Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 33 The Source of Maupassant's Inspiration
Just as Professor Tainer was angrily denouncing Lionel for spreading rumors and damaging his reputation—

"Achoo...achoo...achoo..." Maupassant woke up from a large bed with three open sides and sneezed several times in a row.

He looked up and saw the mirror above the bed, which was the same size as the bed itself. He then recalled the beautiful scenery of the previous night and his mouth went dry.

He pushed aside a pale arm that was draped over his chest, lifted the blanket, and walked naked to the fireplace. He picked up a glass from a Chinese-style high table and took a big gulp of red wine.

Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, and with the help of the gas lamp above the fireplace, even though he only had vision in his right eye, he could clearly see the bronze animal sculptures on the shelf, including a sculpture of the goddess of harvest in the center.

Beside the large bed were various irregularly shaped, curved lounge chairs and sofas, and in the corner against the wall was a dressing table with a marble top, where exquisite crystal bottles were reflecting a dazzling light.

The entire room was filled with a sweet, alluring, and rich fragrance, making one want to immerse oneself in this gentle haven and never want to leave.

Looking at the woman still unconscious on the bed, Maupassant smacked his lips, only one thought in his mind: "The taste of a high-class prostitute is truly wonderful!"

Of course, apart from being expensive, it has no other problems.

The entertainment, food, drinks, and the cost of a night of passion took a total of 80 francs from him, emptying his pockets.

However, considering that this was his last "free day" before taking up his post at the Ministry of Education, he felt that the money he spent was well worth it.

Aside from inexplicably sneezing a few times that woke me up early, the experience was absolutely perfect, much better than those country bumpkins in Normandy.

He took a small bottle from the pocket of his coat hanging on the hanger, opened the cap, poured out a few pills, and swallowed them after taking a sip of wine.

These pills contained 4 grams of mercury and 30 grams of potassium iodide, which were used to treat his syphilis.

However, Maupassant was not saddened by this—in his mind, syphilis was a noble disease that only kings and heroes like Francis I suffered from, and he was proud that he had syphilis instead of gonorrhea or genital warts, which were bourgeois diseases!
After a while, the woman in bed slowly woke up, while Maupassant, already dressed, said, "I have syphilis." He then laughed and left, leaving her with a horrified look in his eyes.

He's going to the Marquise de Rambouillet's salon tonight, and if he wins her favor, he might get her to fund his play, "The Betrayal of the Countess of Rouen," for a performance at the Paris Opera.

But what topic or story should be used to attract the Marquis's attention?
The story of the poor student at the Sorbonne confronting the snobbish professor has been told in its fourth version, and it's said that different variations exist in different salons. The Marquise has probably already heard it all; it's nothing new...

But my life lately has been so dull, nothing but prostitution, from the "beer girls" on the street who charge 10 sous a time to the "nightingale" who cost me 80 francs last night—I can't exactly tell the Marquise that I'm doing a survey on the Parisian prostitution industry, can I?
However, the story told by "Nightingale" last night was truly touching: her father was a gambling addict who gambled away the family fortune; her mother had tuberculosis and could not work; her younger brother was in school and needed tuition fees...

Although he knew the other person was making up a story, Maupassant, who was in high spirits, still gave him an extra 10 francs.

Wait, the younger brother is at school? In the version I told, I don't think I mentioned the background of this poor Sorbonne student?

Inspired, Maupassant became excited again, a sickly blush spreading across his face...

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The atmosphere was unusually heavy in the journal editor's office at the Sorbonne.

After all, this was an incident involving Professor Sorbonne's reputation, so no one dared to ridicule Tainer and instead offered him words of comfort. Editor-in-Chief Professor Gaston Boischer frowned: "Can we be certain that Lionel is spreading rumors?"

Hippolyte Taine angrily tossed his head: "Who else would be so bored? Ha, a poor student from the Alps, with outstanding knowledge and a rebellious attitude towards authority, that's a good way to squeeze into high society."

Henry wants him to attend the "poetry party," it must be because some noblewoman has taken a liking to him!

Gaston Boischer listened without comment, feeling that his old friend and colleague was currently in a fit of anger and had lost all rationality.

He glanced at the manuscript on the table with some difficulty, hesitated for a moment and said, "If we are to reject Henry's recommendation, then we must at least give a sufficient reason. Let's take a look at this manuscript."
It's just a short story, it won't take long.

The others looked at each other, thinking that this was a good solution, as it saved face for their colleagues and avoided embarrassing the dean.

Seeing no objections, Gaston Boischer picked up the manuscript and quickly skimmed through it—in his mind, while literature students were not lacking in talent, most were quite immature, and he could almost immediately spot the problems—

The layout of the taverns in the Alps is different from other places: they all have a large L-shaped bar facing the street...

Yes, this is a traditional short story opening, first establishing the setting of the story. This is a tradition left by Balzac, allowing readers who have never been to the Alps to quickly construct the scene in their minds.

The technique isn't novel, but to be as concise, precise, and vivid as this novel, with almost no wasted words, is another matter entirely—did this child even study Flaubert?

Gaston Boischer became serious. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and brought the manuscript closer to see each word clearly.

His body language also aroused the curiosity of the other editors, after all, it represented the importance this academician of the French Academy attached to this manuscript - could it be that Lionel Sorel wrote it well?
Gaston Boischer was completely immersed in the world of the novel, and when he saw the description that "the old guard was the only one who drank standing up while wearing a woolen coat...", he couldn't help but sigh softly.

He knew that this short sentence not only accurately depicted the image of the "old guard," but also left the reader with a certain amount of suspense; only a first-rate writer could write such a sentence.

Gaston Boischer was moved once again when he saw the "old guard" share his few olives with the children and then earnestly try to teach "me" four methods of handling prey.

The "old guard" is no longer a corrupt, arrogant, and pedantic Napoleon worshipper, but a kind old man with a gentle and compassionate side.

This person suddenly came to life, possessing a heavy sense of realism, as if people would see those disillusioned people in a tavern.

After reading the last sentence of the novel, "I have not seen him since—the old guard is probably dead," Gaston Boischer finally came to his senses. But he did not immediately offer his opinion; instead, he closed his eyes, as if savoring the complex feelings the story evoked in him.

After opening his eyes, Gaston Boischer said earnestly to Hippolyte Taine, "Why don't you read this novel first and then make a decision?"

Hippolyte Tainer glanced incredulously at his old friend across the conference table, then suddenly grabbed his cane from beside his chair, slammed it heavily on the floor, stood up, turned and left the office, leaving only one sentence:

"I have invited the great Victor Hugo to review this issue. Whether Lionel is qualified to be published in the journal is up to him to decide!"

　In a letter to a friend, Maupassant wrote: "...In short, for the past five weeks I've been taking 4 grams of mercury and 30 grams of potassium iodide daily, and I feel much better. Soon, mercury became my staple food. My hair started growing...the hair on my buttocks is growing...I have syphilis! Finally! It really is syphilis! Not the dismissive gonorrhea or genital warts, but syphilis. Francis I died of syphilis. Magnificent syphilis, pure and simple; beautiful syphilis...I have syphilis...I feel proud, to hell with the bourgeoisie. Hallelujah, I have syphilis, so I no longer have to worry about being infected by others. After sleeping with prostitutes and whores on the street, I tell them, 'I have syphilis.' They are all terrified, while I laugh."

　　
　
(End of this chapter)