Chapter 53: The House Is Still Empty
An hour later, Maupassant emerged from his stinking bed, a mix of cheap perfume, sour sweat, and overnight alcoholic vomit, feeling refreshed.
This place was starkly different from the high-class brothels in the Second District, Third Arrondissement, or Fifth Arrondissement. The low ceilings were covered with cheap, yellowed wallpaper, large patches of mold spread like ugly sores, and several damp stains were slowly expanding.
Murky light struggled to penetrate a small window, thick with grime and almost opaque, barely outlining the room's contours.
The only furniture in the room, besides the bed, was a wobbly, peeling small table piled with empty wine glasses, cigarette butts, and hardened, leftover breadcrumbs. In the corner, an enamel basin held cloudy water, with suspicious impurities floating on the surface.
But Maupassant didn't care about any of this. He put on his decent clothes, then pulled out a few coins and tossed them to the naked woman sitting on the bed.
The woman crawled on the bed, picking up the coins one by one: "Thank you for your generosity! May God bless you, sir!"
Just as he was about to leave, dropping his famous line and being seen off by her horrified eyes, he suddenly remembered something and casually asked, "Do you know if a Sorbonne student lives on this street?"
"His name is Lionel Sorel!"
As a Sorbonne student, there shouldn't be many living in this kind of neighborhood, and brothels are one of the information hubs of the entire street, so maybe she would know?
When the woman on the bed heard the name, her eyes lit up, but then she showed a cunning smile: "You mean 'Young Master Sorel'? Of course, I know him, he's quite famous around here."
Maupassant looked at her in surprise, not expecting to have asked the right person immediately: "Oh? Can you tell me where he lives?"
The woman didn't speak, she just stacked the coins in her hand, then used her fingers to transfer them to her other palm.
Maupassant smiled, then 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 them.
Unexpectedly, Maupassant clenched his palm: "These 10 sous can be yours, but only if I get another round, and then you can also tell me where Lionel lives—I believe not too few people on this street would know."
The woman stared in astonishment at the well-dressed, handsome gentleman in front of her, and finally could only nod helplessly: "Alright, sir—you really are the most unique guest I've ever had."
Maupassant unbuckled his belt, and his trousers slid to the floor: "Is that so? Then you should feel honored..."
— — — — — —
Half an hour later, Maupassant stood in front of Mrs. Martin's apartment. This house, like the other buildings on the street, was gray, dilapidated, and crumbling.
He sighed, stepped forward, and pushed open the creaking, peeling door. A smell, a mixture of old stew, damp wood, cheap soap, and the scent of many tenants' lives, wafted out, no better than the street.
What greeted his eyes was the apartment's hallway, narrow and dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of a kerosene lamp. The floor was covered with a badly worn, low-quality carpet, its color long unrecognizable.
On the wall hung a cheap image of the Virgin Mary, in front of which a small, nearly burnt-out candle flickered, its wax tears accumulated. A clumsy, dark brown wooden mailbox was nailed to the wall, many of its compartments open, revealing curled letters stuffed inside.
Mrs. Martin's gaunt figure soon appeared, her voice as sharp as ever: "Look, we have a big shot in our apartment—Good afternoon, sir, may God bless you—of course, if you're looking to rent a place here, it means God isn't free to bless you just yet!
We only have one attic room available for rent, every month..."
Before Mrs. Martin could state the price, Maupassant interrupted her: "I'm looking for someone—does Lionel Sorel live here? He's a Sorbonne student."
When Mrs. Martin heard the name, her expression changed, and the words on her lips were withdrawn.
The previously noisy apartment suddenly fell silent, and Maupassant could distinctly feel several pairs of eyes looking at him from the dim apartment.
Maupassant thought to himself that he had indeed come to the right place; the prostitute named "Meryl" hadn't lied to him.
But Mrs. Martin's next words made him feel worse than if he had swallowed a fly: "Looking for whom? That student, Sorel, has moved out! Moved out long ago! He paid all his rent! Tsk, unlike some people..."
As she spoke, she gave a meaningful glance back, and the eyes in the dimness immediately withdrew.
Maupassant had a headache: "He lived here? Moved out? Where did he move to?"
Mrs. Martin snorted coldly: "Who knows? 'Young Master Sorel' must have latched onto some noble, and now he's moved to a luxurious apartment. As for where he lives, are we poor folk privileged enough to know?"
Maupassant's scalp tingled when he heard this—not because he couldn't complete the task his teacher Flaubert had given him, but because Lionel had actually latched onto a noble lady even earlier than him!
This was more upsetting than having Le Figaro reject his manuscript a hundred times!
But he couldn't lose his composure at this moment, so he just nodded calmly and then asked, "Which room did he live 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 lived in the attic, the door isn't locked, you can go in and see for yourself. But it's already empty, there's only a bed and a table..."
Maupassant looked up, only to see it was dimly indiscernible, the sunlight from the skylight swirling into a chaotic mass.
— — — — — —
"So, which newspaper are you willing to give the old guard to?" Professor Boissier took a sip of coffee, leisurely watching Lionel.
As a professor at Sorbonne and the editor-in-chief of the "Sorbonne Faculty of Arts Bulletin", he was very satisfied with becoming Lionel's "discoverer."
Today, he had called Lionel to his office primarily to discuss the reprinting of the old guard.
The "Sorbonne Faculty of Arts Bulletin" was not profit-oriented; its daily circulation was usually around two thousand copies. Even with many people paying attention to Poor Léonard's masterpiece in the last issue, it only added less than a thousand copies.
But the reputation of the old guard had already spread. Major newspapers like Le Figaro, Le Petit Parisien, and Le Gaulois had all inquired about reprinting this masterpiece.
This was the crucial step for this novel, and for Lionel the author, to reach all of Paris, and even all of France.
However, in this era, choosing a newspaper also meant choosing a faction, which could potentially influence an author's creative path for a long time, even a lifetime.
Looking at the innocent-faced Lionel in front of him, Gaston Boissier felt it necessary to use his life experience to guide this student to the right path.
He cleared his throat before speaking: "I think, although Le Figaro's sales are not as good as Le Petit Parisien, but..."
Lionel suddenly interrupted Professor Boissier, as if waking from a dream, asking, "Which one pays more for the manuscript?"
Professor Boissier: "..."