"That old pedant Taine, you know him, mean and stubborn like a stone pickled in a seminary since the Middle Ages, he loves to pick on these commoner students.
That kid was a few minutes late, and Taine latched onto him, publicly ridiculing him as a 'diligent gravedigger'!"
Maupassant stood up and began to perform vividly.
He slightly hunched his back, imitating Professor Taine's demeanor, pushed up non-existent glasses, and recounted in a deliberately measured, heavily nasal tone:
"'Look who it is?
Our diligent gravedigger has finally deigned to leave his warm bed?
Monsieur Sorel, please, come in, come in!'"
His exaggerated imitation made Zola couldn't help but crack a smile, and the corners of the others' mouths also turned upwards.
Maupassant was always like this, full of passion for exciting stories and vivid characters.
"After Lionel sat down, those ignorant dandies started mocking him, saying he was dressed shabbily, like Jean Valjean living in a slum—guess how he fought back?"
Maupassant built some suspense here.
"Rastignac?"
Huysmans guessed.
Maupassant immediately chimed in loudly:
"Yes, Rastignac."
He abruptly turned around, facing a gilded human-shaped stand by the fireplace that served as a coat rack, as if it were the arrogant Albert, and imitating Lionel's demeanor and tone at the time, said in a clear, calm, yet immensely powerful voice:
"'And you, Albert?
Is that a homage to Rastignac?'"
"Pffft...!"
Zola was the first to burst out in hearty laughter, his broad shoulders shaking,
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!
Right on the money!"
Huysmans' tightly furrowed brows completely relaxed, and a genuinely incredulous smile curved on his lips:
"Precise irony—'Rastignac'... using that in retort is a hundred times more vicious than any crude insult!"
"That wasn't even the best part.
That old man Taine wasn't satisfied and posed two tricky questions to Lionel."
Maupassant then gave a vivid imitation of Lionel's answers, making everyone burst into laughter.
After his performance, Maupassant concluded:
"You didn't see the faces of those dandies, they were as white as drowned ghosts just pulled from the Seine!
Absolutely brilliant!
For a full five minutes, the entire classroom was dead silent, even old Taine was so astonished he forgot to continue being mean!
That scene..."
He savored the memory rapturously, as if tasting a fine vintage:
"It was practically a living drama lesson! Conflict, reversal, perfect counterattack!
Filled with the most primal yet most subtle power!"
Zola picked up his cigar again, took a slow puff, his profound gaze seemingly penetrating the swirling smoke to see further:
"To maintain such calm under Taine's pressure, and to deliver such a precise and sharp counterattack amidst the ridicule of surrounding aristocrats...
This composure and quick wit cannot be cultivated by books and private tutors.
This young man possesses a hardness and sharpness forged by life itself.
The hothouse of the Sorbonne, I fear, cannot contain such a wild grass."
His words carried the weariness of someone who understood the ways of the world and a hint of imperceptible worry.
"In a place like the Sorbonne, a poor boy from the 11th arrondissement will be crushed by that bunch of snobbish aristocrats and rigid academics! Talent?
In the face of class barriers, talent is often the first sacrifice!"
Zola's tone became somewhat heavy and angry, as if he had already foreseen some tragic outcome.
The excitement on Maupassant's face also faded a bit.
He walked back to his armchair and sat down, his voice carrying a subtle hint of emotion and regret:
"Indeed... after lunch, I had wanted to talk to him more, even thought of inviting him to some salons...
But he left quickly, very... cautiously.
That caution is the instinctive wariness and deliberation of the poor in the face of unfamiliar kindness."
He paused, seemingly recalling the details of the time:
"His coat was very worn, and during the meal... although his manners were proper, it was clear that he had an almost pious appreciation for that ordinary public table food.
I suspect it was the best meal he'd had in a long time."
Sympathy and pity shone in the eyes of Zola and the others.
Especially Zola, whose childhood and youth were spent in destitution, with creditors often knocking at his door, causing him indelible pain and torment.
He hesitated, then asserted:
"The universities of France are rotten!
They only cultivate social parasites, the successors of those scheming, selfish aristocrats, bureaucrats, and contractors!
This boy—Lionel, is it?—does not bow to authority, does not compromise with violence, does not feel inferior because of money; he possesses a sensitive, noble, inherent self-respect.
Guy, you have found an unpolished gem!
It is still dull now, but it already has an undeniable brilliance!"
Maupassant and the others hadn't expected Zola's assessment of Lionel to be so high—then they realized that Zola, with his similar life experiences, had projected himself onto Lionel.
The few immediately seized on this topic, launching into a fierce attack on France's current university system, with an intensity comparable to the flames in the fireplace!
The discussion continued until the alluring aroma of food wafted from the dining room again...
Once again well-fed and satiated, Zola, Maupassant, and the others agreed that every Saturday after the start of summer, the six of them would gather at this villa in Médan!
Why Saturday?
Because Sunday was already taken by Flaubert's salon!
At this gathering, in addition to the young Guy de Maupassant and his teacher Gustave Flaubert, there were also Ivan Turgenev, who was from Russia but wrote in French; Alphonse Daudet, whose novelistic skills were incredibly exquisite; the highly respected Edmond de Goncourt; publisher Charpentier; and Baudry, member of the Académie française and linguist...
And, of course, Émile Zola, whom they had only met yesterday.
Everyone was also engaged in lively discussion, sharing their latest insights and fresh observations.
A little over halfway through the gathering, Maupassant cautiously asked,
"Is Monsieur Hippolyte Taine not coming today?"
Flaubert found it strange that his student would ask this, as he usually disliked the old-fashioned Taine.
But he still replied,
"Monsieur Taine caught a cold and has even taken leave from the academy."
Maupassant breathed a sigh of relief, a pleased expression on his face, and stood up:
"This week, at the Sorbonne, I met a student named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, dirt poor, wearing a coat with shiny worn elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the supposedly foul-smelling 11th arrondissement..."
Flaubert: "Hmm?"
Zola: "This..."
Others: "Oh?..."
Two days later, at the "Naturalists" gathering held every Tuesday evening, hosted by Monsieur Charpentier—
Maupassant stood up again:
"Do you know, at the Sorbonne, there's a student named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, dirt poor, wearing a coat with shiny worn elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the supposedly foul-smelling 11th arrondissement..."
...
In less than a week, Parisian cultural circles vaguely became aware of "a provincial student named Lionel at the Sorbonne, dirt poor, wearing a coat with shiny worn elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the foul-smelling 11th arrondissement..."
As for what he did, they couldn't quite remember.
After all, each salon lasted at least four or five hours, with countless people, works, events, and topics discussed... people could only pick out the key points to remember.
Meanwhile, the "dirt poor" Lionel experienced both joy and sorrow at this moment.
(End of chapter)
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