Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 52 For Whom Do We Toil, For Whom Do We Enjoy the Sweetness? (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

5 seconds, 10 seconds, 20 seconds... The mechanical clock in the dean's office ticked away, but the air seemed to freeze.

Dean Henry Patan crossed his hands over his large, protruding belly, his eyelids drooping, as if he were about to fall asleep at any moment.

Lionel leaned comfortably against the back of the sofa, meeting Victor Bonaparte's gaze without flinching, his expression neither fearful nor defiant.

Just as Victor Bonaparte's face turned ashen and he was about to explode, Lionel spoke up: "Has the friendship of the Bonaparte family become so cheap now?"

Upon hearing this, Victor Bonaparte, though still looking unwell, visibly relaxed.

He took a step back and sat down on the sofa, reverting to the aristocratic coldness, aloofness, and arrogance he possessed: "Mr. Sorel, I suggest you choose your words carefully."

The friendship of the Bonaparte family carries far more weight than the few pages your little story occupied in the Bulletin.

He slightly raised his chin, trying to regain control of the situation. "However, I'm quite interested to hear what, in your opinion, deserves a friendship that is 'not cheap'?"

He was already certain that Lionel Sorel, like all the "peasants" he knew, was only putting on a show of high-mindedness to sell himself for a better price.

Victor Bonaparte added: "Banks, foundations, and newspapers belonging to the Bonaparte family...are spread throughout France. My father—Prince Napoleon, Prince Montfort, Count Meuron, Count Montcarrieri—"

They are the most steadfast defenders of the Empire's glory, and the most loyal protectors of all veterans who served the Empire and their families.

He spoke of his father's name with a natural pride, so he paused before continuing: "He was very generous to artists, especially those who had formed friendships with the Bonaparte family."

He glanced at Lionel, who stood there stunned with a serious expression, and assumed he was moved by his words, revealing a barely perceptible look of disdain.

What Victor Bonaparte didn't know was that Lionel was troubled at that moment. He couldn't find a concise and sarcastic expression in French that corresponded to the Chinese phrase "You are truly a father who can rival a country," so he had to swallow back the sarcasm that was already on the tip of his tongue, which is why he looked so serious.

A moment later, Lionel met Victor's arrogant gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile even appearing on his lips.

“Mr. Bonaparte,” Lionel began, his voice steady, with an almost academic calm, “you mentioned ‘reaction,’ those ‘forgotten groups,’ and that you touched a ‘sore spot.’ So, allow me to ask a question—”

"Have you, or your father, and those banks and foundations still under the control of the Bonaparte family, ever paid even a single souvenir for 'Edelweiss Tavern,' or for any real 'Old Guard' in any other corner of France?"

A flicker of annoyance and panic crossed Victor Bonaparte’s eyes, but he quickly responded calmly: “The work of banks and foundations is systematic. How can charity for veterans be equated with sporadic handouts in taverns?”

Our goal is to achieve this within ten years…

Lionel gently raised his hand, politely but firmly interrupting the other man: "A grand goal, admirable, ten years... well, I can't wait to see how generously the 'Old Guards' praise you and your fathers—Prince Napoleon, Prince Montfort, Count Meuron, Count Montcalelli—will do." Victor Bonaparte, after all, had never heard of Deyun Society (a famous Chinese crosstalk group), and didn't immediately understand the plural form of "fathers" in Lionel's last sentence, but he did understand "Old Guards over 100 years old." His face darkened, and he prepared to speak.

Lionel didn't give him a chance, and quickly continued, "But please allow me, an ordinary student from the Alps, to understand your 'friendship' from a more... down-to-earth perspective."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the gleaming bee-shaped brooch on Victor's chest: "You see, Mr. Bonaparte. A bee, diligently collecting nectar for the survival of the entire hive."

It won't just linger around any one particular flower, unless that flower can provide the pollen it desperately needs—and it knows that flower's bloom is short-lived and it must act quickly.

Victor Bonaparte glanced down at the badge on his chest, gleaming gold, a symbol of his family's enduring legacy.

Lionel leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharpening and becoming clear, but his words remained irritatingly polite: "The 'friendship' you brought today, to me, is like my flowering season—excuse me, the flowering season that garnered a little attention in *The Old Guard*—"

A bee flew here specifically for this. You saw the 'response' this flower could attract, and that it could bring much-needed 'pollen' to your and your father's hive. This is practical and perfectly understandable.

Victor's face began to flush, and his hands clenched on his knees. Lionel's analogy was too precise, too humiliating! To compare his and his father's meticulously planned political investment to bees collecting honey, and to imply that they were opportunistic!
"Insolence!" Victor Bonaparte growled, but with Patan present, he dared not completely break off relations. "How dare you so distort our goodwill! This is a desecration of the glory of the Empire!"

“Imperial Glory?” Lionel seemed not to hear his anger and continued along his own train of thought, his tone even carrying a hint of innocent confusion, “That is another thing I don’t understand.”

Mr. Bonaparte, you just said that my story touched a nerve with the 'veterans of the Empire.' So, in your opinion, what was the deepest pain of the old guard in the story? Was it the longing for the Austerlitz sunshine? Was it the regret of not being able to die in a final stand at Waterloo? Or…?

Lionel's gaze deepened, and he uttered each word clearly: "Was it in the cold winds of the Alps, when his tattered uniform could no longer ward off the biting cold? Was it the few coins he had left with his last shred of dignity that he couldn't even get for a bowl of cheap wine?"

Are those neighbors who once stood shoulder to shoulder with him, shouting "Long live the Emperor!", now looking at him with disdain, as if he were a thief or a beggar?

Victor Bonaparte slammed his fist on the table: "Absurd! Shameless slander! You ungrateful commoner! What do you know about loyalty? What is sacrifice? That pathetic old soldier you wrote about, at least he knew who he was fighting for and who he was holding the line for!"
And you, you only know how to play with cheap emotions and dangerous ideas in words!

Lionel, undeterred, looked directly into Victor's eyes, which began to gleam: "Mr. Bonaparte, if you and your fathers truly care about 'imperial glory,' then you should seek out those old generals who are still alive and willing to recount glorious battles in the salon."

Not me, a poor Alpine boy, a country bumpkin. My pen has no intention of becoming a honey-gathering tool for any political hive, especially one trying to extract sweet juice from the dregs of historical suffering.

Therefore, please forgive me for being unable to accept this friendship based on 'flowering season' and 'pollen'! Let me offer you two lines from a poem by a Chinese poet from a thousand years ago—

[Gathering the essence of hundreds of flowers to make sweet honey]
To whom does this hard work ultimately go?
To whom is this sweetness bestowed?

(End of this chapter)