Chapter 41
When Josée turned the conversation his way, Count Phil didn't hesitate to respond.
"He's a disgrace to literature," the Count spat. "You did your homework, didn't you? Then you know—he was an informant. The man made his living peddling literary gossip to industry insiders. He sold off confidential information from publishers and strutted around like he was some kind of literary god. Just the thought of someone like that being called a 'novelist' makes my skin crawl. So, I decided to teach him a lesson—rigged the box, tampered with the cigarettes. That’s all. I never imagined it’d start a fire… let alone kill him."
Josée nodded, visibly impressed. Bernard quietly jotted down notes beside her.
"I completely understand your feelings, Count. Naturally, we all want authors who create beautiful literature to remain untainted."
Count Phil nodded solemnly.
"Exactly. What I can't stand is how someone like that ends up with fans. People idolize him, and it poisons the literary salon. Instead of elevating each other's work, everyone starts chasing cheap tricks. Writers with genuine passion get dragged down. In the end, it threatens the survival of literature itself."
"I get it. When information outranks passion, something's gone wrong."
"There are others like him, too. These informants—they're a blight on the literary world. We’d all be better off if they just disappeared!"
At that, Josée smiled sweetly.
"Count Phil, wouldn't that be 'indirect intent to kill'?"
The Count blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd said. His face drained of color as panic crept in. Bernard, still scribbling away, didn’t even look up.
"You just said the world would be better off without them, didn’t you?"
"N-no! That was just a figure of speech…"
"Hehehe. Just like Lisette said—you’re a passionate man. But it seems your methods were a bit misguided."
Bernard put away his notepad and stepped forward.
"Police. We'll need you to come with us to the station."
"I-I didn’t do anything…!"
And just like that, Count Phil—the host of the literary salon—was whisked away by the plainclothes officers who had been quietly mingling with the guests.
The remaining amateur writers sat in stunned silence, left behind in the middle of their critique session.
Madame Mélias broke the silence with a satisfied sigh.
"Ah, that was fun! So this is what they mean by realism!"
The room erupted into chatter, but Brian just chuckled, watching the famous author smile.
"Count Phil was a pure soul, wasn't he? Always going on about 'literature, literature'—he made it sound like a sacred art. Hard for the rest of us to keep up."
Josée couldn’t help but laugh along. Maybe putting your hobby on too high a pedestal could lead to... unintended consequences.
With Count Phil gone, the guiding hand behind the event had vanished. The room, once tightly orchestrated, now buzzed with freewheeling curiosity. The amateur writers swarmed the professional authors and editors with questions.
"From an editorial perspective, what do you think of informants?"
"Honestly? It makes me go, 'You’ve got to be kidding me.' But I wouldn’t want to kill them over it. Still, their trustworthiness takes a nosedive. And once that trust is gone, no one wants to work with them. That’s true in any industry, not just publishing. So the scenario Count Phil feared? It’s not likely. But man, he really took it to heart. The guy was obsessive."
For the aspiring writers, the distant world of professional authors and editors suddenly felt a lot closer—more human, more flawed.
"Madame Mélias, what’s the secret to selling books?"
"If I knew that, I’d be the one asking the questions! I've got plenty of books that didn’t sell. I’ve published a lot, but none were blockbuster hits. If you're curious, go ask a bookstore—they’ll tell you how many copies moved."
Lisette leaned toward Brian.
"Brian, what kind of work do you want to put out into the world?"
He answered without hesitation.
"Something that sells."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Brian grinned and added brightly,
"If it doesn’t sell, I don’t get paid. If it does, then I can fund plenty of highbrow books too."
Blunt, but it was the honest truth of the publishing world.
Lisette laughed.
"No matter how much we writers talk ourselves up, I guess publishers and readers see things differently."
Josée chimed in.
"Writing’s real appeal lies in its freedom. If outsiders start pushing 'it should be this way' too hard, both the sellers and the readers lose out."
Come to think of it, Count Phil’s literary salon had played a big role in reinforcing the strange hierarchy among writers. Now that he was gone, the atmosphere felt lighter, more relaxed—a sign that something had shifted for the better.
Josée pulled out the manuscript of the mystery novel she had written.
"Hey, Lisette."
"Hmm?"
"This mystery novel I wrote… it’s actually really good, right?"
Lisette burst out laughing.
"So, you've finally dipped a toe into the writing swamp? That place is a den of madness!"
"Right now, I’ve got like ten ideas swimming around in my head."
"Aha! Then it’s too late for you. You’ve already crossed the point of no return."
"I want to get published too."
"You should show it to Brian. You’re young and cute—he might see some publicity potential."
"Oh, Lisette…"
"Hey, youth is a weapon in every industry. Use it while you can."
After that day, Count Phil’s literary salon was officially shut down.
Lisette’s play, *Caged Little Bird*, was adapted for the stage and reportedly drew large audiences, especially among women.
And Josée, at last, began writing her own mystery novel.
Within the walls of the brothel Lirondelle, an unnamed literary circle was quietly being born.