To many, Paris's 19th District was synonymous with "poverty" and "chaos." The sky there was perpetually overcast, clouded by smoke of uncertain origin, while the air carried an indescribable, ever-shifting odor—sometimes even vaguely pleasant. It gave those living there a true sense of what "life's many flavors" could mean.
The sounds of church bells, raindrops, and the clamor from the market below seeped into Cobb's cluttered one-room apartment, waking him up. He turned over, looked at the clock on the wall—it was ten in the morning. After a moment's blank stare, he remembered that he'd quit his job. He let out a heavy sigh and sank back into bed.
At this time on any other day, he'd be out chasing the latest story. Now, the only thing left for him to do was wait for a phone call.
There was a knock at the door, and Cobb tilted his head, immediately deciding to stay silent and pretend he wasn't home. He guessed it was Mrs. Chloé, the landlady, coming to collect rent.
After a few moments, Mrs. Chloé shouted through the door, "I know you're in there, Cobb! If you don't pay the rent soon, I'll have to ask you to leave!" She paused and then added, "You have three days!"
Cobb shut his eyes and pulled the blanket over his head.
As a journalist, he shouldn't have fallen so low; after all, reporters earned a base salary of 25 francs. With article acceptance bonuses, he could make as much as 45 francs per month on a good month—a decent income. But living in a place filled with exhaust and sewage came at a cost. His eight-year-old son had developed asthma and needed regular medication and treatment. To shield his family from the area's poor air, he had sent his wife and child back to the countryside.
And so, all the burdens rested on Cobb's shoulders alone.
Living expenses, medical bills, rent, electricity—each month felt like a nightmare as these demands came around again.
And now, he'd quit his job.
Was it really a wise choice? Or would it drag his family into the abyss due to a moment's impulse?
The phone rang. Cobb threw off the blanket, jolted upright, and ran to the phone, practically leaping toward it. Just as he was about to pick up the receiver, he hesitated, quickly running a hand over his face to regain his composure before answering carefully.
Disappointment instantly settled on his face—it was just Mrs. Chloé again, using a more "creative" method of badgering him.
After hanging up, Cobb slumped in place, staring blankly before suddenly breaking into tears. He'd endured so much hardship, clinging on with all his might, only to see things worsen instead of improve. What was he supposed to do?
The phone rang again. Frustrated, Cobb picked up the receiver and shouted, "I know, Mrs. Chloé. You win—I'll move out tomorrow…"
"What do you mean, move out?" came a clear, slightly youthful voice on the other end.
Cobb's face lit up instantly. "Mr. Charles?"
Realizing his error, Cobb quickly changed his tone. "Oh, no, my apologies, Mr. Charles. I thought… I thought it was someone else. But it doesn't matter…"
"Just one question, Mr. Cobb," Charles continued unbothered. "About your proposal last time—there's been a change of plans."
Cobb's heart sank. Though he still held the receiver, his head felt so heavy that he needed to prop it up with his hand.
"I've decided we won't be launching an ordinary newspaper," Charles's calm voice came through the receiver. "We're starting a military gazette. Would you be interested?"
Cobb's head shot up, a spark of energy back in his eyes as he replied excitedly, "Absolutely, Mr. Charles! Are you sure? A military gazette?"
As a former military affairs journalist, Cobb understood the unique significance of a military gazette. Its standing was unparalleled, especially during wartime. France had yet to establish one because small capitalists lacked the financial and logistical backing, while the large capitalists, who did, didn't see the need; they could already influence the military through parliament and supply contracts.
Charles, however, had the financial resources, military ties, and widespread popularity and influence in the army. A military gazette led by him had great potential!
"Of course," Charles confirmed. "But there's one more thing. Since it's a military gazette, we may issue you a commission. If you're uncomfortable with that…"
"No, no, Mr. Charles!" Cobb immediately responded, "I'd be honored!"
And he meant it. Cobb knew that if he declined, he'd probably still get a commission eventually—as a regular infantryman with a rifle on the battlefield. Accepting meant an entirely different role, and only a fool would refuse.
Charles continued, "Then, if that's settled, you're in charge. You'll be a second lieutenant, with a monthly allowance of 60 francs. Additionally, I'll pay you 40 francs as the editor-in-chief's salary, with bonuses for published articles. If that's agreeable, you can report to the city defense headquarters tomorrow…"
"I can report this afternoon, sir!" Cobb exclaimed, his eyes wide. "Is that possible?"
"Of course, Mr. Cobb!" Charles replied. "We happen to be in a hurry—the sooner, the better!"
After hanging up, Cobb leaped to his feet with excitement. He spun around the room a few times to let out his joy before grabbing the phone again.
"Please connect me to Möbiviek, Mr. Gratton. Yes, thank you!"
"Mr. Gratton, could you ask Eliza to come to the phone? Thank you very much!"
Gratton was the town doctor and one of the few people in Möbiviek with a telephone. Always helpful, he often acted as a messenger when Cobb needed to contact his wife urgently.
Soon, he heard his wife's anxious voice on the line, "It's me, Cobb. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Eliza!" Cobb said, brimming with excitement. "Do you know Charles?"
"Yes, I've heard many things about him. He's a hero of France."
"Can you believe it?" Cobb's voice trembled with emotion. "I'm going to work for him!"
"Really? That's wonderful! Are you going to be one of his reporters?"
"No, no!" Cobb's voice quivered with emotion, his eyes moist. "I'm going to be his editor-in-chief, Eliza! I'm Charles's editor-in-chief!"
"Editor-in-chief? What's that?" she asked.
"It means I'll be in charge of the entire publication!" Cobb explained. "I'll have a team of reporters under me, and I'll oversee everything. I'll be making a base salary of 100 francs…" Follow current novels on ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
"100 francs!" Eliza gasped. "Did I hear that right? Is it per month?"
"Yes!" Cobb nodded eagerly. "You heard correctly. Everything's going to be alright, Eliza. I'll be able to bring you and Jeremy back to Paris soon. We should… we should find a place in the 15th District, and Jeremy will get better!"
There was only silence on the other end, save for the faint sound of Eliza's quiet sobs. Cobb's own nose tingled, and he struggled to keep his own emotions in check.
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