Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 498 "The gifts bestowed by fate have always had a price tag attached!"

Lionel's carriage was blocked on Boulevard Saint-Michel.

There was a long line of carriages blocking the street, with one after another stretching to the street corner.

The drivers shouted impatiently, and the horses snorted and hooves pounded on the stone slabs.

As night fell, the gaslights along the street were already lit, creating dim, yellowish corners in the darkness.

Looking out the car window, Lionel saw the Sorbonne's gate tower standing tall in the twilight, the square in front of it packed with people, a dark mass.

Chekhov leaned closer, somewhat surprised: "So many people."

Lionel shrugged: "It's the same every year; the social season in Paris starts tonight."

The carriage moved forward a few dozen meters more before coming to a complete stop. The coachman had no choice but to turn around and call out, "Mr. Sorel, we can't go any further. We have to get off."

Lionel and Chekhov had no choice but to get out of the car. Chekhov even tripped over the hem of the borrowed dress and almost fell.

The moment Lionel's feet touched the ground, someone recognized him.

"Sorel!"

"Lionel Sorel!"

The sound came from near and far, and soon several young students appeared in front of him, holding Lionel's published works.

"Mr. Sorel, could you please sign your name?"

Will you be reciting a poem tonight?

Lionel shook his head: "I'm just a guest." Then he took the pen and signed several books.

But as more and more people gathered, the ladies turned their heads and even raised their long-handled spectacles to observe the scene; the gentlemen stopped talking and looked this way.

Lionel could only nod hastily as a greeting to everyone, and then led Chekhov toward the academy gate.

The crowd parted automatically to make a narrow path, allowing the two to hear whispers:
"That's Sorel..."

"Younger than in the portrait."

"Is that a Russian next to you?"

"The one who wrote 'The Little Civil Servant'..."

They soon crossed the square and reached the entrance, where a middle-aged man in a black suit greeted them. Lionel recognized him—it was Provost Mr. Dunn.

Mr. Dunn grasped Lionel's hand tightly: "Mr. Sorel, it's been a long time! This must be Mr. Chekhov! Please come this way."

He led them around the main gate, through the side corridor, and into the academy's courtyard, which had been completely transformed and decorated to resemble an ancient Greek temple.

Twenty bronze torches stood around the central courtyard, their flames leaping high; a deep red carpet covered the ground, stretching from the entrance all the way to the central podium.

The chairs were arranged in a fan shape, all carved oak chairs, with the Sorbonne coat of arms inlaid on the backs.

The central bonfire platform had already been set up, with firewood piled into a spire, more than a person tall!
The front row was the VIP section, where the oldest purse in Paris and the oldest family name were seated—

The Rothschild family, the Perrier brothers, the Duke of Noahie, the Count of La Rochefoucauld...

The back row consisted of scholars and professors, dressed in black robes that symbolized their academic status.

The most conspicuous area was the student section, where twenty young people dressed in white robes reminiscent of ancient Greece and wearing laurel wreaths sat on the right side of the podium.

They stood with their backs straight, hands on their knees, like lambs awaiting sacrifice.

Mr. Dunn led Lionel and Chekhov to the front row, center seats, and as they sat down, all eyes turned to them.

When Chekhov encountered this scene for the first time, he froze, gripping his knees tightly to keep his legs from trembling.

Lionel said in a low voice, "Relax, just treat it like a show."

Chekhov said timidly, "I'm not good at this kind of play."

Lionel smiled slightly: "Nobody's good at it, I was just pretending."

After all the guests had arrived, Dean Henry Patan announced the official start of the ceremony!
Four robust students, resembling ancient Greek Olympic champions, carried torches toward the central bonfire and simultaneously threw the torches into the pile of firewood.

The firewood pile was already soaked in grease, so the flames suddenly shot up with a "whoosh," reaching a height of seven or eight meters, with sparks flying everywhere.

Leonard immediately felt a wave of heat wash over him, along with the scent of burning pine.

Next up was the poetry recitation segment by this year's student representatives—Lionel had missed it twice before and had never been on this stage before.

The first student to come up was named Adrian de Montreuil, and he was probably from a noble family.

This young man was very handsome, tall, with fair skin, slightly curly hair, and wore his laurel wreath properly. He looked like a figure who had stepped out of a mural.

He walked to the campfire, unrolled the parchment scroll in his hand, and began to recite in a melodious voice:
"Dedicated to Count de Rochefoucauld—"

Your ancestors once walked the Palace of Versailles.

To uphold the prosperity of France.

Your gifts have now become rivers, flowing through the Sorbonne.

Water the roots of knowledge.

The marble steps would say, "I remember."

The stained glass windows will say, "I bear witness."

And we would say, we inherit—

This long poem praises the history of the Rochefoucauld family, celebrates the Count's generosity, and ultimately elevates the theme to "the mission of French civilization."

The language is ornate and the rhymes are perfect, like a finely crafted piece of jewelry that can be worn by anyone.

As the recitation concluded, a portly old gentleman in the front row stood up—this was Count Rochefoucauld—leaning on his silver-inlaid cane. Count Rochefoucauld slammed his cane down heavily: “Excellent! This boy is very talented! I will donate 25,000 francs, 5,000 of which will fund the publication of his poetry collection!”

Polite and restrained applause rang out. Although Lionel joined in the applause, he was already speechless inside.

Luckily, I didn't participate before, otherwise I really wouldn't have been able to write this kind of poem—no wonder no works ever circulate after each "poetry gathering"...

The second student went up on stage and dedicated his poem to the banker, Perry.

The content is similar, except that "ancient bloodline" is replaced with "entrepreneurial spirit" and "aristocratic glory" is replaced with "capital power".

At the end, Mr. Perrier stood up and pledged to donate 18,000 francs to establish the "Perrier Scholarship".

Then came the third, the fourth... Twenty minutes, six students, eighty-three thousand francs.

The ladies covered their mouths with their fans and whispered comments like "this person has a nice voice" or "that person is handsome"; the wealthy businessmen compared their donations, as if they were bidding against each other.

Chekhov asked Lionel in a low voice, "It's like they're buying something?"

Lionel nodded: "They're buying the future. After graduation, some of these students go into government, some become professors, some become journalists..."

Tonight's investment might, ten years from now, become a favoritism in a lawsuit, a biased report, or a job recommendation.

Chekhov asked in bewilderment, "What about the poetry?"

Lionel shrugged: "Poetry is like a candy wrapper; once you open it, you should throw it away."

Chekhov fell silent and could only stare at the campfire.

Finally, all twenty students finished reciting, and Dean Henry Patan went up on stage again to announce the preliminary results—305,000 francs.

The audience erupted in applause; this time it was genuine joy. The professors patted each other on the shoulder, the ladies waved their fans and smiled, and the wealthy businessmen stood tall, as if they had won a battle.

Then it was Chekhov's turn to speak, the brilliant Russian novelist.

Over the past month, Lionel has taken Chekhov to all the salons in Paris, and his French has almost lost its Russian accent.

His speech was brief, simple, neither pandering nor offensive, which perfectly matched people's expectations of a "courageous young writer" from a distant country.

Then came the cocktail party, a free-flowing session where servants pushed in trolleys laden with oysters, foie gras, and smoked salmon on silver platters, and towers of champagne glasses.

The guests and students all stood up, raising their glasses and moving around.

Lionel was immediately surrounded by nobles, wealthy merchants, and ladies who wanted to speak with him, one after another, keeping him busy.

There were fewer people around Chekhov, but still quite a few. Several editors of literary magazines surrounded him, asking about Russian literature, his writing plans, and his opinions on French writers.

The most enthusiastic were the students, who dared not squeeze into the circle of VIPs, but waited on the periphery, their eyes fixed on Lionel.

As soon as he had a brief moment of respite, someone stepped forward—

"Mr. Sorel! May I ask you a question?"

Do you think literature should serve society?

How can I write a work like "The Old Guard"?

Lionel answered patiently. These younger members of the Sorbonne still had pure enthusiasm in their eyes, unlike the shrewd group from before who had to weigh every word they said.

The crowd eased a bit when the food carts were pushed through for the second time, but bursts of enthusiastic cheers still erupted from time to time – it was because someone had promised another substantial number.

Lionel took a glass of champagne and walked to the colonnade to catch his breath; Chekhov followed, holding a plate of oysters.

Chekhov picked up an oyster and asked Lionel, "Would you like some?"

Lionel waved his hand: "You eat it."

Chekhov tried an oyster, and his face immediately scrunched up: "So salty! It's not like the ones Zola had!"

Lionel pointed to the champagne tower on the grass: "It would be better with champagne."

Chekhov did not take it, but instead gazed at the noisy, bustling scene in the courtyard, where even the burning bonfire seemed to have turned the color of gold.

Lionel suddenly asked, "Do you envy them?"

Although he didn't say who "they" were, Chekhov understood.

The Russian peer nodded first: "I envy you." Then he shook his head: "But not particularly envious."

He then looked at Lionel: "Mr. Sorel, you didn't attend the 'Poetry Gathering'?"

Lionel nodded: "I had two chances, but I gave them up for various reasons."

Chekhov thought for a moment and then asked, "Do you think any of those Sorbonne students who recited poetry at the poetry gatherings will actually become great poets or great writers?"

Lionel recalled the list of names and shook his head: "No, not only this time, but it seems there weren't any before either."

Chekhov fell into deep thought: "Why is that? They all received funding and could publish their own works..."

Lionel smiled: "Anton, it's because they're too young and don't understand that the gifts of fate have already come with a hidden price!"

These words struck Chekhov like lightning. He stared wide-eyed at Lionel, as if a lost traveler had seen a prophet.

He murmured to himself, "Fate...gift...price...Mr. Sorel, I am also very young, and the gift that fate has bestowed upon me is..."

Chekhov recalled how Lionel had generously helped him, and how he had taken him on a tour of Paris, introducing him to artists and patrons…

In Russia today, there is no young writer with his level of fame and insight.

Lionel patted him on the shoulder and said softly, "Anton, tonight will be your 'last lesson' in Paris. Let's go."

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(End of this chapter)