Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 44 Tickets to the Parisian Art World
"Professors, young Mr. Sorel—"

Debt! A word heavier and more inescapable than any crown, any code of law, any bank account! What is history? It is not merely the monuments of emperors and nobles, the clarion call of battle, or the ink marks of treaties!

It is a road paved with the silent bones of those who were crushed by the chariots of the times, incited by grand slogans, seduced by promised glory, and ultimately discarded like worn-out shoes!
Look at this 'old guard'! He was once a lion under the Emperor's command, fighting for the French eagle flag under the Austerlitz sun! His chest once burned with the cry of 'Long live the Emperor'!
But when the empire collapsed, when the royal flag changed hands, when a new era strode forward... what did he gain? Oblivion! Poverty! Laughter in taverns! The ever-present gaze of the secret police!

Ultimately... it was like an old dog with a broken leg, crawling on its hands in the mud of winter!

Hugo seemed to have become 20 years younger, returning to his glorious years—after Napoleon III's restoration, he delivered his last speech and then resolutely embarked on a journey of exile, only returning to France a full 20 years later.

At this moment, he was like an old lion, his hair and beard all white, yet still majestic as a mountain.

Hugo stared intently at Lionel, his tone becoming heavy and poignant: "The greatness of The Old Guard stems from Monsieur Sorel's insight, from his accurate capture of the last glimmer of dignity that refuses to be extinguished in the dust."

Mr. Sorel, the tavern waiter you depicted was not born cold-hearted; he is a product and complicit in this forgetting! His numbness is a microcosm of society as a whole—a collective evasion of historical debts!

Lionel bowed slightly in response to Hugo's gaze, expressing his gratitude and respect.

Hugo also left his seat and paced back and forth in the room that had once belonged to the Sorbonne's copying room. Under the gaze of the icons on the stained-glass windows, his voice, like a great bell, echoed and reverberated.
"France is sick—a sickness of taking suffering for granted, of turning a blind eye to injustice, of taking the victims for granted."

"The Old Guard" is a sharp blade inserted into the ailing body of our times. It reminds us that a nation that only knows how to move forward but not how to look back, a republic that only sings praises of the victors but is ashamed to embrace the vanquished, is lame and incomplete!
True progress must be built on remembering the victims and defending the dignity of the most humble!

Gentlemen, please remember this debt. Only by remembering it do we deserve a future!

After saying his last words, Hugo did not return to his seat. Instead, he shook hands with Lionel and left the editor's office.

The room was deathly silent, as if even breathing had stopped.

Hugo's words, like a roar from the depths of the soul, resonated and echoed in the souls of every listener.

Professor Gaston Boischer knew that any debate about technique or ghostwriting was so insignificant and trivial at this moment that there would be no more disputes about the ownership of The Old Guard.

Otherwise, it would be an insult to the entire Sorbonne and to Victor Hugo.

But he still wanted to complete the final procedures: "Ladies and gentlemen, does anyone still have any questions about Lionel's creation of the novel 'The Old Guard'?"

After a polite pause of a few seconds, he couldn't wait to announce the results: "Very well, the inquiry is now over! Congratulations to Mr. Lionel Sorel for proving his talent and credibility."

He then turned to Lionel: "You did a great job today... Well, you can talk about 'spectators' and 'collective unconscious' in more detail when you have time. I'm sure more than one person here is interested."

Okay, you can go back to class now.

Lionel breathed a sigh of relief, first bowing to Professor Gaston Boischer, then to everyone at the conference table, and turned to leave. Just then, Stefan Mallarmé's languid voice rang out: "Hey, Lionel, if you're interested, I have a little salon every Tuesday evening at 112 Rue de Rome, 8th arrondissement. You're welcome to join anytime."

Mallarmé's words caused a stir in the room. As one of France's most sought-after poets today, Mallarmé's invitation to Lionel to his salon was a significant signal.

Upon hearing this, Lionel turned around again and said, "Thank you, Mr. Mallarmé, it is my honor!" before leaving the editor's office.

On the way back to the classroom, away from the professors' gaze, Lionel felt a small surge of joy, not only because of Hugo's approval of him, but also because of Mallarmé's invitation.

That's "Tuesday in Malamute"!

One of the most prestigious cultural and artistic salons in late 19th-century France, its participants included not only poets such as Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, but also other artists.

For example, musicians like Debussy, painters like Monet and Gauguin, and sculptor Rodin were all guests at "Tuesdays at Mallarmé".

This is also a ticket to the event, signifying that the Parisian art world is beginning to accept Lionel Sorel, a newcomer—however, his official membership in this salon will have to wait a little longer; he can't just excitedly show up tomorrow night…

Back in the classroom, Professor Tainer was still lecturing. When he saw Lionel, he didn't show any particular expression. Instead, he simply waved his hand, signaling Lionel to come in and sit down.

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For the next few days, Lionel's life was uneventful. He attended classes at the Sorbonne during the day and spent his evenings writing "The Decadent City" in his new apartment at 12 Rue Antand.

Because the first ten chapters, which are related to "Water Margin," were omitted, the pace of the story was quite fast. In just over a week, Lionel had progressed to about one-fifth of the story, and the decadent, luxurious, and corrupt worldview built around the protagonist "Gérard Simmons" was gradually taking shape.
Gérard Simmons's mansion, like a beast wallowing in a quagmire of extravagance, exuded the stench of desire day and night. ... Simmons, surrounded by a crowd, was like a bull that had stumbled into a flock of swans—robust, energetic, and radiating an undisguised, almost rude, smugness. He wore an overly ornate, even gaudy, velvet coat, and the enormous gemstone rings on his fingers gleamed in the candlelight. He was speaking animatedly about his newly acquired mansion in Lyon, supposedly comparable in size to a miniature Versailles, boasting of the astonishing profits he had amassed in colonial trade, and how he had paved the way with gold Louis to finally gain access to the royal court and acquire the coveted tax-farming rights. ...

“Gold, my dear friends!” I remember him raising a glass of deep red wine, his voice booming so loudly it drowned out the band's playing, his face reeking of alcohol and gleaming with smug satisfaction. “Gold is the most beautiful music, the most powerful force! It can buy everything!” His small, lustful eyes swept across the room, finally settling on a few young, beautiful women, their gaze filled with undisguised, naked possessiveness. …

This is followed by several scenes of him being intimate with his mistress, but Lionel has a trick up his sleeve here—just like the scene he showed Gabriel, he replaced the most crucial part with “□□□ (XX lines deleted here)”.

He wrote the "□□□" on a separate sheet of paper...

On Friday, something interesting happened in the Faculty of Arts classes—Albert de Rohan, who hadn't shown up for several days, and his followers actually came to class.

However, he was paler than before, as if he had just recovered from a serious illness.

His henchmen had lost their former arrogance and wilted like frostbitten eggplants.

Albert stood up when he saw Lionel walk into the classroom.

(End of this chapter)