The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 469 - 469 256 London's 800000 Drillmaster 4K6

469: Chapter 256: London’s 800,000 Drillmaster (4K6) 469: Chapter 256: London’s 800,000 Drillmaster (4K6) The second-floor box of the Astley Circular Theatre, thanks to the theatre’s semi-open structure, offered a far superior view than the enclosed boxes of other theatres.

In front of the box was an extended balcony; looking up, one could see the stars and the moon, while looking ahead provided a view of the center of the theatre stage.

There, the theatre staff were busily preparing tonight’s performance props: countless tin cans, several copper columns several meters long, and inch-by-inch falling rose-colored curtains.

Inside the box, Lionel Rothschild looked with a hint of surprise at the young man leaning on the balcony sofa, savoring wine, and occasionally vigorously writing down a couple of lines.

He turned his head and asked Arthur, “Arthur, who is this?”

Arthur chuckled softly, “Sorry, Lionel, I forgot to introduce you, this gentleman is the well-known German poet—Mr.

Heinrich Heine.

You must have seen his ‘Heine’s Collection of Poems’, right?

When it comes to social perception, Mr.

Heine can write lines with foresight and philosophical depth, such as ‘Where they burn books, they will, in the end, burn human beings.’

Speaking of the melancholy of love, he also can pen the sorrowful words ‘For a long time, I possessed your heart, but you have since forgotten it altogether.’

Congratulations to us, Lionel, I am honored to inform you that ‘British’ has just acquired an extraordinary author.”

Arthur, with his back towards Heine, praised Heine’s work while smiling continuously and winking at him.

Lionel was initially startled and then quickly grasped the underlying meaning in Arthur’s words.

He asked in a lower voice, “Does that mean, Mr.

Heine’s new work, those aggressive remarks about Rothschild…”

Arthur also smiled and responded in a low voice, “Lionel, Britain is a country of publishing freedom; we can’t censor a new work before publication.

But at the same time, the ‘British’ editorial department also agrees that we should avoid controversial statements as much as possible.

We all understand that risks can never be completely avoided, but as I see it, the risks are overall manageable.”

Lionel, upon hearing this, couldn’t help but laugh and patted Arthur’s chest with the back of his hand, “Arthur, it seems you would have done quite well as a stockbroker if you weren’t a policeman.

You’re right, we don’t fear risks; they are ever-present, what matters to us is that the risk is manageable, and for me, that’s enough.”

Arthur took out red wine from the cupboard and poured a little into two tall glasses, lifting his to clink with Lionel’s.

The glasses chimed, tinkling crisply, with the rippling wine reflecting only his slightly upturned smile, “Lionel, most of the world’s malice stems from either misunderstanding or knowing too much.

If you can have a good talk with him, who knows, Mr.

Heine might retract his manuscript himself.”

Hearing the conversation behind him, Heine couldn’t help but get up and turn around.

He glanced at Lionel, frowned, and asked Arthur, “Mr.

Hastings, who is this gentleman by your side?”

This time, without waiting for Arthur to reply, Lionel stepped forward with a smile, “Mr.

Heine, it’s truly an honor to meet you here.

Allow me to introduce myself, I am a banker, one of the investors in ‘British’, and a loyal supporter of yours.

To be frank, I always buy two copies of your collections—one for reading and one as a collectible.

If you don’t mind, just call me Lionel.”

“Banker?

Investor?”

Heine quickly caught the buzzwords in Lionel’s words and mulled over them for a good while, eventually, the respect for a patron slightly outweighed his disdain for bankers in his heart.

Heine shook hands with Lionel, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.

I, too, feel very honored to share my travel observations and insights with readers in ‘British’.”

Lionel complimented, “Your lyric poetry is top-notch even in Europe.

I must admit, it’s a bit embarrassing to say, but it was with your love poetry that I touched my wife’s heart, and I am very grateful for helping me win a share of love.”

“Oh?

Is that so?”

Heine laughed awkwardly upon hearing this, “It seems you are luckier than I am.

Most of those love poems were written for my cousin.

After I finished writing them, I felt that there were probably no more outstanding or emotional verses in German literature.

Unexpectedly, it turned out that my cousin did not understand literature or have much feeling.

If I have any regrets in this life, it’s that I didn’t kill that adulterous couple.”

Those words immediately rendered the usually composed Lionel stiff with laughter, as he turned his head to look at Arthur beside him with a puzzled and skeptical expression as if to ask, “Are you sure this guy in front of me is Heine, the leading German lyric poet?”

Arthur understood what Lionel was thinking; he calmly opened his coat, took out the pistol holstered within, and handed it to Heine with an apologetic expression, “Mr.

Heine, I’m very sorry to hear this news.

Take this gun as an expression of my condolences.”

Seeing this, Lionel hurriedly pushed Arthur’s hand back, “Arthur, have you gone mad?

Are you trying to encourage Mr.

Heine to go for an honor duel?

That could cost him his life!”