Early the next morning, the luxurious editor-in-chief's office of Le Figaro, with its deep crimson carpet, received a letter from Lionel.
Editor-in-chief Armand de Lamotte sat behind a large mahogany desk and cut open the seal with a delicate pair of scissors.
He had been waiting for a letter from this young man for nearly two months.
The editor of Le Figaro's "Literary Supplement" had sent two sincere invitations to contribute, but not only did he not receive an enthusiastic response, he instead saw two of Lionel's new works published in Modern Life and Le Petit Parisien respectively.
This was an unprecedented disgrace for Le Figaro.
Which French writer wouldn't be proud to have their work published in Le Figaro?
Lionel not only failed to cherish this opportunity but instead catered to the vulgar commoners of Le Petit Parisien, which was utterly unwise.
A single critique from Jules Claretie, and this arrogant young man offered up his "precious" writing.
Armand could already imagine Lionel humbly apologizing to him in this letter, hoping Le Figaro would show leniency.
Although Jules Claretie primarily focused on music and theater, the sharpness of his pen often determined the success or failure of a concert or a play.
To have him chastise a budding young man like Lionel was truly overkill.
Armand casually drew out the letter and began to read.
He first saw the line, "I must thank you, for you have unwittingly handed the most moving key to this novel into the hands of my readers," and smiled.
This young man was quite polite after all!
But soon, "the cry of a freak shakes our conscience more profoundly than the cry of a holy infant," made his expression change.
As he read further, Armand de Lamotte's face grew increasingly grim, but by the time he finished the entire letter, he actually shouted,
"Good!"
He then realized his slip of the tongue; how could he cheer for an "enemy"? — Fortunately, there was no one else present.
But he couldn't help but pick up the letter and read it again.
Then he sighed, shook the bell on his desk, and called his assistant:
"Please invite Monsieur Jules Claretie to my office."
After the assistant left, Editor-in-chief Lamotte rubbed his throbbing temples, trying to remain calm.
Even if he disliked, or even detested, Lionel, he had to admit that this letter was... exceptionally brilliant.
It wasn't just because of its tight logic and progressive arguments, but also because Lionel employed a method of debate never before seen in French literary polemics.
He actually began by acknowledging the term "freak show" that his opponent used to attack him, cleverly elevating the concept and transforming it into a profound exploration of human complexity and historical absurdity.
It was like a duel where both parties agreed to stand back-to-back, walk ten paces, turn, and shoot, but when Le Figaro turned around, they found Lionel standing right behind them.
The letter was not only rich in citations and beautifully written, but also full of undeniable eloquent power and compassion for the disadvantaged, extending Claretie's questioning of the novel itself into a contempt for the weak.
This wasn't even the most fatal aspect — the most fatal was that Lionel even showed a tolerance akin to an adult tolerating a mischievous child's crying, as if he, not Claretie, were the elder.
Especially the line, "Freaks do not create ugliness; they merely expose ugliness," and the poetic yet subtly sharp ending, "A freak is but a line of poetry miswritten by fate; and love, with clumsy rhymes, will set it right," were simply strokes of genius.
This depth of thought and mastery of language far exceeded what a young man in his early twenties should possess, and was far superior to Claretie's emotional, labeling critique.
While he was thinking, a knock came at the office door, and Jules Claretie entered.
This formidable figure in the critical world, with his incisive rhetoric, was in his prime, his eyes full of confidence and determination.
Editor-in-chief Lamotte handed him the letter:
"Take a look. Lionel Sorel submitted this today."
Jules Claretie gave a scornful smile, took the letter, sat comfortably on a sofa, lit a cigar, and then began to read.
But soon his arrogance and composure vanished.
He clutched the sides of the letter with both hands, his cigar rested on the ashtray, and his eyes grew wider and wider.
After finishing the letter, he roared at Editor-in-chief Lamotte like a wounded, enraged lion:
"Arrogance! Shamelessness! A mere wet-behind-the-ears youth dares to lecture me like this! Who does he think he is? Hugo? Balzac?"
Claretie's voice trembled slightly with anger, saliva almost spraying onto the desk:
"This is a blatant provocation! An insult to Le Figaro! A blasphemy against the orthodoxy of French literature!"
Lamotte's voice carried a hint of weariness:
"Calm down, Jules. You have to admit, this letter... is very powerful."
Claretie suddenly stopped, incredulous:
"Powerful? You call this 'powerful'? This is sophistry! It's pandering to the crowd! He uses flowery rhetoric and feigned profound concepts to mask the poor quality of his work and its essence of catering to the vulgar masses!
We cannot publish it! Absolutely not! This would be tantamount to admitting that our previous criticism was wrong, and giving this literary opportunist a stage to perform on!"
Editor-in-chief Lamotte fell into deep thought.
Claretie's concerns were not unfounded.
Le Figaro's conservative stance and elitist posture were its foundation for survival.
Publishing such a rebuttal letter, which completely refuted and arguably spiritually crushed the associate editor of their column, was tantamount to self-destruction.
This would severely damage the newspaper's authority and cause Claretie, their highly esteemed critic, to lose face.
But should they really reject it?
This letter would soon appear in other newspapers, and the consequences would be equally dire.
Lionel Sorel had obviously anticipated this, which was why he "politely" submitted it to them.
Editor-in-chief Lamotte's voice was a bit hoarse:
"He has given us a difficult problem. Publish it, and we are embarrassed; don't publish it, and we appear cowardly and closed-minded."
Claretie was still very agitated:
"So what? We are Le Figaro, we have our pride!"
Lamotte sighed:
"Jules, times have changed. Look at the sales of Le Petit Parisien — Lionel Sorel is the apple of their eye.
Behind him stand Georges Charpentier, and people like Flaubert and Zola..."
Claretie's voice was already a bit hoarse:
"So we should admit our mistake to him? Ha, should I write him a letter of apology?"
Lamotte was silent for a long time, finally making a difficult decision.
He picked up the original letter:
"Jules, for the newspaper's reputation, and for your personal... dignity, we will not publish this letter.
You must immediately prepare a new critical article, targeting the content of the new serialization of The Benjamin Bouton Affair, with a more powerful critique! Seize upon his plot holes, or his moral ambiguities!
This time, be more logical and well-substantiated, to avoid giving him another handle to use against us!"
Jules Claretie nodded heavily and hurried out of the editor-in-chief's office.
(End of this chapter)
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