"Professors, young Mr. Sorel—
Debt!
A word heavier and more inescapable than any crown, any code, any bank account! What is history?
It is not just the monuments of emperors and nobles, the bugle calls of battles, the ink of treaties!
It is, moreover, a path paved by the silent skeletons of those crushed by the chariots of their era, incited by grand slogans, lured by promised glory, only to be cast aside like worn-out shoes!
Look at this 'Old Guard'! He was once a lion under the emperor, fighting for France's eagle standard under the sun of Austerlitz!
His chest once burned with the cry of 'Long Live the Emperor!'
But when the empire fell, when the royal banners changed, when a new era strode proudly forward… what did he get?
It was oblivion! It was poverty!
It was the jeers in taverns!
It was the omnipresent gaze of secret police!
Ultimately… it was crawling on his hands through the winter mud like an old dog with a broken leg!"
Hugo seemed to have shed more than twenty years, returning to his glorious years—after Napoleon III's restoration, he delivered his final speech and then resolutely embarked on an exile that lasted a full twenty years before he returned to France.
At this moment, he was like an old lion, white-haired and bearded, yet still majestic as a mountain.
Hugo fixed his gaze on Lionel, his tone becoming heavy and emotional:
"The greatness of The Old Guard stems precisely from Mr. Sorel's insight, from his precise capture of that last flicker of unyielding dignity amidst the dust.
Mr. Sorel, the tavern lad you depicted is not inherently callous; he is both the product and the accomplice of this oblivion!
His numbness is precisely a microcosm of society as a whole—a collective evasion of historical debt!"
Lionel bowed his head slightly in response to Hugo's gaze, expressing gratitude and respect.
Hugo also left his seat and began pacing in this room, once the Scriptorium of the Sorbonne Faculty of Theology.
Under the gaze of the saints in the stained-glass windows, his voice resonated like a great bell, reverberating:
"France is sick—sick with a habituation to suffering, a blindness to injustice, a complacency towards its victims.
The Old Guard is a sharp blade plunged into the ailing body of the era.
It reminds us that a nation that only knows how to advance but not how to look back, a republic that only praises victors but is ashamed to embrace the vanquished, is lame, is incomplete!
True progress must be built upon the memory of its victims and the defense of the dignity of the lowliest!
Gentlemen, remember this debt.
Only by remembering are we worthy of a future!"
After Hugo finished his last sentence, he did not return to his seat.
Instead, he shook Lionel's hand and then left the editorial office.
The room was utterly silent, as if even breathing had ceased.
Hugo's words, like a roar from the depths of the soul, resonated profoundly within the soul of every listener.
Professor Gaston Boissier knew that any debate about skill or ghostwriting seemed so tiny and insignificant at this moment.
There would be no further dissent regarding the authorship of The Old Guard.
Otherwise, it would be an insult to the entire Sorbonne Faculty of Letters and to Victor Hugo.
But he still had to complete the final procedure:
"Ladies and gentlemen, does anyone still have any doubts about Lionel's authorship of the novel The Old Guard?"
After a polite pause of a few seconds, he eagerly announced the result:
"Very well, the inquiry is hereby concluded!
Congratulations to Mr. Lionel Sorel for proving his talent and credibility."
He then turned to Lionel:
"Your performance today was excellent…
Hm, regarding 'spectators' and 'collective unconsciousness,' if you have time, you could elaborate on them.
I believe more than one person here is interested.
All right, you can return to your class now."
Feeling relieved, Lionel first bowed to Professor Gaston Boissier, then to everyone at the conference table, and turned to leave.
Just then, Stéphane Mallarmé's languid voice spoke up:
"Hey, Lionel, if you're interested, I have a small salon every Tuesday evening at 112 Rue de Rome in the 8th arrondissement.
You're welcome to join anytime."
Mallarmé's words caused a stir in the room.
As France's most sought-after poet of the day, Mallarmé inviting Lionel to his salon was a significant signal.
Hearing this, Lionel turned back:
"Thank you, Mr. Mallarmé, it would be my honor!"
Only then did he leave the editorial office.
On his way back to the classroom, free from the professors' gaze, Lionel allowed himself a small inward leap of joy, not only for Hugo's recognition but also for Mallarmé's invitation.
That was 'Mallarmé's Tuesdays'!
One of France's most renowned cultural and artistic salons of the late 19th century, its participants included not only poets like Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud but also other artists.
For instance, the musician Debussy, painters Monet and Gauguin, and sculptor Rodin were all honored guests at 'Mallarmé's Tuesdays'.
This was also an admission ticket, signifying that the Parisian art world was beginning to accept Lionel Sorel, the newcomer—though his official entry into this salon would require a slight wait; he couldn't just eagerly show up the very next evening…
Back in the classroom, Professor Taine was still lecturing.
Upon seeing Lionel, he showed no particular expression, but merely waved him in to take his seat.
---
Over the next few days, Lionel's life was uneventful.
During the day, he attended classes at the Sorbonne; in the evenings, he holed up in his new apartment at 12 Rue d'Antin, writing The Decadent City.
Since the first ten chapters, which were related to Water Margin, were omitted, the progress was not slow.
In just over a week, Lionel had completed roughly a fifth, and the decadent, luxurious, and corrupt worldview built around the protagonist 'Gérard Simons' gradually took shape.
[Gérard Simons' mansion, like a colossal beast wallowing in a mire of extravagance, exhaled the scent of desire day and night. …
Simons was surrounded by people, like a bull crashing into a flock of swans—burly, energetic, with an undisguised, almost crude smugness.
He wore an overly ornate, almost vulgar, velvet coat, and the massive gem rings on his fingers glittered in the candlelight.
At the time, he was spouting excitedly about his newly acquired mansion in Lyon, rumored to rival a small Versailles in scale, boasting about the astonishing profits he had amassed from colonial trade, and how he had paved his way with gold louis to eventually knock on the royal family's door and secure the coveted tax-farming rights. …
"Gold, my dear friends!"
I remember him raising a glass of deep red wine then, his voice booming over the orchestra, his face flushed with wine and self-satisfaction.
"Gold is the sweetest music, the mightiest power!
It can buy anything!"
His small, covetous eyes swept across the room, finally resting on a few young, beautiful female guests, with undisguised, naked possessiveness. …]
Immediately following were several scenes of his intimate encounters with mistresses, but Lionel was careful here—just like the passage he showed Gabriel, he replaced the most crucial content with "□□□ (XX lines deleted here)."
As for the "□□□", he wrote them on separate manuscript paper…
By Friday, something new finally happened in the Faculty of Letters classroom—Albert de Rohan, who hadn't shown his face for several days, and his retinue had actually come to class.
However, he was paler than before, as if he had just recovered from a severe illness.
His followers, too, had lost their former arrogance, drooping their heads like frost-bitten eggplants.
Seeing Lionel enter the classroom, Albert stood up.
(End of this chapter)
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