Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 514 I'm just here to fulfill a writer's duty!

The reporters' questions overwhelmed Lionel, who had just arrived.

"Mr. Sorel! Are you here to offer your support?"

Would you join the occupation?

Who exactly is the 'shark' in "The Old Man and the Sea"? Can you answer that directly?

Lionel didn't stop walking, and calmly said only one sentence: "I'm just here to fulfill the duty of a writer."

After he finished speaking, he ignored the reporters. The police had already made way for him—they knew the young man and were aware of his influence.

The passage was narrow, allowing only one person to pass at a time, with dark blue uniforms and gleaming bayonets on both sides.

But Lionel did not go in.

He walked steadily up the steps of the "Paris Mutual Credit Bank" building next door.

The building has three floors and a facade in the typical neoclassical style, with thick stone columns supporting the portico.

The steps weren't high, only a dozen or so, and he climbed them one by one, slowly and steadily.

He walked all the way to the top before turning around to face the Bank of France, and the dense crowd and encirclement.

He just stood there, his hands hanging at his sides, saying nothing, making no gestures, just watching.

The reporters were stunned.

A young reporter asked his colleague in a low voice, "What does this mean?"

The older reporter shook his head, his brow furrowed: "I don't know. He neither went in nor left; he just stood there watching..."

Is this support or opposition?

"can not tell."

The reporters held up their notebooks, pens hovering over the paper, but didn't know what to write.

Because the person in front of you doesn't say or do anything, just stands there and watches.

This left them bewildered.

At this point, the sun had risen a little higher.

The May sunlight slanted in, illuminating the surrounding buildings one by one, somewhat dazzlingly.

A reporter squinted and subconsciously looked around to see if there was a better angle to observe the scene.

Then he froze—

On the balcony of a three-story apartment building on Rue Vivienne, directly opposite the Paris Stock Exchange, stood a familiar figure.

The man was burly, with a thick beard, wearing a dark coat, and leaning on a cane.

The reporter blinked and looked closely: "That's not...that's not..."

Another reporter next to him followed his gaze, was also stunned, and then blurted out: "Mr. Zola!"

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet morning. All the reporters looked up and gazed in that direction.

It really is Emile Zola!

He stood on the balcony, holding onto the railing, looking at the Bank of France.

He didn't look at the reporters, nor at Lionel; he only looked at the women, the elderly, and the wounded soldiers sitting on the ground in the center of the crowd.

Before the reporters could even process this discovery, another voice rang out.

"Look over there!"

Everyone turned their heads and looked at an apartment building across the street from the Bank of France.

On the second-floor balcony, a thin man stood there, wearing glasses and holding a notebook and a pencil.

“Alphonse Daudet!” someone shouted.

Daudet seemed to hear the shouts, but he didn't react. He just kept his head down and wrote something in his notebook, occasionally glancing up at the other side before going back to writing.

"And over there!"

This time it was a café on a street corner near the exchange—"Kumquat Leaf Café"—where two people were standing on the second-floor balcony.

One wore a wide-brimmed soft hat and had a thick white beard, holding a palette in his hand; the other was shorter, wore a bowler hat, and held a pipe in his hand.

“Mr. Camille Pissarro!”

"The other one is Monet!"

Exclamations of surprise rose and fell as reporters, like children who had discovered a treasure, frantically turned their heads, searching for more familiar faces.

In a fourth-floor window of another building on Rue de Lou Vivian, an elderly man in fine clothes leans against the window, holding a cup of coffee in his hand.

He is Alexandre Dumas fils.

On the rooftop platform of a building to the side of the stock exchange, a thin, middle-aged man sat on the edge with his legs dangling in the air, holding a bottle of liquor in his hand.

He looks like Paul Verlaine.

On the balcony of the building on the other side, Edmond de Goncourt stood there, with Joris-Karl Huysmann beside him.

Ernest Renan and Hippolyte Taine stood on the balcony of a luxury apartment building, gazing out at this view.

……

For a moment, it seemed as if all the most active and influential artists in Paris had arrived.

They stood atop different buildings, like Lionel, watching the crowd without speaking or making any unnecessary movements, simply remaining silent.

Some were writing, some were drawing, and some were just watching.

The reporters were initially excited, then confused, and finally realized what was happening.

A reporter from Le Figaro muttered to himself, “My God… the entire cultural scene in Paris… has come.”

The veteran reporter from the Times next to him was writing rapidly in his notebook, his hands trembling:
"Zola, Daudet, Pissarro, Monet, Degas, Huysmann, Maupassant, Goncourt, Verlaine, Mallarmé, Dumas fils... and Sorel."

"My God, this list could fill a whole page!"

The young reporter asked, "What are they doing here? Why don't they go inside? Why don't they say anything?"

The old reporter looked up at the figures high above him and took a deep breath: "They don't need to go in. They don't need to speak either."

He pointed at Lionel: “Look at him. He’s just standing there, watching. Zola is watching from the balcony across the street. Monet is watching from the café window—everyone is watching!”

"What are you looking at?"

“Look at everything that happened today. They are telling everyone—we were there. We saw it. We will remember it.”

The young reporter paused for a few seconds, then suddenly understood.

The artists didn't want to participate in the demonstration; they just wanted to surround the entire event with their artistic narratives!

In the Third Republic, politics could never be separate from art!

Every crisis, every conflict, will be written into novels, painted on canvases, adapted into dramas, and transformed into poems.

History certainly unfolds in parliament and on the battlefield, but it is the salons, galleries, theaters, and bookstores of Paris that determine how the French perceive it.

Writers record with words, painters freeze with colors, poets inscribe with rhythm, and playwrights recreate with dialogue...

When they appear at the same time, they do not represent a particular political stance or a particular demand.

They represent how France will remember today in the future!
They stood on high ground, without entering the blockade, without shouting slogans, and without waving flags.

They were legally blameless—they did not assemble illegally, incite violence, or even make any statements.

But morally, their very existence carries immense weight, placing heavy psychological pressure on all those around them.

Every action of the soldiers and police, every order given, and every conflict with the occupiers...

They could all be written into the next novel, painted into the next picture, or adapted into the next play.

At the same time, politically, these artists also forced the authorities to confront a question: how will everything that happens today be told tomorrow?
The reporters began working frantically.

Many reporters struggled to the front, setting up their camera tripods in an attempt to capture every figure above.

A reporter from Le Figaro interviews a colleague and records the atmosphere at the scene.

Although the conservative journalists at Le Gaul looked grim, they didn't stop writing.

A reporter for The Times of London in Paris told his assistant, "This is a new form of political expression, typical of the French!"

While taking notes, the assistant asked, "Will they intervene?"

The reporter shook his head: "They have already interfered; their very existence is interference."

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The soldiers and police who formed the encirclement, as well as the people inside the encirclement, all noticed the change in the situation.

The news that the artists had come to the scene to "witness" the event was relayed.

Philip looked at the figures of people high above him, and his throat tightened.

An old woman next to him asked in a low voice, "Are those people here to help us?"

Philip nodded, then shook his head: "Not entirely. They're here to testify."

"testify?"

"Yes. Prove we're here! Prove what we're doing!"

Philippe looked up at Lionel at the top of the steps of the "Paris Mutual Credit Bank" building: "It also proves how they will deal with us."

The old woman seemed to understand, but when she saw Philip's expression relax, she breathed a sigh of relief as well.

The feelings of soldiers and police officers are more complex.

A young soldier looked up at Zola on the left balcony, then at Monet in the right window, and whispered to the sergeant beside him:

"Sir...those people...will they all be on our list...?"

The sergeant's face turned ashen: "Shut up."

"But they're painting. In the future, when people look at the paintings, they'll see what we look like today..."

"I said shut up!"

The sergeant roared, but his own hands were trembling.

He looked around and saw people high up in every direction—painters painting, writers observing, and poets deep in thought.

He even saw a painter sketching in his direction.

He suddenly remembered listening to clowns tell stories when he was a child in the countryside.

The soldiers in those stories are either heroes or lackeys.

He used to think it was just a story, but now he realizes that he himself, standing here today, could also become a character in that story.

Who will write him into a story? How will he be written? He doesn't know.

But he knew that those who could make this decision were standing on high ground nearby, watching them.

The officers also realized this.

The captain of the military police cavalry patrolled the perimeter on horseback. When he saw figures on the surrounding buildings, he reined in his horse.

The adjutant caught up and whispered, "Should we disperse them?"

The captain shook his head: "Why should we disperse them? They were standing outside the blockade, not shouting slogans, not throwing anything, and not even talking to us."

On what grounds should we disperse them?

"But they are..."

The captain interrupted him: "It's just looking. Looking isn't illegal."

He paused, then said, "And do you even know who they are? Zola, Daudet, Monet, Dumas fils... You try touching any of these people?"
What will the newspapers of Paris say tomorrow? What will the salons of all France discuss? The gentlemen in Parliament are all their readers and friends.

When a scapegoat is needed, that's when we'll be the ones to suffer!

The adjutant fell silent.

The captain gave the order: "Maintain vigilance, but absolutely no action is permitted. Any order must be confirmed by me personally. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

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When the news reached the Bourbon Palace, everyone was stunned, from Prime Minister Frésiné, Army Minister Cochebrew, Education Minister Jules Ferry, to the newly arrived members of parliament who were still there!

(Second update, please vote with monthly tickets. I'll write the third update later, but it will be very late.)
(End of this chapter)