đMerry Christmas!!!
đThis week, I will be uploading 2 chapters per day as an early Christmas gift to you all!
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Jules Claretie immediately went from feeling smug to being full of suspicion.
He noticed that editor-in-chief Armand de La Motte had lost his usual composure, and even showed a rare hint of awkwardness.
Editor-in-chief La Motte stood up, cleared his throat, and said in a dry voice:
"Jules, you're here. Let me introduce youâthis is the director of Les Invalides in Paris, the president of the French Association of Disabled Veterans, General Edmond Charles de Martimprey."
The figure slowly turned around, and Claretie finally saw his appearance clearly.
The general was over seventy, with white hair and beard.
His hawkish eyes were sharp as knives, and half of one ear was missing.
His chest was adorned with glittering medals, silently recounting past glory and the price paid in blood.
General Martimprey did not stand up; he merely swept his authoritative gaze over Claretie, giving a slight nod, which served as his greeting.
Claretie involuntarily tensed his body.
"General!"
Claretie saluted respectfully, though his mind was still teeming with doubtsâwhy would such an important figure suddenly visit the editorial office of Le Figaro?
Editor-in-chief La Motte spoke with difficulty:
"His Excellency the General, on behalf of the French Association of Disabled Veterans, has expressed... deep concern regarding some of the commentary articles recently published in our newspaper."
He pushed yesterday's copy of Le Figaro, which contained Claretie's article, forward on the desk.
General Martimprey slowly spoke, his voice deep:
"Monsieur La Motte, Monsieur Claretie. I am here today, not as a general or a director, but as an ordinary old soldier, a wounded veteran."
Claretie was still bewildered but remained polite:
"Your service to France is admirable!"
General Martimprey shook his head:
"I merely have a few bullet wounds and lost half an ear to shrapnel... But my menâ"
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 Algerian sun, some suffered frostbite to their hands in the severe cold of Crimea...
They now live under the roof of Les Invalides, or are scattered across various corners of France, enduring pain and inconvenience unimaginable to ordinary people."
General Martimprey's voice was not loud, but every word carried immense weight, striking the hearts of the two men:
"They are all loyal readers of Lionel Sorel, whom you criticize.
The Old Guard writes about their heartache and suffering! Every wounded soldier who has read it says, 'The old guard, that is me!'
Whether fighting for the Emperor, for the King, or for the Republic! Lionel saw their pain, sorrow, and loneliness, and wrote about it, bringing it to everyone's attention.
Now even the parliament and government are beginning to reconsider pensions for wounded soldiers...
The disabled veterans at Les Invalides and in our 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 describe him!"
Editor-in-chief La Motte quietly took a step back, standing in the shadow of the bookshelf.
Claretie opened his mouth, trying to argue:
"General, we and Lionel are just... just a literary dispute. You know, fiction is a fictional art.
We are merely engaging in a kind of... rather... rather intense academic exchange..."
"Oh, academic exchange?"
The General interrupted him, his tone still steady:
"Are you saying 'blasphemy,' 'transgression,' 'shaking the foundations of faith,' 'corroding social ethics'... and comparing his novel to The Decadent Cityâare all these, hmm, 'academic exchange'?"
Claretie was speechless, unsure how to defend himself.
General Martimprey slowly paced the editor-in-chief's office, his voice deepening:
"A strong young man of twenty, full of life yesterday, but today, due to a cannonball, he lost both his legs and will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair;
A good husband, newly married, with a handsome face, but after a battle, had his ears, nose, and half his lips cut away;
A baker who had just opened his shop, whose dough was so firm and uniform, but a cannonball fell, and only bone fragments remained of his hands...
They are all good sons of France.
If they had not fought for their homeland, they would have had bright futures, just like Lionel.
And you, Monsieur Claretie, seem to want to drag Lionel into a war, bombarding him with the most vicious cannonballs, leaving his reputation dismemberedâand you call it 'academic exchange,' is that right?"
He stopped again in front of Claretie, slightly lowering his head and staring into the other's eyes:
"Literature, I do not understandâbut 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 Martimprey's voice was resolute, without shouting, yet more powerful than any roar.
It was an undeniable ultimatum from an old soldier who had defended the nation's dignity with his life, speaking on behalf of another silent and scarred group.
ââââ
Jules Claretie left Le Figaro feeling distraught and unsteady, even stumbling when getting into his carriage and almost falling.
General Martimprey said nothing specific about what Le Figaro and Jules Claretie should do to end the "war" with Lionelâbut it felt as if he had said everything.
What an old fox...
If General Martimprey had actually specified anything, it would have given him and editor-in-chief La Motte a reason to maneuver.
Things like "freedom of criticism," "press innocence," "literary differences"... Jules Claretie could have sat there and argued for three days and three nights.
But General Martimprey merely "conveyed the widespread concern of the veteran community regarding this matter," leaving no room for refutation.
The cornerstone of Le Figaro was the conservatives, and General Martimprey and the veteran community he represented were precisely the bedrock of the conservatives.
Jules Claretie left La Motte's office with instructions to "resolve the issue as quickly as possible."
He felt physically and mentally exhausted, not even knowing how he got back to his apartment on Ăle Saint-Louis.
Dusk now shrouded the ancient streets, and the Seine flowed quietly beneath the bridges, the scenery as tranquil as a painting by Hermann Carmiencke.
Jules Claretie, however, only wanted to lock himself in his study, to temporarily escape the suffocating sense of shame.
He had made up his mind: he would never apologize! Even if it meant losing his position as chief writer at Le Figaro, he would preserve his pride!
However, as he turned into the alley leading to his apartment building, the sight before him brought him to a sudden halt, a chill rushing from his feet to the top of his head.
At the entrance of his elegant stone apartment building, in the dim light of the streetlamp, a group of people stood silently.
They made no noise, simply stood there in silence, like a group of frozen statues.
One of the men was exceptionally tall, almost touching the alley's ceiling, but his spine was severely curved sideways, his entire body twisted into a massive "S" shape, his head forced to tilt to one side, only able to look ahead with one eye.
There was also a delicate-looking young woman whose half-face was covered with large, dark red, uneven tumors, as if branded with a scalding iron, appearing particularly striking in the dim light.
And a dwarf, no taller than a normal person's calf, with a wrinkled, weathered adult's face.
And a pale-skinned teenager with white hair, 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 gathered silently at Claretie's doorstep, like a barrier.
(End of Chapter)
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