Chapter 57 Lionel's First Night
{"(Some say I dislike Maupassant—heaven knows, he is one of my favorite authors and one of my literary enlighteners. In a way, I love Maupassant second only to Lu Xun.)"}... authour's san comment
The shadow of the Notre Dame Cathedral seemed to also fall upon the well-maintained, yet slightly flushed, round face of Archbishop Gibert, due to "holy wrath."
His gray eyes, usually filled with compassion during sermons, now blazed with scorching fury, fixated on the thick, open book on his desk—its cover was almost provocatively plain, but inside, it seethed with what he called "the fires of hell, enough to burn down the foundations of faith for two centuries":
the decadent city.
He was about to summon Father Marcel, who had reported the book to him, but then he suddenly remembered something. He looked at his right hand with a hint of guilt, quickly took out a soft silk cloth, carefully wiped his hand, and then threw the cloth far away before calling out, "Marcel, come in."
Father Marcel, a young clergyman with a resolute face, quickly stood before Bishop Gibert's desk: "At your service!" However, the scent of heather lingering in the air caused him to frown slightly.
"Blasphemy! Shamelessness! Unprecedented malice!" Bishop Gibert's deep, angry voice echoed through the spacious, luxurious office, like a wounded donkey.
His short, yet fair, fingers jabbed fiercely at the open pages, as if to purify the defiled words with the sanctity of his fingertips—the page depicted how Sir Simmons used money and power to turn a parish doctor, who should have represented sanctity, into an accomplice in covering up the truth of the poisoning of pastry chef Francisco Pisto.
"Look! Look how they defile the holy white vestments! How they trample the conscience of God's servants into the mud! This is no longer simple moral decay; this is an erosion of the Church's very foundations!
It is more direct, more malicious than Boccaccio's The Decameron, or Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris!"
He rose, walked around his desk, and approached Father Marcel, who stood respectfully to the side, barely daring to breathe. Suddenly, he gripped his shoulders tightly, his voice rising sharply, with a hint of a tremor: "Marcel, my child, have you ever considered—
When the men of Paris, regardless of their status, are engrossed in such writings that depict bribery of the clergy, desecration of sacred rites, and the utmost in extravagant depravity, where will their souls fall? And where will our authority reside?!"
Father Marcel lowered his head, his gaze falling on the bishop's meticulously polished, spotless leather shoes. He skillfully turned, freeing himself from the bishop's hands: "As you say, this... this text is indeed full of dangerous toxins, and it is worrying."
Bishop Gibert thought of the subtle changes that the jokes about clergymen in The Clamor had brought about in him over the past few months. He licked his thick lips, revealing an ambiguous smile, but his voice once again became high-pitched: "Worry? No, Pierre, this is already war!"
His well-tailored purple cassock, symbolizing holiness and authority, trembled with his body, and the golden cross on his chest gleamed in the light: "A war against God, against the Church, against the pure hearts of France!
We must fight back! We must uproot this cancer!"
Bishop Gibert's eyes sharpened. The secular pleasure he had derived from reading "city anecdotes" was ten minutes ago; now he was replaced by a grander, more "sacred" ambition.
He leaned behind Father Marcel, his breath on the young junior's ear, and his tone suddenly dropped, speaking in a voice that was almost tender: "Marcel, my dear child, would you be willing to contribute to winning this war for us?"
Father Marcel hastily turned again, facing Bishop Gibert: "At... at your service!"
Bishop Gibert revealed an inexplicable smile: "It's not difficult—this afternoon, take my letter of introduction to the police station, find Chief Gigo, and hand him the letter.
At the same time, you must tell him—" At this point, Bishop Gibert suddenly straightened up, spreading his arms like the compassionate saints in the oil painting behind him.
"Out of deep concern for public order, good morals, and the spiritual health of the next generation of France, I, on behalf of the Church, strongly hope that the Paris Police Department will take action as soon as possible, and must, with swift and decisive measures, trace the source of such poisonous books.
The Church will constantly monitor the progress of this matter and is willing to fully support him, spiritually and morally, in his sacred duty to maintain the pure hearts of the capital of France."
Then he lowered his hands and stared into Father Marcel's eyes: "Can you do it, my child!"
Father Marcel was sweating profusely, barely managing to steady himself: "Yes... yes, I will do my best not to disappoint you, Your Grace. May I... may I take this book with me?
Otherwise, Chief Gigo might not even know what the decadent city is."
Bishop Gibert's face showed a mocking expression: "He doesn't know? Believe me, Marcel, if there's only one person in Paris who has this book, it's him!"
Marcel humbly lowered his head: "Understood, Your Grace."
Bishop Gibert waved his hand, signaling Marcel to leave, as he needed a good rest.
— — — — — —
...So, gentlemen, the birth of the old guard was not born from a grand historical proposition, at least not initially. It stemmed from a... almost physiological visual impact.
That was in the Alps, a world starkly different from the bustle of Paris, rough and real. In a small tavern permeated with the smell of cheap gin and inexpensive pickled olives, everyone could see 'him'—
An old soldier, wearing faded, worn-out clothes but striving to maintain a certain demeanor. He stood outside the counter, drinking the cheapest wine with the workers in their coarse short jackets. Every wrinkle on his face was etched with the smoke of past battles and the struggles of the present.
He was an anachronistic ghost, a living specimen forgotten at the edge of time."
Lionel stood in the center of the living room, speaking in a calm, steady tone.
This living room was not large; apart from a sofa and some clumsy European-imagined Chinese-style furniture and porcelain, there was only a huge desk piled with books, manuscripts, and trinkets, though at the moment, the desk was covered with a red cloth.
The room was filled with the rich smoke of cigars, the scent of leather and paper from old books, the fireplace crackled softly, and the heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn, allowing the daylight from outside to illuminate every corner along with the gas wall lamps inside.
On the sofas around Lionel, sat several gentlemen of varying ages; together, they could constitute half of 19th-century French literature.
This was "Flaubert's Sunday," and also Lionel Sorel's debut night at the Parisian salon feast that would go down in literary and art history.