Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 54 The building remains even after the people have left.

An hour later, Maupassant emerged from his smelly bed, refreshed, amidst a mixture of cheap perfume, sweat, and overnight vomit.

This place is completely different from the high-class brothels in the second, third, and fifth districts. The low ceiling is covered with cheap, yellowed wallpaper, and large patches of mold spread like ugly sores. Several damp water stains are slowly expanding.

Dim light struggled to squeeze in through the cracks of a small, almost opaque window covered in thick grease, barely outlining the room's shape.

The only furniture in the room, besides the bed, was a rickety little table with peeling paint, piled high with empty wine glasses, cigarette butts, and hardened breadcrumbs. In the corner, an enamel basin held murky water, with suspicious impurities floating on its surface.

But Maupassant didn't care about any of that. He put on his decent clothes, took out a few coins, and tossed them to the naked woman sitting on the bed.

The woman crawled on the bed and picked up the coins one by one: "Thank you for your generosity! May God bless you, sir!"

Just as he was about to leave with his famous quote and walk away under the other person's horrified gaze, he suddenly remembered something and casually asked, "Do you know that there is a Sorbonne student living on this street?"

His name is Lionel Sorel!

There probably aren't many students of the Sorbonne who live in this kind of neighborhood. And since the brothel is one of the information hubs of the whole neighborhood, maybe the other party knows about it?

The woman on the bed's eyes lit up when she heard the name, but then she gave a sly smile: "You mean 'Young Master Sorel'? Of course I know him, he's very famous around here."

Maupassant looked at her in surprise, not expecting that he had asked the right question right away: "Oh? Can you tell me where he lives?"

The woman stopped talking, but simply stacked the coins in her hand together, picked them up with her fingers, and poured them into the palm of her other hand.

Maupassant laughed and pulled out 10 sous: "10 sous, tell me where he lives?"

A look of longing appeared in the woman's eyes, and she reached out to take it.

Unexpectedly, Maupassant grabbed his hand and said, "I can give you these 10 sous, but you have to let me have another go, and then you can tell me where Lionel lives—I'm sure there are quite a few people on this street who know."

The woman stared in astonishment at the well-dressed, handsome gentleman before her, and finally could only nod helplessly: "Yes, sir—you are truly the most special guest I have ever met."

Maupassant unbuckled his belt, and his trousers slid to the ground: "Is that so? Then you should feel honored..."

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Half an hour later, Maupassant stood in front of Madame Martin's apartment. Like the other buildings on the street, the house was gloomy, dilapidated, and on the verge of collapse.

He sighed, stepped forward, and pushed open the creaking, peeling door. A stench of stale stew, damp planks, cheap soap, and the smells of many tenants hit him, not much better than what he found on the street.

The apartment's foyer came into view; it was narrow and dimly lit, illuminated only by a single kerosene lamp. The floor was covered with a poorly made, worn carpet, its original color barely discernible.

A cheap picture of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall, with a small, nearly burnt-out candle burning in front of it, its wax dripping. A heavy, dark brown wooden mailbox was nailed to the wall, its many compartments open, revealing the curled-edge letters stuffed inside.

Mrs. Martin's thin figure appeared quickly, her voice as sharp as ever: "Look, a big shot has come to our apartment—good afternoon, sir, may God bless you—of course, if you want to rent a place here, it means God doesn't have time to bless you right now!"
We only have one attic room available for rent, every month..."

Before Mrs. Martin could give her an offer, Maupassant interrupted her: "I'm here to see someone—does Lionel Sorel live here? He's a student of the Sorbonne."

Mrs. Martin's expression changed upon hearing the name, and she swallowed back the words she was about to say. The previously noisy apartment suddenly fell silent, and Maupassant could clearly feel several pairs of eyes staring at him in the dimly lit apartment.

Maupassant thought to himself that he had come to the right place; the prostitute named "Meryl" had not lied to him.

But Mrs. Martin's next words made him feel worse than if he'd swallowed a fly: "Who are you looking for? That student, Sorel moved out! He moved out a long time ago! He paid off all his rent! Tsk, unlike some people..."

As he spoke, he glanced back meaningfully, then quickly withdrew his eyes from the dim light.

Maupassant was stumped: "He lived here? He moved away? Where did he move to?"

Mrs. Martin scoffed, "Who knows? 'Young Master Sorel' has hooked up with some rich guy and is now moving into a luxury apartment. As for where he lives, what right do poor people like us have to know?"

When Maupassant heard this, his scalp tingled – not because he couldn't complete the task assigned to him by his teacher Flaubert, but because Lionel had actually gotten involved with a noblewoman earlier than him!
This was more painful for him than being rejected by Le Figaro a hundred times!

But he couldn't lose his composure at this moment, so he could only nod calmly and then ask, "Which room did he stay in before? Can you take me to see it?"

Mrs. Martin gave him a strange look, shook her head, and pointed to the stairs: "He lives in the attic. The door isn't locked. Go in and see for yourself. But it's all empty inside; there's only a bed and a table..."

Maupassant looked up and saw that the place was dark and indistinct, with the sunlight coming through the skylight mixed into a chaotic mess.

------

"So, which publisher would you like to give 'The Old Guard' to?" Professor Gaston Boischer took a sip of coffee and looked at Lionel leisurely.

As a professor at the Sorbonne and editor of the Sorbonne Academic Bulletin, he was very pleased to have become Lionel's "discoverer".

Today he called Lionel to his office, mainly to discuss the reprint of "The Old Guard".

The Sorbonne Academy Bulletin is not for profit, and its daily circulation is only around two thousand copies. Even though many people paid attention to "Poor Lionel's" masterpiece last issue, it still only sold less than a thousand copies.

But the reputation of "The Old Guard" had already spread, and major newspapers such as Le Figaro, Le Parisien, and Le Gaulle inquired whether they could reprint this masterpiece.

This was the crucial step that propelled the novel, and its author Lionel, to the forefront of Paris and even the entire French peninsula.

However, in this era, choosing a newspaper was also choosing an allegiance, which could potentially influence an author's creative path for a long time to come, even for their entire life.

Looking at the innocent-looking Lionel, Gaston Boischer felt it necessary to use his own life experience to guide this student on the right path.

He cleared his throat before speaking: "I think that although Le Figaro's sales are not as high as Le Petit Parisien's, but..."

Lionel suddenly seemed to wake from a dream, interrupting the enthusiastic Professor Boischer: "Which one pays more?"

Professor Gaston Boischer: "..."

(End of this chapter)