The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1579: Chapter 14: The Publishing Empire of [The British] _2

Of course, whether the Caucasus incident was a success or a failure, different people will have different opinions.

However, for Ledley, the fact that Sir Arthur Hastings could be magnanimous and forgive was truly a knightly feat of great tolerance.

The torrential rain poured down outside the window, and the thunderous roar of the printing press downstairs was abruptly interrupted by the neighing of horses.

Heavy, large riding boots landed, splattering two bursts of muddy water on the cobblestone street below.

Arthur raised his sleeve to wipe the mist off the glass, watching the visitor’s cloak billowing like a black sail in the downpour, and couldn’t help but laugh: ”This Frenchman, although he’s only lived in London for two or three years, has already grasped the essence of the British gentleman - venturing into such heavy rain without even taking an umbrella.”

Needless to say, this guest was naturally Mr. Alexander Dumas, who, upon receiving Arthur’s letter, had hurriedly come from Paris, loyal and true-hearted.

As for the German poet standing behind him, although Arthur hadn’t seen him for a while, he could still surmise that dear Heinrich Heine was certainly cursing something in German. Perhaps he was complaining about this damned London weather, turning the manuscript clutched in his hand into blue paste?

While Heine continued to curse the weather and God, Great Dumas was already knocking on the door with the hilt of his sword, the sound of bronze clashing mingling with the rhythm of ”La Marseillaise”, or so Arthur guessed. If not for the lightning and thunder, perhaps the whole of Fleet Street could hear this heavily accented man singing the word ”citizen” louder than the roar of a 16-pound cannon.

Disraeli suddenly appeared by Arthur’s side: ”It seems even the Great Paris Police Hall couldn’t make this fellow restrain himself one bit.”

Arthur asked, ”What trouble did he get into recently in Paris?”

”That depends on how you define trouble,” Disraeli smirked. ”When Heine came to London last year, he told us that the Great Paris Police Hall had banned Alexander’s ’Anthony’ from being performed. In response, Alexander was so furious that the very afternoon he stormed into the censor’s office, threw a handgun on his desk, and demanded a duel. Luckily, the Paris police didn’t take it seriously; otherwise, Alexander might have settled in your home by now.”

Dickens, intrigued, started a bet with everyone: ”I bet a shilling that Alexander’s first words upon coming up will be to ask for a glass of wine.”

Tennyson wasn’t so sure: ”I don’t think so. Last time Alexander came to the editorial office, it was also a rainy day. Back then, he was only bragging about how much he wanted to promote Miss Lyon...”

Before Tennyson could finish, the oak door was already being banged.

Great Dumas burst through, bringing with him the damp atmosphere of the West Indies Pier, rainwater dripping down his curly sideburns onto the carpet, and immediately gave Arthur a warm bear hug.

”My God! Arthur, my good fellow, seeing you return safely from Russia truly delights me. But what pleases me even more is that the freezing Russian winter seems to have awakened you, and you’ve finally started to focus on enjoying life, isn’t it?”

”Enjoying life?” everyone paused, casting their eyes toward Arthur: ”What do you mean enjoying life?”

Great Dumas grinned widely, then accusingly glanced at his friends: ”Can’t you tell? Arthur has recently been lovesick.”

”Lovesick?”

At the mention of this, everyone who had been listless due to the awful weather suddenly sat up straight.

”This...”

”Arthur never told us...”

Great Dumas unceremoniously pulled out a chair, resting an arm on the desk: ”Arthur, do you want to say it yourself, or should I say it for you?”

To everyone’s surprise, Arthur just waved him off: ”Alexander, we can discuss everything else later, but let’s start the board meeting first.”

”That’s not going to happen!”

Great Dumas laughed so hard he couldn’t close his mouth, assuming Arthur was too shy to admit it: ”What’s the big deal? You’re simply enamored with Miss Mary Taglioni’s dance steps and charm. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, even though Miss Taglioni’s looks aren’t top-tier, her demeanor and talent are rare. Whether in Paris or Vienna, Miss Taglioni is highly sought after. In fact, I’m somewhat among her admirers too. I remember back in 1827, when 22-year-old Miss Taglioni first debuted on the stage of the Paris Opera House, I knew she would one day be famous all over Europe...”

”Mary Taglioni?” Disraeli suddenly interrupted Dumas’s reverie: ”Are you sure?”

Rather displeased, Great Dumas shot a glance at the one who disrupted his mood, Disraeli: ”Benjamin, of course, I’m not one to speak frivolously. This is what Arthur personally admitted to me in his letter. He said that when I took him to the Paris Opera House to watch the ballet ’The Sylph’, he was already captivated by Miss Taglioni. However, at that time, he wasn’t sure about his feelings. Until later, he went to Hanover and Russia, and over time, this strange emotion not only didn’t fade but grew even stronger. Including his voluntary resignation as a diplomat, ostensibly due to diplomatic events, but in reality, it was because he was lovesick, desperately wanting to return to Paris or London to see another of Miss Taglioni’s performances.”

Disraeli, knowing the inside story, couldn’t hide his fascinating expression at Dumas’s detailed account.

He nudged Arthur with his elbow, and while everyone’s curiosity was piqued, he whispered: ”Is it really necessary to go this far just to infiltrate Kensington Palace? Aren’t you and Faraday quite close?”

Arthur slightly shook his head, a faint, perhaps feigned, melancholy smile lingering on his face: ”Mr. Faraday doesn’t work at Kensington Palace, and I can’t predict whether the Duchess of Kent would want to hire a Natural Philosophy teacher. But Miss Mary Taglioni is indeed Princess Victoria’s dance teacher. If I can gather some inside information through her, or subtly highlight the importance of Natural Philosophy, then...”

Disraeli felt goosebumps all over: ”Frankly speaking, Arthur, your approach is somewhat underhanded.”

Arthur gazed steadily: ”Perhaps. If someone else said it, I might accept it.”

”Hmm?” Disraeli hesitated, then turned to Arthur: ”Arthur, what do you mean by that?”

Arthur looked at him helplessly: ”Benjamin, do you really want me to spell it out?”

”Alexander!” Disraeli suddenly raised his voice, spinning his snuffbox in his fingers: ”Did you say Arthur confessed in his letter to admiring Miss Taglioni? But to my knowledge, doesn’t that ballet dancer have a sweetheart? If she does... unless our Sir Arthur plans to elope to Greece like Lord Byron, this unrequited love might just turn into the morning mist on the Thames.”

Great Dumas, who was recounting stories of Mary Taglioni using rose petals to soothe her feet backstage at the Paris Opera House, slammed the table at this, knocking the draft Dickens was sketching into the shape of Cornwall’s coastline: ”God as my witness! Benjamin, you always judge romance with the shrewd eye of a Londoner! Your sharp tongue is even more cutting than the executioner’s axe back when Eleanor Arden saved her lover from the scaffold! Regardless of whether Miss Taglioni has a sweetheart, even if she does, so what? Dovar’s old flame was Vini, but that didn’t stop her from also falling for me. Love is something you shouldn’t speak of so definitively!”