Just as Professor Taine was angrily denouncing Lionel for spreading rumors and damaging his reputation—
"Achoo... Achoo... Achoo..."
Maupassant awoke from a large bed open on three sides, sneezing several times in a row.
He looked up and saw the mirror on the bed's canopy, identical to the bed itself.
He remembered the enchanting scene from last night, and couldn't help but feel parched.
He pushed aside a white arm draped across his chest, threw off the covers, and walked stark naked to the fireplace.
He picked up a cup from a Chinese-style high table and poured himself a large gulp of red wine.
At that moment, sunlight streamed in through the blinds, combining with the gas lamp above the fireplace.
Even though he now only had sight in his right eye, he could still clearly see the bronze animal statues on the mantelpiece, with a sculpture of the Goddess of Abundance in the center.
Next to the large bed were various irregularly shaped, curving loungers and sofas.
In a corner against the wall was a marble-topped dressing table, with exquisite crystal bottles refracting brilliant light.
The entire room was filled with a sweet, alluring, rich fragrance, making one want to simply wallow in this gentle haven and never leave.
Looking at the woman still sleeping soundly on the bed, Maupassant smacked his lips.
He had only one thought:
"High-class prostitutes are truly wonderful!"
Of course, besides being expensive, there were no other flaws.
An entire night of entertainment, food, drinks, plus the cost of a night of passion, had cost him a total of 80 francs, emptying his pockets.
However, thinking that this was his last "free day" before taking up his post at the Ministry of Education, he felt the money he spent was well worth it.
Apart from inexplicably sneezing a few times, which forced him to wake up early, this experience was absolutely perfect, far better than the bumpkins in Normandy.
He pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his coat hanging on a hanger, opened the lid, poured out a few pills, and then took a sip of wine to wash them down.
These pills contained 4 grams of mercury and 30 grams of potassium iodide, used to treat his syphilis.
But Maupassant was not saddened by this—in his heart, syphilis was a noble disease, fit for kings and heroes like "Francis I."
He was proud to have syphilis, rather than bourgeois diseases like gonorrhea or venereal warts!
A little later, the young woman on the bed slowly woke up.
Maupassant, already dressed, dropped a line:
"I have syphilis."
Then, amidst her terrified gaze, he burst into laughter and left.
He was going to attend Madame de Rambouillet's salon tonight.
If he could win her favor, he might have a chance to get her to fund the staging of his play, The Betrayal of Countess Rouen, at the Paris Opéra.
But what topic or story should he use to capture the Marquise's attention?
The story of the poor Sorbonne student confronting the snobbish professor was already in its fourth version, and it was said to have different variations in various salons.
The Marquise had probably heard it, so it wouldn't be fresh...
But his recent life had been truly unremarkable, consisting of nothing but whoring, from the "beer girls" on the street for 10 sous a time, to the "nightingale" last night that cost 80 francs—he couldn't possibly tell the Marquise that he was conducting a survey report on the Parisian prostitution industry, could he?
However, the "nightingale's" life story last night was indeed moving: her father loved gambling and lost all the family property; her mother had tuberculosis and couldn't work; her younger brother was in school and needed tuition...
Although he knew she was fabricating the story, Maupassant, in the heat of the moment, still gave her an extra 10 francs.
Wait, the younger brother was in school?
In the versions he had told, it seemed he hadn't mentioned the background of this poor Sorbonne student?
Inspired, Maupassant became excited again, a sickly flush rising to his face...
————————
In the editorial office of the Sorbonne Academy's journal, the atmosphere was unusually solemn.
After all, this was an incident involving the reputation of a Sorbonne professor, so others dared not mock Taine, but instead offered him comfort.
Editor-in-chief Professor Gaston Boissier frowned:
"Are you sure the rumors were spread by Lionel?"
Hippolyte Taine angrily tossed his head: "Who else would be so bored besides him? Heh, a poor student from the Alps, outstanding in scholarship, rebelling against authority—that's a good way to break into high society.
Henri wants him to participate in the 'poetry club'; I suppose some noble lady has taken a fancy to him!"
Gaston Boissier remained noncommittal after hearing this.
He felt that his old friend and colleague was currently in a fit of anger and lacked reason.
He glanced at the manuscript on the table with some difficulty, and hesitated for a moment before saying,
"If we are to reject Henri's recommendation for him, we must at least give sufficient reasons.
Shall we still take a look at this manuscript?
It's just a short story, it won't take much time."
The others exchanged glances, thinking this was also a solution, both saving their colleague's face and not embarrassing the dean.
Seeing no objections, Gaston Boissier picked up the manuscript and quickly skimmed through it—in his mind, while students of the Faculty of Arts were not without talent, most were very immature.
He could almost immediately spot problems—
[The layout of Alpine taverns is different from elsewhere: they all have an L-shaped bar facing the street...]
Hmm, this is a traditional short story opening, first clearly setting the environment where the story takes place.
This is a tradition left by Balzac, allowing readers who have not been to the Alps to quickly build the scene in their minds.
The technique isn't novel, but to be as refined, concise, accurate, and yet vivid, with almost no wasted words, as this story—that's another matter entirely.
Has this child also studied Flaubert?
Gaston Boissier became serious.
He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and brought the manuscript closer to clearly see every word.
His body language also aroused the curiosity of the other editorial board members, after all, this indicated the importance that this Academician of the French Academy attached to this manuscript—could it be that Lionel Sorel's writing was actually quite good?
And Gaston Boissier was already completely immersed in the world of the novel.
When he read the description, ["The Old Guard" was the only one who drank standing up and wore a woolen coat...], he couldn't help but let out a soft sigh.
He knew that this short sentence not only precisely outlined the image of "The Old Guard" but also left the reader with a certain suspense.
Only a first-rate writer could pen such a sentence.
When he saw "The Old Guard" sharing his few olives with the children, and then eagerly wanting to teach "me" four ways to process game, Gaston Boissier was moved again.
"The Old Guard" at this moment was no longer a Napoleon worshipper full of vices, arrogant and pedantic, but a kind old man with a good-hearted, tender side.
This person suddenly came alive, possessing a weighty sense of reality, as if he were one of those disheartened people one might see in a tavern.
After finishing the last sentence of the story, [I have not seen him since—perhaps the Old Guard is indeed dead.],
Gaston Boissier finally came back to his senses, but he did not immediately comment.
Instead, he closed his eyes, as if savoring the complex feelings the story brought him.
Opening his eyes, Gaston Boissier earnestly said to Hippolyte Taine:
"Perhaps you should read this short story first, and then make a decision?"
Hippolyte Taine looked incredulously at his old friend across the conference table, then suddenly picked up his walking stick from beside his chair, sharply tapped it on the floor, stood up, and turned to leave the office, leaving only one sentence:
"I have invited the great Monsieur Victor Hugo to review the works for this issue.
Let him decide whether Lionel is qualified to be published in the journal!"
Maupassant's letter to a friend:
...In short, for these 5 weeks, I have been taking 4 grams of mercury and 30 grams of potassium iodide daily, and I feel much better.
Soon, mercury became my staple food. My hair started to grow... hair on my buttocks is growing...
I have syphilis!
Finally!
It really is syphilis!
Not the dismissive gonorrhea, cauliflower, etc., it's syphilis, Francis I died of syphilis.
Majestic syphilis, pure and simple; beautiful syphilis...
I have syphilis...
I feel very proud, to hell with the bourgeois.
Hallelujah, I have syphilis, so I no longer have to worry about being infected by others, after being with prostitutes and loose women on the street, I tell them: 'I have syphilis.'
They are all terrified, and I just laugh.
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$10 -> 300+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon