Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 53 Hellish Scenery (Seeking Monthly Tickets)

Victor Bonaparte practically jumped off the sofa, pointing at Lionel but unable to utter a single coherent sentence.

His carefully prepared recruitment efforts were not only dissected layer by layer like an onion, but also utterly crushed by the sharp yet tactless sarcasm.

He felt like a clown stripped of his finery and exposed to the cold wind.

He turned sharply to Henry Patan, his voice shrill: "Dean Patan! Is this the student the Sorbonne produced?"

An arrogant, ungrateful, and disrespectful instigator who wantonly insults the Empire and the Bonaparte family?! You must…

Dean Henry Patan, who had been pretending to be asleep, seemed to suddenly wake up and said, "Victor!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable air of authority.

Henry Patan slowly stood up, his bulky "pot belly" becoming a symbol of composure and authority.

He walked between the two young men, first giving Lionel an approving look, then turning to Victor Bonaparte.

Dean Henry Patan’s tone turned serious: “Victor, Mr. Lionel Sorel is a formally registered student of the Sorbonne College.”

He enjoys all the rights granted to him by the academy, including freedom of thought and speech.

His attitude was no longer as polite as before, and he had clearly begun to distance himself from the "Napoleon" in front of him.

"Leonard's remarks, though sharp, did not violate any school rules or laws."

He was simply explaining his understanding of the essence of literature and his views on the attribution of his works.

This is the professional conduct expected of scholars and students!

At this point, Henry Patan paused before continuing, "As for the 'friendship of the Bonaparte family' that you proposed on behalf of your father..."

As an academic institution, the Sorbonne has no right to interfere with students' private choices. Lionel has already made his wishes clear.

I think we can conclude our meeting here today.

Victor could hardly believe his ears: "Dean Patan! You...!"

This usually smooth-talking dean, who was quite polite to those in power, actually sided with that commoner student.
He was somewhat exasperated: "Do you know what you're saying? My father is a senator! The Bonaparte family..."

Even Lionel was somewhat surprised.
Dean Henry Patan calmly interrupted him: "The Bonaparte family has left a profound mark on the history of France, which no one can deny."

But the Sorbonne's history is older than any family or dynasty. Our duty is to safeguard knowledge, truth, and the spirit of independence.

Victor, your words and actions today, if I may be so bold, were filled with arrogance and coercion that are completely incompatible with the spirit of the Sorbonne. This has disappointed me greatly.

These words struck Victor Bonaparte's heart like a final, heavy blow.

He was not only thoroughly humiliated by Lionel, but even Dean Patan, whom he had always thought he could rely on, openly turned against him!

Panic instantly overwhelmed his anger. He suddenly realized that France had had an emperor 10 years ago, and now this land was under a republic.

Although Dean Henri Patan was not a politician, he was the influential Dean of the Sorbonne, a member of the French Academy, and a world-renowned scholar.

If he were to reveal what he did today—coercing and bribing the Sorbonne students…

Cold sweat instantly soaked Victor's back, and his carefully combed black hair seemed to lose its luster.

He glanced around. Dean Henry Patan looked stern, while Lionel had regained his composure and no longer even looked at him, instead flipping through the circus on the table.

Victor Bonaparte's voice became hoarse: "Good... very good..." He had completely lost the arrogant tone he had before.

He grabbed his cane and staggered back two steps: "Dean Patan... Lionel Sorel... You... are all very well... Farewell!"

He even forgot to maintain basic farewell etiquette, turned abruptly, and almost fled, his cane clattering rapidly and erratically on the floor.

He pulled open the heavy oak door to the dean's office and disappeared into the corridor in a disheveled state.

Soon, the sound of the heavy wheels of a luxurious carriage rolling over the Sorbonne stone pavement could be heard in the courtyard.

The office fell silent, with only the ticking of the wall clock.

The air was filled with the lingering scent of cigars and the premium cologne emanating from Victor.

Dean Henry Patan breathed a sigh of relief, as if a huge burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

He walked to the door, gently closed it, then turned around, looked at Lionel, and smiled: "Aren't you afraid? His father is the current head of the Bonaparte family."

Lionel returned the smile: "Mr. Dean, do you really think France will have another emperor named Bonaparte?"

Henry Patan thought for a moment: "Although His Highness Louis is still in England, many people are already calling him 'Napoleon IV'..."

Oh, this young 'Napoleon' just now seems to have quite a few ideas; his line of succession is second only to His Highness Louis.

Lionel stood up, walked to the window, and watched the carriage decorated with the imperial emblem gradually disappear into the distance below.

Then he turned to Henry Patan and asked, "If one day—I mean if—this young 'Napoleon' really does become emperor..."

Then he brought up old grievances from today: "Will the Sorbonne still stand behind me?"

Henry Patan took a puff from his pipe and slowly exhaled blue smoke: "That's a long time from now."

I'd probably be a pile of rotting bones by then. But, Lionel, don't overestimate the Sorbonne…”

Upon hearing this honest advice, Lionel turned and bowed to Dean Henry Patan: "At least today, the Sorbonne's floors are clean."

Thank you for upholding my dignity and that of the Sorbonne today. If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave.

Henry Patan didn't speak, he just nodded wearily.

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"This is District 11? This is Obokamp Street? This is where Lionel lives?"

Maupassant stepped down from the carriage and stared in disbelief at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Half an hour ago, he was smoking a cigar in Flaubert's book-filled study, but now he stands in front of the most authentic working-class neighborhood in Paris.

First came a strong, complex stench, like a filthy fist, slamming into my face.

It was rotten vegetable leaves, cheap grease, excrement, alcohol, vomit, cheap perfume, and sweat...

A terrible stench fermented, mixed, and evaporated in the warm air of early spring in Paris.

The road beneath our feet was less a street and more a trap paved with mud and garbage.

The stone slabs were already broken and rubbled, with blackish-green sewage accumulating in the potholes, reflecting a murky, greasy light.

The buildings on both sides of the street seemed to be bent over by the weight of time and poverty.

The gray walls were covered with stains and traces of rain, and most of the windows were covered with thick grease; broken glass was barely plugged with rags or cardboard.

The crowds were noisy, life was rough, and there was a kind of primal vitality and despair.

Groups of three or five men, dressed in faded blue overalls and with tired eyes.

They leaned against the tavern entrance or squatted in the corner, talking and cursing loudly in slang and profanity, their spittle flying in the murky air.

Most of the women had sallow complexions and wore tattered aprons or shawls.

Some were vigorously washing clothes by the sink at the entrance; others were carrying baskets and fiercely bargaining with vendors at filthy roadside stalls, their voices sharp and piercing.

The children, barefoot or wearing ripped shoes, screamed and chased each other through the mud and garbage, their faces and hands covered in filth.

Maupassant could almost feel those gazes hidden in the shadows—

The thief weighed the contents of his pocket, the beggar stared at the hand he might offer alms, and the prostitute assessed his purse and interest.

And the gazes of those numb, hostile, or simply curious residents pierced him like needles, making him an incongruous intruder.

"Lionel wrote 'The Old Guard' in this kind of environment? No wonder... this place is simply hell!" Maupassant thought to himself.

Every cruel detail in that novel, every scar on the old guard's body, every sarcastic laugh in the tavern...

At this moment, he had an incredibly concrete and heavy reality to compare with!

Maupassant felt dizzy and nauseous, and almost wanted to turn around and run away from the nauseating street immediately.

But soon a voice caught his attention: "Sir, want one? Only 10 sugar!"

(End of this chapter)