Chapter 51: Who do you work hard for and who do you enjoy the sweetness for?
<[POWER STONES PLEASE]>
Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds… The mechanical clock in the dean's office ticked, but the air here seemed to freeze.
Dean Henri Patin clasped his hands over his round belly, his eyelids drooping, as if he would fall asleep any second.
Lionel leaned comfortably back in the armchair on the sofa, meeting Victor Bonaparte's gaze without flinching, his expression neither fearful nor provocative.
Just as Victor Bonaparte's face turned ashen and he was about to explode, Lionel finally spoke: "Is the friendship of the Bonaparte family so cheap now?"
Upon hearing this, Victor Bonaparte's expression, though still unpleasant, visibly relaxed.
He stepped back and sat on the sofa, resuming that cold, detached, and arrogant look characteristic of the nobility: "Mr. Sorel, I suggest you choose your words carefully.
The weight of the Bonaparte family's friendship, I'm afraid, far exceeds the few pages your short story occupies in the Gazette."
He slightly raised his chin, attempting to regain control of the situation, "However, I am very interested to hear what, in your opinion, qualifies as 'not cheap' friendship?"
He had already concluded that Lionel Sorel, like all the 'mud-footed' people he knew, his outward integrity was merely to sell himself for a better price.
Victor Bonaparte added: "The banks and foundations belonging to the Bonaparte family, and also newspapers… are spread throughout France. My father—Prince Napoleon, Prince of Montfort, Count of Meudon, Count of Moncalieri—
is the staunchest defender of the Empire's glory, and also the most loyal protector of all veterans who served the Empire and their surviving families."
He spoke with a natural pride when mentioning his father's titles, so he paused before continuing: "He is very generous to artists, especially those who form friendships with the Bonaparte family."
He caught sight of Lionel standing there with a serious expression, thinking he was moved by his words, and showed a barely perceptible look of disdain.
What Victor Bonaparte didn't know was that Lionel was currently troubled; he couldn't find a concise and cutting French equivalent for the Chinese phrase "You are truly rich and powerful enough to rival a nation," and could only swallow the sarcasm that had been on the tip of his tongue, which was why his face was so serious.
A moment later, Lionel met Victor's arrogant gaze, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile even appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Mr. Bonaparte," Lionel began, his voice steady, with a calmness that bordered on academic discussion, "You mentioned 'reverberations,' you mentioned 'forgotten groups,' you mentioned hitting a 'sore spot.' So, allow me to ask a question—
Have you, or your esteemed father, or any of the banks and foundations still under the control of the Bonaparte family, ever paid even four sous for a single glass of wine for the 'Edelweiss Tavern,' or for any real 'the old guard' in any other corner of France?"
A flicker of annoyance and panic crossed Victor Bonaparte's eyes, but he quickly responded calmly: "The work of banks and foundations is systematic. How can charity for veterans be equated to sporadic handouts in a tavern?
Our goal is within ten years…"
Lionel gently raised his hand, politely but firmly interrupting the other: "A grand and admirable goal, ten years… Hmm, I can't wait to see the touching scene of the over 100-year-old 'the old guard' praising you and your fathers—Prince Napoleon, Prince of Montfort, Count of Meudon, Count of Moncalieri—for their generosity."
Victor Bonaparte, after all, had never heard of Deyunshe, and didn't immediately react to Lionel's later use of the "plural form" for fathers, but he did understand "the over 100-year-old the old guard," and his face darkened, preparing to speak.
Lionel didn't give him a chance, quickly continuing: "But allow me, an ordinary student from the Alps, to understand your 'friendship' from a more… down-to-earth perspective."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shining bee-shaped brooch on Victor's chest: "You see, Mr. Bonaparte. A bee, it diligently collects nectar for the survival of the entire hive.
It won't just hover around a specific flower, unless that flower can provide the pollen it urgently needs at the moment—and it knows that the flowering period of this flower is short, so it must seize the opportunity."
Victor Bonaparte looked down at the emblem on his chest, gleaming with golden light, a symbol of his family's continuous prosperity.
Lionel leaned slightly forward, his eyes becoming sharp and clear, yet his words maintained an irritating politeness: "The 'friendship' you bring today, in my opinion, is like a bee that has specifically flown to my flowering period—forgive me, to the flowering period when 'the old guard' has attracted a little attention—
You value the 'reverberations' this flower can attract, which can bring urgently needed 'pollen' to your and your esteemed father's hive. This is very pragmatic, and there's nothing wrong with that."
Victor's face began to flush, and his hands on his knees clenched. Lionel's metaphor was too precise, and too humiliating! To compare his and his father's carefully planned political investment to a bee collecting nectar, and to imply they were opportunistic!
"Presumptuous!" Victor Bonaparte growled, but restrained himself from completely breaking face due to Patin's presence, "How dare you misinterpret our goodwill like this! This is a blasphemy against the glory of the Empire!"
"The glory of the Empire?" Lionel seemed not to hear his anger, continuing along his train of thought, his tone even carrying a hint of innocent confusion, "This is another point I don't understand.
Mr. Bonaparte, you just said that my story touched a raw nerve with the 'veterans of the Empire.' So, in your opinion, what is the deepest pain of the old guard in the story? Is it missing the sun of Austerlitz? Is it regretting not dying in the final struggle at Waterloo? Or…"
Lionel's gaze deepened, and he articulated each word clearly: "Or is it that in the cold winds of the Alps, his tattered military uniform can no longer withstand the biting cold? Is it that the few coins he painstakingly produced with his remaining dignity can't even buy a bowl of cheap wine?
Is it that those neighbors who might have once cheered 'Long live the Emperor' alongside him now despise him with the eyes of a thief and a beggar?"
Victor Bonaparte slammed the table: "Absurd! Shameless slander! You ungrateful commoner! What do you know of loyalty? What do you know of sacrifice? That pathetic old guard in your story, at least he knew who he was fighting for, who he was holding out for!
And you, you only play with cheap emotions and dangerous ideas in your writing!"
Lionel was unafraid, looking directly into Victor's now flickering eyes: "Mr. Bonaparte, if you and your fathers truly care about the 'glory of the Empire,' then you should seek out those old generals who are still alive and willing to recount glorious battles in salons.
Not me, a poor boy, a country bumpkin from the Alps. My pen has no intention of becoming a nectar-collecting tool for any political hive, especially a hive that attempts to extract sweet juice from the remnants of historical suffering.
Therefore, please forgive me for being unable to accept this friendship based on 'flowering period' and 'pollen'! Allow me to offer you two lines of poetry from a Chinese poet, a thousand years ago—
[After collecting from a hundred blooming flowers to brew sweet honey,
For whom is this toil ultimately sweet?
And to whom is this sweetness given?]"