Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 613 Between Lies, Which One Do You Support?
Emil Durand looked at Frésiné and Rothschild: “We are too used to leaving justice entirely to those state institutions—the police, the courts, the prisons.”

We believe this is the inevitable endpoint of civilizational progress. But it may itself be a historical accident, a product of specific social development or institutional practices.

Do we believe too strongly that only by completely relinquishing the right to punish evildoers and stripping away all personal emotions can we achieve 'pure' and 'absolute' justice?

Perhaps, in the process, we have forgotten that justice originates from humanity's earliest moral concepts, from our fear of being harmed, and from our desire to stop violence.

The law is certainly important, but when there are huge loopholes in the law, should we completely negate the extreme actions taken by those who are destroyed as a result, based on their sense of morality?

I'm not saying that lynching is right; I'm saying that the standards we used to judge those twelve people were themselves a product of a specific system, not inherently so.

Emil Durand's speech reminded these European elites that the principles they regarded as inviolable were not universally applicable truths.

The debate truly began to heat up after historian Paul Moreau spoke.

He stood up and looked around at everyone: "Mr. Duran's remarks were interesting. I would also like to remind you that Europe is not a 'rules-based' haven either."

On the contrary, our history is full of precedents for maintaining order through lies, and often on a very large scale.

Everyone was captivated by this somewhat "horrifying" idea. Many frowned, as if offended; only Lionel smiled.

Paul Moreau stood up and began to pace: "Dynastic times always proclaimed the 'divine right of kings,' but how many monarchs truly deserved that sacred aura?"

How much bloodshed was buried in the compromises reached after the religious wars? For the past century, every European country has been carefully selecting, or even fabricating, its historical memory…

The stability of our society is often built precisely on lies that are tacitly accepted and maintained through collusion. Even when lies are sometimes purely for the purpose of consolidating power.

Compared to those, the story of twelve people on a train fabricating lies to punish a murderer who escaped justice might not seem so shocking.

Moro's words dragged everyone into an inescapable responsibility, plunging the carriage into a brief silence.

The rhythmic rumble of the wheels seemed to remind them that each of us has, to some extent, supported a lie, some with a sacred justification.

Why is it that when these "lies" are published in the name of a state or monarch, everyone knows they are true but remains silent, while when it comes to individuals, they are criticized?

Surprisingly, it was Mrs. Rothschild who finally broke the silence.

The banker's wife had mostly listened throughout the discussion, but at this moment, she expressed her opinion in a more emotional way:

"Gentlemen, you have spoken at length about law, order, systems, history, civilization… all of which are important. But I would like to return to a simpler question—"

Detective Poirot saw two kinds of truths: one that exposed evil but might cause more conflict; and another that covered up evil but could bring peace to the living.

If the law can only lead to the first option, only tear souls apart with its cold procedures, yet remains blind to the suffering of twelve people, to the death of the little girl…

In my view, this kind of law has lost its dignity. It has become a machine, a machine that is fair enough but devoid of humanity.

Shouldn't justice be warm and compassionate? If the law can't provide it, but some people do it in their own way without harming other innocent people...

She didn't finish her sentence, but everyone knew which side she had chosen. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rothschild represented another viewpoint:
It focuses more on results and cares more about specific people than abstract principles.

Her husband, James Rothschild, was clearly displeased, but he couldn't show it in this situation, so he simply picked up his glass and took a sip.

However, this viewpoint resonated with all the female passengers, who nodded in agreement.

The debate continues and has evolved beyond a simple clash between two factions into a tug-of-war and tearing apart of multiple value systems.

Artists like Louis Bertin sympathize with individual suffering, yet also harbor doubts about the legitimacy of violence.
Political figures like Fressine emphasize the responsibility and stability of institutions, yet they cannot deny that institutions can fail in extreme circumstances;

Scholars like Durand and Moreau, while not believing that the law is "naturally correct," also know that any alternative may bring new problems.
Sensitive as Mrs. Rothschild, she raised simple questions about rigid laws from the perspective of humanity and humanism.

Everyone tried to persuade others with their own knowledge and experience, but no clear winner emerged, which only made the problem more complicated and unsolvable.

Lionel listened silently to everything, which was exactly the effect he wanted; Sophie was also listening attentively, nodding occasionally and frowning at times.

At this point, Georges Nagelmarx discovered that Lionel, the "instigator," had remained uninvolved and had not expressed any opinion.

He quickly interrupted the discussion and asked directly, "Mr. Sorel, why are you silent? After all, 'Murder on the Orient Express' is your work."

In your initial assumption, which answer would Poirot choose to tell the police?

This statement drew everyone's attention to Lionel, who stared intently at him, eager to know his stance.

If the debate remains unresolved, the side supported by the original author is obviously considered the winner. But Lionel simply shrugged: "Everyone here is 'alive,' and I am 'dead,' so how can I participate in the discussion or offer my opinion?"

Everyone was stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter, instantly dispelling the tense atmosphere in the carriage.

Lionel cleverly escaped this difficult choice by using the identity of the deceased, "Le Chaté".

Immediately, someone chimed in: "Hey, don't try to get away with this! You're the one who asked the question, you can't dodge it!"

Lionel shook his head and said calmly, "If I really had a definite answer, then I wouldn't have posed this question to you all."

Thank you all for your insightful and sincere sharing. This discussion itself is more valuable than any simple answer.

It reveals how much disagreement we have, and how much wisdom we can generate, when faced with such dilemmas.

He paused, stood up, and walked to the center of the carriage: "Perhaps it's time to make a choice. Not a judgment on those twelve people, but on ourselves—"

If we were on that Orient Express stranded in the snow right now, and as Poirot, knowing everything, we had to give the police a conclusion, which would we choose?

He gestured to Sophie. Sophie took out small pieces of paper that she had prepared beforehand, printed with "Conclusion One" and "Conclusion Two," as well as a silver tray borrowed from the dining car.

The small slips of paper are unmarked and folded. Everyone simply needs to place their chosen side into the plate, and no one can know which side others have chosen.

Lionel handed out two slips of paper to everyone: "Please make your judgment at this moment."

The voting process was unusually quiet, almost solemn. People stepped forward one by one, placing their folded cards into the silver tray without speaking, only the soft sound of footsteps.

This vote was not an impulsive decision; on the contrary, after intense discussion, each person's choice was carefully weighed.

All the cards were collected. Lionel, under the watchful eyes of everyone, opened each card one by one, reading out the choices on them, while Sophie recorded them.

"...Conclusion 1. Conclusion 1. Conclusion 2. Conclusion 1. Conclusion 1..."

The final results were revealed: of the eighteen passengers who participated in the vote, fourteen chose the first conclusion, namely that an external perpetrator committed the crime.

Only four people chose the second conclusion, namely that twelve people conspired together.

The majority's choice is clear and unambiguous.

Lionel looked at the result without any particular expression: "I believe this is neither a 'forgiveness' nor does it mean that you all approve of vigilante justice."

Our carefully constructed legal system may indeed prove so powerless in the face of certain evils that it necessitates a return to antiquity and the pursuit of revenge.

He looked around at everyone, his gaze calm: "You chose twelve people to continue living, leaving that secret on the train in the snow, not because they were more right."

This is because the villain Kessetie is already dead, a fait accompli; and to have twelve people with a sense of justice publicly confess to conspiring to murder would be a pointless sacrifice.

It can't fix anything that's already broken—the Armstrongs won't come back, little Daisy won't come back, and the nanny won't come back either.

It may only bring about a legally 'satisfactory' outcome, but in the real world, it will only cause a series of new tragedies and upheavals.

Lionel's summary was concise and to the point, but it did not win applause, nor did anyone feel relieved; a heavy silence filled the carriage.

Those who chose "Conclusion One" may not feel at ease; those who chose "Conclusion Two" may not feel indignant.

Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on this moral choice that, though virtual, felt incredibly real.

Just then, the train whistle let out a long and loud cry—

"Whoosh—" The sound pierced through the carriage, breaking the silence.

Immediately afterwards, the train slowed down noticeably, and the sound of the wheels rubbing against the rails became muffled.

Outside the window, the morning sun illuminated a wide, shimmering river, and the outline of the city on the opposite bank was faintly visible through the train's smoke.

This is the Danube River, the most famous geographical boundary between eastern and western Europe.

Purser Ferdinand Dubois opened the door to the salon carriage: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived in Giurgiu. Please prepare to disembark and transfer to the ferry to cross the river."

(Second update complete. Thank you everyone, please vote with your monthly tickets!)
(End of this chapter)