Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 499 Lionel Sorel, I'll take your life!
Steam billows from the platform of San Lazar train station.

The cold morning light slanted down from the station's dome, and the air was filled with the smell of coal smoke and various noises.

Lionel stood at the edge of the platform, quietly watching Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, whose luggage was much more abundant than when he arrived.

In his box, there was even a Sorel II typewriter that Lionel had given him, which was smaller in size and had a specially designed Russian keyboard.

Martha stood beside Lionel, her eyes red and swollen.

She was wearing a simple gray dress with a black cloak over it, and she was holding her brother's hand tightly.

A month ago, this was the girl who traveled alone across half of Europe to Paris, knocked on Lionel's door, and said, "Save Anton!"

Now that Anton is going back, she's staying.

Zola, Maupassant, Huysmann, Daudet, and Goncourt all came; and Turgenev—he insisted on coming to see him off, despite the doctor's warning that he shouldn't catch a cold.

Chekhov shook hands with each of them, greeted them, and said goodbye.

Finally, Martha let go and took a step back. The strong girl bit her lip to keep herself from crying out loud.

Chekhov looked at her for a long time, then said, "Study hard with Mr. Sorel and the others, and don't worry about home."

Martha nodded vigorously, but tears still fell.

Chekhov then turned around and climbed the steps of the carriage, but he paused at the door and looked back.

Standing on the platform were those people—France's top writers, his sister, and the grey-blue Parisian sky…

He nodded and stepped into the carriage.

……

The train bound for Moscow disappeared from sight, and the Parisian morning was just beginning.

In Chekhov's view, the suburban fields gradually unfolded, with brown earth, bare trees, and the occasional farmhouse rooftops flashing by.

Paris is fading away; those cafes, those salons, those all-night arguments and laughter are all fading away.

Chekhov closed his eyes.

He remembered the prison guard named Afanasy, Major Smirnov's slick smile, and the stench of ink in Okrana's office.

Then he remembered the streets and alleys Lionel had led him through, Zola's loud reading by the fireplace in the villa, and Maupassant's bawdy jokes in the "English Café"...

All of this was now in his mind, following the train eastward—

Head to Moscow, to that huge, cold, shell-like country!
----------

On the same morning, newsboys from Le Figaro roamed the streets of Paris.

"Read the newspaper! Read the newspaper! The Sun Also Rises has ended! Sorel's new work has come to a close!"

In a café on Boulevard Saint-Germain, a regular customer took the newspaper and flipped directly to the literary supplement.

The final day of the serialization began, and all the readers were filled with anticipation because the previous days' serialization had given them "hope"!
Bert's infatuation with Romero quickly sparked conflict, and Robert Cohen, unable to bear the humiliation of being ignored, completely lost control under the influence of alcohol and jealousy.

He clashed with Jacques, Michel, and Romero one after another, and in the chaos, he defeated them one by one.

But regardless, Robert Cohen defeated that damned Spanish bullfighter! This is the first victory for a French man in this novel!
This brawl was not heroic; rather, it resembled an absurd collapse that exposed the vulnerability and disorder deep within these individuals.

But they won after all! Even if it's just in a novel!

For Jacques de Bana, a figure most often embodying the "Lost Generation," Romero held a completely different meaning.

In the bullring, he witnessed for the first time up close the uncompromising courage of the matadors—fighting alone, indifferent to pain, and showing no fear of death.

This "tough guy" spirit has been repeatedly proven in the face of bloodshed and death.

While being greatly stimulated and inspired, Jacques seemed to rediscover the power of humanity and the true meaning that life might hold.

He realized that true dignity does not come from grand ideals, but from choosing to face danger head-on even when defeat is inevitable.

So even the most critical readers of Lionel were satisfied with this, and were even willing to reconcile with the author who had repeatedly offended them.

But soon, they discovered that things were changing—

The revelry ended. The crowd dispersed, leaving only confetti and empty bottles on the street.

Jacques and Berthe stood at the hotel entrance.

She was still smiling, her eyes were bright, but that brightness was slowly fading, like a fireplace that had run out of firewood gradually going out.

Jacques looked at her without saying a word.

They went upstairs, the stairs creaking, and there was a musty smell in the hallway and the smell of onions wafting up from the kitchen downstairs.

Once inside the room, Belt took off her shawl and tossed it onto a chair. She walked to the window and opened it.

A cold wind blew in. Outside, the town's lights went out one by one, the dark shadows of the mountains pressed down on the horizon, and the stars were dense and bright, gleaming with a cold light.

Belt said, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Jacques: "Hmm."

"Back to Paris?"

"Ah."

"and then?"

Jacques didn't answer. He sat on the edge of the bed and forcefully pulled off his shoes, one, then the other.

Berthe was still standing by the window. The wind ruffled her hair, but she didn't move.

After a long while, she said, "Romero was great today."

Jacques: "Hmm."

"A man like him wouldn't come to Paris."

"will not."

"We will never come here again."

Jacques looked up at her back. Her shoulder blades protruded slightly beneath her skirt, like folded wings.

He said, "No."

Berthe turned around. Her face was expressionless, but she stared at Jacques for a long time.

Then she said, "Go to sleep."

She closed the window and drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, with only the light from the corridor filtering through the crack in the door. She took off her clothes, one by one, and draped them over the back of the chair. Then she crawled into bed, her back to Jacques.

Jacques lay down too, and he felt her body temperature; it was very warm.

He reached out and touched her shoulder, but she didn't move.

His hand slid down and touched her waist; she tensed up, then quickly relaxed.

Because he stopped, just stood there, his hand on her waist, motionless.

Time passed slowly. Someone walked down the corridor, their footsteps heavy. Jacques withdrew his hand.

He rolled over and lay flat on his back, looking at the ceiling—there was a crack there, but he couldn't see it now, yet he looked at it very closely.

Belt said, "It's okay."

Jacques didn't say anything.

She added, "Really, it's okay."

Jacques remained silent.

A dog barked in the distance, once, twice, and then stopped.

Belt said, "Go to sleep."

She didn't move, continuing to keep her back to him.

Jacques continued to stare at the ceiling. In the darkness, the crack resembled a winding road on a map, its destination unknown.

He closed his eyes.

……

It was still dark, and the edges of the curtains were just beginning to show a grayish-white hue.

Jacques quietly got up, put on his clothes, walked to the window, and lifted a corner of the curtain.

Outside, the sky was a pale white, edged with a faint gold, and the mountain shadows were beginning to become clearer.

The streets were still empty, with the occasional person leading a donkey or horse slowly by, the clatter of hooves and the jingling of bells.

He watched as the golden edge slowly brightened, gradually turning red, until the top of the sun emerged from behind the mountain ridge, its rays piercing through the clouds.

Another new day.

He drew the curtains, and the room became dark again.

He walked to the bedside and looked at Bert. She was sleeping soundly, not even her eyelashes trembling.

He looked for a long time, then turned around, opened the door, closed the door, went downstairs, and walked out of the hotel.

The streets were still empty. He sat down at the entrance of the café; it was still quite early before he left.

He just sat there and waited.

Wait until the sun is fully up, wait until the streets come alive, wait until the carriages start running, wait until people start talking.

Let this day begin, just like yesterday.

The Sun Also Rises.

--over--】

The reader stared at the last line for a long time.

Then he flipped back and read the last few paragraphs again, then put down the newspaper and fell silent.

The café quieted down; some people coughed, some sneezed, some stirred their coffee, and the spoons clinked against the sides of the cups.

But no one spoke; they were all savoring the ending.

After the revelry ended and the crowds dispersed, the festive noise subsided, and as Jacques and Berthe were alone, the inescapable reality resurfaced.

He still couldn't be with her; the physical absence and the emotional distance once again overwhelmed everything.

The power that Romero symbolizes cannot be possessed by him, nor can it truly change his situation.

The sun still rose as usual, but for Jacques, it no longer meant a new beginning, but just another day he couldn't escape.

The novel's ending is icy and cold; Jacques finds no redemption, and Berthes finds no solace.

In that instant, all the insights into courage and the meaning of life that the reader had gleaned from the preceding events failed to translate into any lasting hope.

Life remains tedious, and disappointment still exists, only now it is seen more clearly by everyone.

"So that's what 'The sun rises as usual' means?"

Parisian readers felt a deep sense of malice from the author, Lionel Sorel.

They had secretly hoped that, at least at the end, Jacques would receive some form of compensation—

It could be a hidden love story, a spiritual elevation, or even a hopeful conclusion.

However, at the end of the novel, Lionel almost completely cut off this escape route.

----------

In the editorial office of Le Figaro, dozens of letters were spread out on the desk of editor-in-chief Periver, all of which had arrived that day.

He opened a few, then stopped, because the contents were all similar—not anger, not accusation, but a feeling of weightlessness.

There was no harsh criticism, no enthusiastic praise, only a slow, heavy descent.

Readers go from feeling humiliated, to expecting redemption, to discovering there is no redemption, and finally to accepting that there is no redemption.

This process was completed within a month through daily installments.

Now they sit at home, in cafes, in offices, with newspapers in their hands, feeling a void in their hearts.

It's not sadness, it's clarity, a cruel clarity.

What's truly unsettling isn't that the novel offers no hope, but that it reveals the fact that hope is not always present.

----------

"Lionel Sorel, I'll take your life!"

This overly extreme slogan began to circulate among the moderate and conservative readership of Le Figaro, and quickly became a trend!
(First update, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)