Jules Claretie's self-satisfaction instantly turned into deep suspicion.
He noticed that Editor-in-Chief Armand de La Motte had lost his usual composure, even showing a rare trace of uneasiness.
Editor-in-Chief La Motte stood up, cleared his throat, and said in a dry voice, "Jules, you're here. Let me introduce you—this is General Mattimpres, Director of Les Invalides in Paris and President of the French Association of Disabled Veterans."
The figure slowly turned around, and only then did Claretie get a clear look at him.
The General was over seventy, with white hair and beard. His hawk-like eyes were as sharp as knives, and half of one ear was missing; his chest was covered in shining medals, silently recounting past glories and the cost of battle.
General Mattimpres did not stand up; he merely swept his authoritative gaze over Claretie, giving a slight nod as a greeting.
Claretie involuntarily tensed his body.
"Your Excellency, General!" Claretie saluted respectfully, though his mind was still filled with doubts—why would such an important figure suddenly visit the "Le Figaro" editorial office?
Editor-in-Chief La Motte spoke with difficulty, "Your Excellency, General, on behalf of the French Association of Disabled Veterans, has expressed… deep concern regarding certain commentary articles recently published in our newspaper."
He pushed the copy of "Le Figaro" from yesterday, which contained Claretie's article, forward on the table.
General Mattimpres slowly began to speak, his voice low: "Mr. La Motte, Mr. Claretie. I am here today not as a general or a director, but as an ordinary old soldier, a wounded old soldier."
Claretie was still confused but remained polite: "Your contributions to France are admirable!"
General Mattimpres shook his head: "I merely have a few bullet wounds and half an ear blown off by shrapnel… but my subordinates—"
He pushed his chair back and stood up, towering over Claretie like a majestic mountain:
"Among them, some lost their legs in the mud of Waterloo, some had their eyes taken by bullets under the scorching sun of Algeria, some had their hands frozen off in the bitter cold of Crimea…
They now live under the roof of Les Invalides, or are scattered in various corners of France, enduring suffering and inconvenience beyond imagination."
General Mattimpres's voice was not loud, but every word carried immense weight, striking at the hearts of both men:
"They are all loyal readers of Lionel Sorel, whom you criticized. 'the old guard' wrote about their sorrow and hardship! Every wounded soldier who read it said, 'the old guard, that's me!'
Whether fighting for the Emperor, or for the King, or for the Republic! Lionel saw their pain, sorrow, and loneliness, and wrote it down, drawing everyone's attention.
Now even the Parliament and the government are reconsidering pensions for wounded soldiers… The disabled veterans at our Les Invalides and the Association all say Lionel is a good boy and want to find an opportunity to thank him properly.
Yes, Lionel is indeed a good boy, upright, kind, and compassionate. He is absolutely not the villain who undermines the order and morality of France, as you portray him!"
Editor-in-Chief La Motte quietly took a step back, standing in the shadow of the bookshelf.
Claretie, however, opened his mouth, attempting to defend himself: "Your Excellency, General, we and Lionel are just… just a literary debate. You must understand, novels are a fictional art.
We are merely engaging in a… rather… intense academic exchange…"
"Oh, academic exchange?" The General interrupted him, his tone still steady: "You mean 'blasphemy,' 'usurpation,' 'shaking the foundations of faith,' 'corrupting social ethics'… and comparing his novel to 'the decadent city'—these are all, hmm, 'academic exchanges'?"
Claretie was speechless, unsure how to defend himself.
General Mattimpres slowly paced around the editor-in-chief's office, his voice deepening: "A twenty-year-old fine young man, full of life yesterday, but today, because of a cannonball, he lost both legs and can only rely on a wheelchair for the rest of his life;
A good husband who just got married, with a handsome face, but after a battle, his ears, nose, and half his lips were torn away;
A baker who just opened a shop, whose dough was so firm and even, but a cannonball fell, and only bone fragments remained of his hands…
They are all good sons of France, and if not for fighting for their homeland, they would have a bright future, just like Lionel.
And you, Mr. Claretie, seem to want to drag Lionel into a war, bombarding him with the most malicious cannonballs, leaving his reputation missing limbs—and you call it 'academic exchange,' is that right?"
He stopped again in front of Claretie, lowering his head slightly and staring into the other's eyes: "Literature, I do not understand—but I understand the hearts of those old soldiers in Les Invalides.
After reading your article, they wanted to come to "Le Figaro" to protest yesterday, but I stopped them. So, today, I am standing here! I hope the war between you and Lionel can end immediately."
General Mattimpres's voice was decisive; there was no shouting, yet it carried more power than any shout.
It was an unquestionable ultimatum from an old soldier who had defended the nation's dignity with his life, representing another silent and scarred group.
— — — —
Jules Claretie left "Le Figaro" somewhat disoriented, his steps unsteady, even stumbling when getting into his carriage and almost falling.
What "Le Figaro" and Jules Claretie specifically needed to do to end the "war" with Lionel, General Mattimpres said nothing about until he left—yet it was as if he had said everything.
What a seasoned old fox…
If General Mattimpres had actually said something specific, it would have given him and Editor-in-Chief La Motte grounds for negotiation.
Things like "freedom of criticism," "innocence of the press," "literary differences"… Jules Claretie could have sat there and talked for three days and three nights.
But General Mattimpres merely "conveyed the widespread concern of the veteran community regarding this matter," which left no room for rebuttal.
The foundation of "Le Figaro" was conservative, and precisely, General Mattimpres and the veteran community he represented were the cornerstone of the conservatives.
Jules Claretie left Armand de La Motte's office with instructions to "resolve the issue as quickly as possible." He felt physically and mentally exhausted, and didn't even know how he returned to his apartment on Île Saint-Louis.
At this time, dusk was falling, enveloping the ancient streets, and the Seine River flowed quietly under the bridge, the scenery as tranquil as a landscape painting by Hermann Carlmienk.
Jules Claretie, however, only wanted to lock himself in his study and temporarily escape the suffocating sense of humiliation.
He had made up his mind: he would never apologize! Even if he lost his position as a chief writer for "Le Figaro," he would preserve his pride!
However, as he turned into the alley leading to his apartment building, the sight before him made him stop abruptly, a chill rushing from his feet to the top of his head.
At the entrance of his elegant stone apartment building, under the dim light of a streetlamp, a group of people stood silently.
They made no noise, just stood there in silence, like a set of frozen statues.
One of the men was unusually tall, almost touching the alley ceiling, but his spine was severely curved, his entire body twisted into a giant "S" shape, his head forced to one side, only able to squint forward with one eye.
There was also a delicate-faced young woman, half of her face covered in large, dark red, uneven tumors, as if branded with a hot iron, appearing particularly glaring in the dim light.
There was also a dwarf, only as tall as a normal person's shin, with a wrinkled, weathered adult face.
And a young man with white hair and skin so pale it was almost transparent, like a ghost in the night.
…
There were about seven or eight people in this group, each with some physical abnormality, but they were silently gathered at Claretie's doorstep, like a barrier.