Chapter 43: Ticket to the Paris Art World
"Professors, young Mr. Sorel—
Debt! A word heavier and more unavoidable than any crown, any code, any bank account!
What is history? It is not merely the monuments of emperors and aristocrats, the clarions of battles, the ink of treaties!
It is also a path paved by the silent bones of those crushed by the chariots of their era, incited by grand slogans, deluded by promised glory, and ultimately discarded like worn-out shoes!
Look at this 'the old guard'!
He was a lion under the Emperor, fighting for France's eagle banner under the sun of Austerlitz! His chest once burned with the cry of 'Long live the Emperor'!
But when the Empire fell, when royal banners shifted, when a new era strode forward… what did he get? Forgetfulness! Poverty! Laughter in taverns! The ever-present gaze of the secret police!
Ultimately… he crawled on his hands in the winter mud like a old dog with broken legs!"
Victor Hugo seemed twenty years younger, transported back to his glorious years—when Napoleon III was restored, he gave his last speech before resolutely going into exile, only returning to France twenty years later.
At this moment, he was like an aged lion, with white hair and beard, yet still as majestic as a mountain.
Victor Hugo stared intently at Lionel, his voice becoming heavy with emotion and reflection: "The greatness of 'the old guard' stems precisely from Mr. Sorel's insight, in his accurate capture of that last flicker of dignity refusing to be extinguished in the dust.
Mr. Sorel, the tavern boy you wrote about, he wasn't born indifferent; he is a product and accomplice of this forgetfulness! His numbness is a microcosm of society as a whole—a collective evasion of historical debt!"
Lionel bowed slightly to Victor Hugo, acknowledging his gaze with gratitude and respect.
Victor Hugo also rose from his seat and paced the room, which was originally the scriptorium of the Sorbonne Faculty of Theology, his voice like a resounding bell, echoing under the gaze of the saints in the stained-glass windows:
"France is sick—a sickness of being accustomed to suffering, of turning a blind eye to injustice, of being at peace with the sacrifices.
'the old guard' is a sharp blade plunged into the diseased body of the era.
It reminds us that a nation that only knows how to move forward but not how to look back, a republic that only praises victors but is ashamed to embrace the defeated, is lame, is incomplete!
True progress must be built upon the memory of the sacrificed and the defense of the dignity of the most humble!
Gentlemen, remember this debt.
Only by remembering are we worthy of a future!"
After Victor Hugo finished his last sentence, he did not return to his seat but shook hands with Lionel before leaving the editorial office.
The room was dead silent, as if even breathing had stopped.
Victor Hugo's words, like a roar from the abyss of the soul, resonated in the soul of every listener.
Professor Boissier knew that any debate about skill or ghostwriting seemed so small and insignificant at this moment; there would be no more dispute over the ownership of 'the old guard'.
Otherwise, it would be an insult to the entire Sorbonne Faculty of Arts and Victor Hugo.
But he still had to complete the final procedures: "Ladies and gentlemen, does anyone still have any doubts that Lionel wrote the novel 'the old guard'?"
After a polite pause of a few seconds, he eagerly announced the result: "Very well, the inquiry is hereby concluded! Congratulations to Mr. Sorel for proving his talent and credibility."
He then turned to Lionel: "You performed very well today… Hmm, regarding 'onlookers' and 'collective unconscious,' if you have time, you can elaborate on them; I believe more than one person here is interested.
Alright, you can go back to class now."
Lionel, relieved, first bowed to Professor Boissier, then bowed to everyone at the conference table, and turned to leave.
At this moment, Stéphane Mallarmé's lazy voice rang out: "Hey, Lionel, if you're interested, every Tuesday evening, at 112 Rue de Rome in the 8th arrondissement, I have a small salon.
You are welcome to join anytime."
Mallarmé's words caused a stir in the room.
As France's most sought-after poet, Mallarmé's invitation for Lionel to join his salon was an important signal.
Upon hearing this, Lionel turned back: "Thank you, Mr. Mallarmé, it would be my honor!" Only then did he leave the editorial office.
On the way back to the classroom, free from the gaze of the professors, Lionel felt a small surge of joy in his heart, not only for Victor Hugo's recognition but also for Mallarmé's invitation.
That was Mallarmé's Tuesdays!
One of the most prestigious cultural and artistic salons in France at the end of the 19th century, participants included not only poets like Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud but also other artists.
For example, the musician Debussy, painters Monet and Gauguin, and the sculptor Rodin were all honored guests at Mallarmé's Tuesdays.
This was also an admission ticket, meaning that the art world of Paris was beginning to accept Lionel Sorel as a newcomer—though he would have to wait a little before officially joining this salon; he couldn't excitedly show up tomorrow night…
Back in the classroom, Taine was still lecturing.
He showed no particular expression when he saw Lionel, but simply waved his hand, allowing Lionel to come in and sit down.
— — — — — — — — — —
The next few days, Lionel's life was uneventful.
During the day, he attended classes at Sorbonne, and in the evening, he holed up in his new apartment at 12 An Tan Street, writing "the decadent city."
Since the first 10 chapters, which were related to "Water Margin," were omitted, the progress was not slow; in just over a week, Lionel had advanced by about one-fifth, and the decadent, luxurious, and corrupt worldview built around the protagonist "Gérard Simons" gradually took shape.
"Gérard Simons's mansion, like a behemoth wallowing in a quagmire of luxury, exhaled the scent of desire day and night… Simmons was surrounded by a crowd, like a bull charging into a flock of swans, robust, vigorous, with an undisguised, almost crude pride.
He wore an overly ornate, almost vulgar velvet coat, and the huge jewel rings on his fingers glittered in the candlelight.
At that moment, he was spouting saliva, talking about his newly acquired mansion in Lyon, rumored to rival a small Versailles, bragging about the astonishing profits he had reaped from colonial trade, and how he had paved his way with louis d'or, ultimately knocking on the royal door and obtaining the enviable right to collect taxes…
'Gold, my dear friends!' I remember him raising a glass of deep red wine, his voice so loud it drowned out the orchestra, his face flushed with wine and self-satisfied oiliness, 'Gold is the most beautiful music, the most powerful authority! It can buy everything!' His small, covetous eyes swept across the room, finally resting on a few young, beautiful female guests, with an undisguised, naked possessiveness…
" This was followed by several scenes of him entwined with his mistress, but Lionel was careful here—just like the passage he showed Gabriel, he replaced the most crucial content with "□□□ (XX lines deleted here)."
And the "□□□" he wrote on separate manuscript paper…
By Friday, something new finally happened in the Faculty of Arts classroom—Albert de Rohan, who hadn't shown his face for several days, and his followers, all came to class.
However, he was paler than before, as if he had just recovered from a serious illness.
His followers also lacked their usual arrogance, their heads drooping like frost-bitten eggplants.
Seeing Lionel enter the classroom, Albert stood up.