Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 516 Time flows on, but the streets remain peaceful.

The cheers lasted for nearly ten minutes before gradually subsiding.

Lionel's legs finally recovered from the numbness.

He endured the stinging pain and, along with Maupassant, Daudet, Goncourt, and others, tipped his hat to the crowd.

Then they each turned and left quietly, just as they had come.

Their figures were quickly swallowed up by the shadows of the buildings, disappearing into doorways, street corners, or alleyways.

Their goal has been achieved. Although they didn't save anyone, at least this time, no one had to be sacrificed.

Lionel knew this wasn't the way to change the world, but it might be the way to prevent it from getting worse.

With the compromises made by the government and parliament, and the departure of the artists, the crowds occupying the Bank of France and the Paris Stock Exchange were briefly bewildered.

After the initial excitement subsided, a sense of emptiness gripped them.

Holding empty money bags and chanting slogans, they sat there for a day and a night, waiting for the siege, for the citizens' aid, for the artists' testimony, for the prime minister's statement, and for the parliament's resolution...

But then?

Philip was still standing at the front of the crowd. He listened to the buzzing discussions around him. Although he couldn't make out the specifics, he could sense that the crowd's momentum was weakening.

The real reason for the change is not that "the demands were met", but that the identity has changed.

They are no longer “people breaking the law,” but rather parties recognized by the Republic.

Parliament wanted to investigate, committees wanted to summon people, and their losses and anger were written into official documents.

The atmosphere changed immediately after people realized this acknowledgment.

Many people sat down where they were, some even collapsed on the ground in exhaustion, or leaned against their companions.

The conversation became low and subdued, no longer shouting, but turning into whispers in twos and threes.

Many people rubbed their eyes and yawned. The tension and excitement of more than 20 consecutive hours receded like the tide, leaving only soreness all over their bodies.

Continuing the occupation is beginning to seem superfluous, even dangerous, and could cause hard-won promises and compromises to vanish.

The doors of banks and stock exchanges are still blocked, but the sense of "confrontation" has faded.

The bayonets of the police and soldiers were still gleaming, but they seemed to serve only a ceremonial purpose.

A very typical French hesitation emerged in the crowd—not "We've won," but "How can we end this gracefully now?"

The problem was like an undercurrent, spreading among the crowd. No one openly said, "We should go," but everyone was thinking about it.

Some people volunteered to maintain order.

Several middle-aged men who looked like small shop owners or employees stepped forward and quietly tried to dissuade those who were still cursing the banker.

"Calm down, sir. There's no use shouting now; the council has already made its decision."

"Don't give anyone a reason to say we're sabotaging the negotiations."

The dialogue among the occupiers also shifted from anger to verification and speculation.

"Can the investigation committee really find out the truth?"

"Who will be summoned? The directors of 'United Corporation' have all fled to England."

"Remedial measures? Do you mean there might be financial compensation? How much?"

"Who knows. Maybe they'll issue some compensation vouchers, or cut taxes."

"What's the point of tax cuts? I've already sold my pension for a pittance!"

They began to realize that the real battleground had shifted from the streets to the everyday waiting.

This is not something that can be resolved today or tomorrow; it is a long and drawn-out struggle taking place both in parliamentary offices and on the pages of newspapers.

All they seem to be able to do is wait and try to prevent things from getting worse.

So although people didn't evacuate immediately, the tightly packed crowd gradually began to loosen.

Some people left to go to work or go home to rest.

A woman wrapped in an old shawl stood up and said to her companion, "I have to go back; the children are still at home."

A man glanced at his pocket watch, muttered "I still have to go to work this afternoon," patted his behind, and left.

They didn't sneak away; instead, they walked naturally through the crowd, occasionally nodding to acquaintances.

Some people stayed as symbolic figures, like Philip, who didn't leave, and some of the core participants didn't leave either.

They felt the need for someone to be there to prove that the movement hadn't ended, just changed form.

They sat on the bank steps or leaned against the pillars of the stock exchange, like sentries.

Some people stayed here simply to "see how it all ends."

Several young people who looked like students looked around curiously, while some nearby residents stood at a distance with coffee in their hands, watching.

The reporters were still there, but their expensive cameras had been put away, and most of them had closed their laptops.

The occupiers were well aware that continuing to confront the state with high intensity would undermine the legitimacy they had just gained.

The government's commitments are fragile, and the parliamentary resolutions are just words on paper.

If they storm buildings and attack police now, then all the assessments of "restraint" and "peace" will be nullified, and the repression will have the most legitimate reason.

Besides, the artists have already left, and the scene just now can't be repeated.

For many people, that's enough.

What they value most is not whether the investigation results are truly thorough and transparent enough, but that the Republic did not resort to violence, humiliate them, deny their losses, or demand that they "disappear immediately."

After experiencing bankruptcy, devaluation, unemployment, and shame, this positively acknowledged state itself carries a comforting power.

An elderly man with gray hair sat on a rock and said to the person next to him, "They didn't shoot at us." The person next to him nodded, "They didn't call us thugs either."

"And they even said we were 'restrained'."

"Ah."

The simple conversation offered a sense of comfort, a feeling of surviving a catastrophe.

Their losses could not be recovered, but their dignity, at least for this moment, was not trampled upon.

For an ordinary Frenchman who lives a frugal life, this is sometimes more important than money.

The evacuation was gradual, and within two days, the Bank of France and the Paris Stock Exchange reopened.

By the afternoon of May 6, the crowd had thinned considerably, with only a few dozen people remaining on the bank steps.

The number of police officers had noticeably decreased, and their bayonets were put away; the soldiers were resting on the curb, some sharing cigarettes with the citizens.

On the morning of May 7th, the exchange plaza was basically emptied.

Led by Philippe, the last hundred or so people quietly packed up the empty money bags and slogans.

There were no ceremonies, just heads down and working.

The paving stones they had pried open were quickly replaced by municipal workers, who then patched them with asphalt.

The streets returned to normal, horse-drawn carriages resumed their passage, vendors hawked their wares, cafes opened their doors, and clerks hurried by with briefcases in hand.

It's as if nothing happened...

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Lionel, Zola, and others sat in a café not far from the Bank of France, silently observing all of this.

Watching the last few occupiers disappear into the crowd, Lionel sighed:
"Time flows on, the streets remain peaceful, and a few days of occupation is nothing in France."

At most, it provides harmless gossip with something to talk about after dinner, or seeds for malicious rumors.

As for any deeper meaning, I always feel there is very little of it…

Émile Zola frowned: "Why do you think that? Weren't some of their demands met?"
Parliament has established an inquiry committee, and the government has pledged not to crack down—these are unprecedented concessions.

In the history of the Republic, no popular movement has ever received such a response.

Lionel shook his head, still looking out the window: "I never thought they would win."

Maupassant asked curiously, "What do you mean?"

Lionel turned back to look at the two of them: "This is not a 'fight that has not yet been won,' but a confrontation that lacked any conditions for victory from the very beginning."

Those occupiers had no clear program—they just wanted money, explanations, and 'justice.' But what is 'justice'? Nobody could say for sure.

Is it compensation? Is it arresting people? Or is it amending the law? They themselves don't know.

He paused, picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and then continued, "They don't have a real leader either; Philip is just the one who stepped forward."

He was courageous, but he wasn't a leader. He could only shout slogans and wave empty purses. Real organization, strategy, negotiation... he couldn't do it.

Others couldn't do it either; they were just a group of people, not a team.

Zola fell silent, staring at the coffee on the table for a long time before looking up: "So this occupation itself won't leave any positive revelations?"

Lionel nodded: "It is not enough to be the starting point of a revolution—without organization, without a program, without the determination to fight, how can a revolution begin?"

This is also insufficient to prompt institutional reform—the investigation committee may issue a report and amend a few laws, but the fundamentals of France will not change.

Banks are still banks, politicians are still politicians, and capital is still capital. It's unlikely to even be remembered by history; ten years from now, who will even mention this occupation?
Perhaps only in a footnote of a history book would there be a line that reads, "...due to the pension crisis, a mass gathering occurred in Paris, which was later peacefully dispersed."

Maupassant took a puff of his pipe: "So, it was a failed example?"

Lionel looked at him and smiled, which was taken as tacit agreement.

Zola let out a long sigh: "So that's why you made everyone just stand on high ground, remain silent, and make yourself visible. You don't really support them..."

Lionel sighed: "If I don't show up, if you don't show up, if Alphonse, Monet, Pissarro..."

What would happen if no one showed up?

Zola's answer was unwavering: "There will be bloodshed!"

Lionel nodded: "Yes! And once blood is shed, the occupiers only have two paths. Either retreat, in which case their sacrifices will be in vain, and they will gain nothing."

It could escalate into violent confrontation, turning into a real riot, which would be suppressed by the military, resulting in even more deaths, and most people being arrested, tried, and exiled.

And no matter which path you take, the outcome is the same—the system won't change, bankers won't suffer losses, and pensions won't be returned. The only difference is that a few more people will die.

Maupassant exhaled a puff of smoke: "This kind of sacrifice will neither change the system nor awaken those politicians; it will only be categorized as an 'inevitable tragedy'?"

Lionel took a sip of coffee: "Politicians will issue statements expressing regret, and then things will continue as usual."

Parliament will debate who should be held responsible, and then the matter will fizzle out. The newspapers will report on it for a few days, and then move on to something else.

And those who die... are simply dead. Their families will grieve, but that grief changes nothing.

Zola looked at Lionel as if he were meeting the young man for the first time, and suddenly asked, "Leon, why are you so clear about the logic behind this?"

Lionel smiled slightly: "Perhaps because I know just how difficult a truly successful revolution can be! Alright, let's go, coffee's on me!"

He was the first to stand up, placed a 1-franc banknote under the cup, and then left with Zola and the others.

The café door was pushed open and then bounced back, like a book being opened and then closed.

It was like a breath, exhaled, and then disappeared into the air.

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(End of this chapter)