Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 116 The General's Question
Jules Claretti immediately went from being smug to being full of suspicion.

He noticed that the editor-in-chief, Armand de Lamothe, was no longer as composed as before, and even seemed unusually uneasy.

Editor-in-Chief Lamotte stood up, cleared his throat, and raised his voice slightly: "Jules, you've arrived. Let me introduce you—"

This is General Edmond Charles de Matimprep, Director of the Invalides in Paris and President of the French Association of Disabled Soldiers.

The figure slowly turned around, and Claretti was able to see his face clearly.

The general was over seventy years old, with white hair and beard, and his hawk-like eyes were sharp as knives. One of his ears was missing half of its head.

His chest was adorned with gleaming medals, silently testifying to his past glory and the bloody price he had paid.

General Matimpre did not rise; he merely swept his imposing gaze over Claretti and nodded slightly, which was his way of greeting him.

Claretti involuntarily tensed up.

“General!” Claretti bowed respectfully, but doubts still lingered in his mind—why would this important figure suddenly visit the editorial office of Le Figaro?

Editor-in-Chief Lamotte began with difficulty: "His Excellency the General, on behalf of the French Association of Disabled Soldiers, expressed...deep concern about certain commentary articles published in our newspaper recently."

He pushed the copy of Le Figaro containing Claretti's article from yesterday onto the table.

General Matimpree spoke slowly, his voice low: "Mr. Lamot, Mr. Claretti."

I am not here today as a general or a hospital director, but as an ordinary veteran, a wounded veteran.

Claretti was still confused, but remained polite: "Your contributions to France are admirable!"

General Matim Pree shook his head: "I only have a few gunshot wounds and half an ear was grazed off by shrapnel... but my men—"

He pushed back his chair and stood up, towering before Claretti like a majestic mountain:
"Among them, some lost their legs in the mud of Waterloo, some lost their eyes to bullets under the Algerian sun, and some had their hands frostbitten in the Crimean cold..."

They now live under the eaves of veterans' homes or are scattered throughout France, enduring unimaginable suffering and inconvenience.

General Matim Prey's voice was not loud, but every word carried immense weight, striking the hearts of the two men:
"They are all loyal readers of Lionel Sorel, whom you criticize. 'The Old Guard' captures their heartache and suffering! Every wounded soldier who has read it says, 'The Old Guard is me!'"
Whether they were fighting for the emperor, for the king, or for the republic, Lionel saw their pain, sorrow, and loneliness, wrote it down, and brought it to everyone's attention.

Now even parliament and the government are reconsidering pensions for wounded soldiers... We veterans in our infirmary and association all say that Lionel is a good kid and we should find an opportunity to thank him properly.

Yes, Lionel is indeed a good boy—upright, kind, and compassionate. He is by no means the villain you portray him as, the one who disrupts French order and morality!

Editor-in-Chief Lamote quietly took a step back and stood in the shadow of the bookshelf.

Claretti opened his mouth, attempting to explain: "Your Excellency, our dispute with Lionel is merely... merely a literary one. You must understand, novels are fictional art."

We were just having a... rather... rather intense academic exchange..."

“Oh, academic exchange?” The general interrupted him, his tone still calm: “You mean ‘blasphemy,’ ‘transgression,’ ‘shaking the foundation of faith,’ ‘corrupting social ethics’... and comparing his novel to ‘Decadent City,’ all of that, um, ‘academic exchange’?”

Claretti was speechless, unsure how to defend herself.

General Matim Prey paced slowly in the editor's office, his voice growing low: "A fine 20-year-old boy, full of energy yesterday, has lost both legs today because of a shell, and will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair."
A newlywed husband with a handsome face had his ears, nose, and half of his lips cut off after a battle.

A pastry chef who had just opened his shop kneaded dough so firmly and evenly that if a cannonball fell on it, his hands would be reduced to bone fragments...

They were all good sons of France, and if they hadn't been fighting for their country, they would have had bright futures like Lionel. And you, Mr. Claretti, seem to want to drag Lionel into this war, bombarding him with the most vicious shells, crippling his reputation—and you call it 'academic exchange,' is that it?"

He stood before Claretti again, lowered his head slightly, and stared into the other's eyes: "I don't understand literature—but I understand the hearts of the veterans in the Invalides."

After reading your article, they wanted to protest at Le Figaro yesterday, but I stopped them. So, today I'm standing here! I hope your war with Lionel will end soon.”

General Matimpree's voice was resolute, without a roar, yet more powerful than any roar.

That was an ultimatum issued by an old soldier who had defended the nation's dignity with his life, representing another silent and wounded group.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Jules Claretti left Le Figaro looking somewhat lost and unsteady on his feet; he even nearly fell over when he missed a step while getting into his carriage.

What exactly Le Figaro and Jules Claretti wanted to do to end the “war” with Lionel was left unsaid by General Matimpre until he left—yet it was as if he had said everything.

What a seasoned pro...

If General Matimpree had actually said something, it would have given him a reason to deal with Editor-in-Chief Lamot.

Jules Claretti could sit there and talk for three days and three nights about things like "freedom of criticism," "the innocence of the press," and "literary differences."

But General Mattim Prey simply "conveyed the concerns of the veterans about this matter," which left no room for rebuttal.

The cornerstone of Le Figaro is the conservatives, and General Matim Pree and the group of veterans he represents are precisely the cornerstones of the conservatives.

Jules Claretti left Lamotte’s office with the instruction to “resolve the issue as soon as possible.” He felt utterly exhausted and didn’t even know how he got back to his apartment on Île Saint-Louis.

As dusk settled, enveloping the ancient streets, the Seine flowed quietly beneath the bridges, the scenery as serene as a landscape painting by Hermann Karmienke.

Jules Claretti, however, only wanted to lock himself in his study to temporarily escape the suffocating sense of shame.

He had made up his mind: he absolutely could not apologize! Even if it meant losing his position as editor-in-chief of Le Figaro, he would preserve his pride!

However, as he turned into the alley leading to his apartment building, the sight before him made him stop abruptly, a chill running from his feet to the top of his head.

A group of people stood quietly in front of his elegant stone apartment building, under the dim streetlights.

They didn't make a sound, they just stood there silently, like a group of frozen statues.

One of the men was unusually tall, almost reaching the roof of the alley, but his spine was severely scoliotic, his whole body twisted into a huge "S" shape, his head was forced to tilt to one side, and he could only look ahead with one eye.

There was also a pretty young woman whose face was covered with large, dark red, uneven tumors on one side, as if they had been branded with scalding hot marks, which looked particularly glaring in the dim light.

There was also a dwarf, but he was as tall as a normal person's calves and had the face of a wrinkled, weathered adult.

There was also a boy with a full head of white hair and skin so pale it was almost transparent, who looked like a ghost in the night.

……

The group consisted of about seven or eight people, each with unusual physical characteristics, but they gathered silently at Claretti's doorstep, like a barrier.

(End of this chapter)