapped itself around Napoleon and Jane.
At times like this, at times like this, what was one supposed to do again? It had been so long since he had last spoken with a woman that his mind went blank.
“…Mr. Evaluator, do you have a favorite author?”
“Ah, uh, me?”
“Yes. I heard you read a great many books…”
Napoleon was startled when Jane spoke first, then, realizing his own disgrace, gave a small cough.
“Ahem. I… like a writer named Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.”
“Oh my, The Sorrows of Young Werther?”
“…You know The Sorrows of Young Werther?”
“It’s truly a masterpiece!”
Oh? This woman and I might actually get along surprisingly well.