In Renoir's puzzled gaze, Émile Bergerat began to explain Georges Charpentier's plan:
"The last time the cost was too high, mainly because we used color printing for the entire front page.
Paper and pigments required extra expenses, so doing it again would naturally be unbearable.
But this time it's different.
Monsieur Charpentier wants you to draw four illustrations, not to be incorporated into the newspaper's layout, but to be printed separately, like posters or advertisements.
And each illustration will only be 5 inches in size.
A full page can yield 8 small color images like this..."
Renoir listened, completely confused, not understanding what Émile Bergerat was talking about.
But Émile Bergerat grew increasingly excited, even standing up and pacing around the room as he explained, as if Emperor Napoleon were issuing orders to his generals in the war room.
"We don't need every newspaper to come with four illustrations.
Instead, each newspaper gets one illustration—but these four illustrations, when put together, should happen to be a summary of the main plot of this issue's serialization."
"So?"
Renoir was still bewildered.
Émile Bergerat glared at him, annoyed that he wasn't catching on, recalling his own sudden enlightenment when Monsieur Charpentier explained this yesterday, and feeling a surge of intellectual superiority.
"So, to collect all four illustrations, you either have to ask or buy them from other readers who subscribe to La Vie Moderne, or you'll have to buy at least four copies of La Vie Moderne."
Renoir was stunned, still incredulous:
"How is that possible? Our newspaper sells for 10 sous a copy, so four copies would be 40 sous, a full 2 francs—is anyone crazy enough to spend an extra one and a half francs just to collect the illustrations?"
Émile Bergerat looked at the artist before him with pity, suddenly understanding why he had been so impoverished before meeting Monsieur Charpentier.
Although "Impressionism" was indeed not well-received by the old guard at the French Academy of Fine Arts, Monet and the others still managed to do well, not to the point where they couldn't even afford paint, like Renoir once was.
He really didn't understand what buyers liked.
Unless he met a client who appreciated him, or an era that appreciated him, he was destined to rot in a Parisian basement his whole life.
Émile Bergerat sighed:
"Collecting is a human instinct, especially for those idle aristocratic ladies, wives of wealthy merchants, and young gentlemen living off annuities.
Once something is deemed interesting and rare by them, their desire to consume and their collecting habit will be stimulated.
If The Adventures of Benjamin Bouton becomes a popular novel, then forget four copies, they'll buy ten, twenty copies."
After hearing the explanation, Renoir slumped down as if all the strength had been drained from his body.
He hadn't imagined such a marketing strategy existed.
Émile Bergerat stepped forward and patted his shoulder:
"Pierre, paint well! Are four illustrations per issue a lot? Not at all—
But they must be perfected, made into true works of art.
Think about it, when The Adventures of Benjamin Bouton is serialized in La Vie Moderne, and all the wealthy people in Paris are chasing your illustrations, will your 'Impressionist' oil paintings still lack buyers?"
It was this last sentence that moved Renoir.
No artist, no matter how aloof, would refuse others buying their work—otherwise, why consign paintings to galleries?
In this era, the cost of being a painter was very high.
Canvases, pigments, and brushes were all expensive, and renting a studio and hiring models cost a fortune.
Renoir also didn't want to share a room with other painters anymore.
Thinking of this, he nodded vigorously:
"Okay! Then please transcribe another copy of the manuscript for me; I want to take it back to the studio to read..."
————
Just as The Adventures of Benjamin Bouton was poised for release, the influence of My Uncle Jules was quietly brewing across the Channel in England.
As two countries separated by the sea with deep historical ties, the most famous French periodicals often appeared on the bookshelves of London bookstores only a few days later.
These were mainly for elite individuals proficient in French and students learning the language.
The Old Guard did not cause much of a stir in Britain.
Unlike France, which had experienced half a century of turmoil, so apart from its "polished technique and exquisite language," it did not resonate widely.
Letter from an Unknown Woman was appreciated by only a very few, and most readers' reactions after finishing it were:
"Hah, the Frenchmen..."
But My Uncle Jules was different—
London, England.
The warm spring breeze couldn't disperse the thick, heavy fog here, nor could it disperse the cigar smoke filling the office of Harold Thompson, editor-in-chief of The Nineteenth Century.
He was sturdily built, with a thick Victorian sideburn beard, and sharp eyes.
He was currently making corrections with a pen on a manuscript.
"Knock, knock."
A knock sounded, and before he could respond, a slightly hurried figure pushed the door open.
It was his young assistant editor, Edwin Morris.
The young man's face was flushed, and he clutched a folded newspaper tightly in his hand:
"Mr. Thompson, forgive the interruption, but I think you must see this immediately. Le Petit Parisien has published an excellent story."
Thompson didn't even lift his head, just cast an impatient glance over his glasses:
"Morris, I'm reviewing Oscar Wilde's critique on 'Aestheticism,' and it needs major surgery... No time for the gossip of those dissolute Frenchmen!"
"No, sir! It's not gossip!"
Edwin eagerly stepped forward and spread the Le Petit Parisien onto the messy manuscripts in front of Thompson:
"Look! Lionel Sorel! The author of The Old Guard and Letter from an Unknown Woman."
Thompson's pen finally paused.
He was not unfamiliar with this name.
As the editor-in-chief of one of Britain's most important literary journals, he was well-acquainted with the literary trends across Europe, and of course knew Lionel Sorel and had read his two previous works.
"Sorel?"
Thompson snorted, his tone clearly disdainful:
"That young man who writes about French veterans and neurotic women?
What new trick has he pulled out now?
Is this a sentimental story from a Parisian brothel, or a hallucination experienced by some poet after smoking opium?
Hah, the Frenchmen..."
He put down his red pencil, leaned back in his large leather chair, crossed his hands over his stomach, adopting a "Alright, let's see what you've got" posture.
Edwin ignored his editor's sarcasm and spoke quickly:
"It's this one, it's very short, it won't take much of your time, sir!
It's completely different!
I just finished reading it, and I feel... I feel like I've been hit by something!"
Thompson heard this and began to tease:
"Hit? Hit by what? Those stinky French cheeses?"
Though sharp-tongued, out of professional habit, he still reached for the newspaper, intending to skim it quickly and send off his overzealous assistant.
"My Uncle Jules? Ha, what a mediocre title—though certainly better than his previous pretentious 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'."
Thompson grumbled.
But soon, he sat up straight, his casual gaze slowly hardening.
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon