Pride and Prejudice - 2
Lionel Balzac stood in front of the entrance to Half and Half, a publishing house. He had an appointment here to meet the great writer Herodotus. Herodotus was Lionel's benefactor. He had forgiven Lionel, cheered him on, and supported him.
The world might say that Homerus was the literary savior sent by the Lord—but Lionel knew the truth. There were two saviors in this world. Herodotus, the creator of Holmes and Lupin, was literature's second savior. And Lionel's first.
Lionel clutched the Lupin card tightly in his hand, hesitating. The words written on it stood out vividly in his mind.
[When the genuine article is ready, I shall return.]
—Gentleman Thief Arsène Lupin—
Was he genuine now? Who could say? He'd learned about romance novels from Homerus, but in the end, it was all just stolen knowledge he'd mimicked and mastered. Thinking back, Lionel had always been a copycat. He had no burning inspiration of his own—he could only imitate others. Maybe it had been a mistake to ever think someone like him could become a writer.
"……"
Suddenly, the thought struck him. Fear gripped him. He couldn't take a single step forward. His breath came short, as if he were trapped underwater, lungs filling. Better to just suffocate like this. In that impulse, as he closed his eyes—
"Ah, you got here first. Waiting out front?"
The savior's voice pulled him from his silence.
"Herodotus... sir..."
"Yes."
"Thank you... I mean, I don't even know what to say—"
"Hmm, this'll take a while to talk through, won't it? There's a parlor inside—"
The savior extended a hand with a bright smile.
"Let's go together."
"...Yes!"
Lionel didn't know it, but those words were a plagiarism of an old slogan symbolizing the ROK-US alliance.
Lionel Balzac sat in the parlor, taking deep breaths for a long while. I waited silently for him to relax. After a few minutes, he bowed his head deeply and spoke.
"Thank you! Sir! Thanks to you introducing me to Homerus, I was able to publish my book!"
"Is that so? Glad to hear it."
"And... thank you for forgiving my sin."
"Sin? An editor asks, a writer delivers. That's all."
I didn't see buckling under an editor's pressure amid poverty as some great crime. Sure, if he'd done it shamelessly and strutted out, that'd be different—but he'd properly reflected and apologized. As a plagiarist myself, I couldn't blame him anymore.
"If I hadn't picked up the pen after that shameful request, I wouldn't feel ashamed. In the end, I chose to write."
"And thanks to that, I met a talented writer like you."
"...So, I want to return this. With my book."
Lionel pulled a book from his bag and handed it to me along with a card. The card was the recommendation I'd written on the Arsène Lupin card I'd given him. And the book...
"This is the novel I really wanted to write."
It was the romance novel he'd published with Homerus this time. I'd read it several times already, but receiving it straight from the author made it special. I accepted it gladly and bowed my head in thanks.
"Thank you. It's the most valuable gift I've gotten all year."
"It's not that great a novel."
"No, really."
Sometimes, coincidences arrive like miracles. Utterly random, without warning or clue. An absurd, contextless stroke of fate that lands on one person. In this world, they call it a fairy's prank.
I'd thought it mere chance at first, but seeing the title of his novel made it clear.
"Getting a novel this fun as a gift is pure joy."
"...Thank you."
Gentleman Thief Hakusen VS Sherlock Holmes
A monstrosity of a work. Maurice Leblanc. The name Lionel Balzac. Honoré de Balzac. And the title of this novel he'd truly wanted to write.
"Emma was actually the name of a woman I loved. I can't see her anymore, though..."
Emma. Jane Austen. This man was caught in a fairy's prank. One no one but me would guess.
"Ah! Not that it's based on my real life or anything. I mean, it's... a metaphor? She went to the Lord's embrace a few years ago. The walls of status are really the walls between life and death the Lord set... Haha... too grandiose?"
Lionel rambled on about the meaning of the work, the thoughts behind it. I nodded with a smile, chiming in, asking questions now and then. His Emma differed from Jane Austen's, but they shared one thing.
"So, yeah. I put too much greed into this novel. Haha... Probably only I could love a protagonist like this. She's my favorite... The real Emma was such a beautiful woman..."
"I disagree."
"Pardon?"
"This protagonist Emma? She'll be loved. By countless people."
His protagonist was lovable. I wasn't a critic, but I was sure of that much.
"This novel will endure as a classic, read forever. And through it, countless people will learn love."
"You're too kind..."
This Emma would become a classic. Not because of Jane Austen, but because of Lionel Balzac. A novel anyone in this world could empathize with and love, remembered for life.
"They say artists caught in a fairy's prank leave their names in history, right?"
"A fairy's prank? Haha... I'd love to experience one..."
"You already have."
"Pardon?"
Explaining the "prank" would be tough, so I shrugged playfully instead.
"A writer acclaimed as a genius by the empire's two most renowned authors. If that's not a fairy's prank, what is?"
"...Haha, true. No other miracle could explain it..."
"I could write a recommendation if you need one."
Homerus and Herodotus. A work endorsed by both would skyrocket to fame. Aspiring writers would study romance from his books. With his innate sense for structure, this man could be a far better teacher than me, a mere plagiarist.
I pictured Lionel Balzac teaching at the formal Literary Academy. His students publishing fun works—a bright future.
"That'd be too much for me..."
"Call it an investment. In a future great author. Or rather, with this Emma, you're already a great author now."
"……"
Whether Lionel felt burdened or not wasn't my concern.
"Let's go together, Lionel Balzac."
"...Yes. Thank you so much, Herodotus."
"It's been a while, sir."
"Yes, it has. An honor to meet the church's cardinal."
Garnier Cardinal had come to the publishing house. I'd seen him once before, when publishing The Sorrows of Young Werther—this made twice.
"The reason I've visited again is that the council has approved your beatification."
"...Pardon?"
"So now I must call you Blessed Candidate. Beatification takes years, but until then, you'll be a candidate—Blessed Candidate—entitled to the same respect as bishops everywhere."
"Uh, I don't quite follow. Wasn't my beatification canceled?"
"The church has recognized your recent act of goodwill as a miracle."
"A miracle...?"
Garnier Cardinal smiled warmly and explained the miracle.
"Do you know what a miracle is, sir?"
"...Not really."
"We call impossible things—those no human will can achieve, only possible with the Lord's aid—miracles."
"Different from magic or blessings...?"
He pondered my question briefly, then nodded as if gathering his thoughts.
"Magic can bring rain to drought, blessings make the lame walk. But neither can lift hearts from malice."
"Hearts?"
"Making the wounded forgive the wounder, the strong protect the weak, the indifferent turn to church, people martyr for faith. That we call miracle."
"……"
"You recreated the savior's millennium-old miracles here on earth. If not a miracle, who could make the rich rightly open their coffers for the poor—and glory in it? Who could make people love children as their own?"
A pure white glow flickered in Garnier Cardinal's eyes. Proof of God's existence. Divine power. Feeling God closer than anyone, he told me:
"Priests like us, granted only blessings, can only envy. If our glory is mere thanks for undue favor, how could we not be ashamed?"
He'd never witnessed a miracle himself.
"So, sir, I ask: Accept the church's beatification. Become Blessed—nay, a saint."
"Even if I did, what could I do...?"
"Just one word."
"……"
"Do you believe miracles exist in this world?"
That simple, clear question left me dazed. Like a man entranced, I nodded.
"Yes."
"Sion."
"Yes, young master."
"What do you think a miracle is?"
"A miracle, sir?"
Sion tilted his head, then answered without hesitation. I couldn't help but laugh.
"To me, your literature is the miracle."
"Pfft, really?"
"Yes."
"Same here."
On my desk sat stacks of romance novels from imperial publishers. This was the miracle!