When Jules Claretie arrived at the Le Figaro building, he found that the lights in editor-in-chief Armand de Lamotte's office were also still on.
He wasn't too surprised; instead, filled with fear, frustration, and bewilderment, he pushed open the door to the editor-in-chief's office.
Seeing it was him, Lamotte quickly shoved a manuscript page he was writing on the desk into a drawer, then forced a smile and said,
"Mr. Claretie, have you made up your mind?"
Jules Claretie didn't want to recount his recent experience; he simply nodded gravely and asked,
"I've figured out how to write it to meet General Martial de Montprey's requirements... Please give me paper and a pen; I'll write it here."
Editor-in-chief Lamotte hurriedly pulled out a stack of manuscript paper and handed over his ink bottle and quill pen as well.
Jules Claretie wasted no words; he took the paper and pen, sat down opposite Lamotte, and began writing furiously.
Editor-in-chief Lamotte did not disturb him, but quietly watched the pale face of his star writer, wondering what had made his attitude suddenly so proactive.
As editor-in-chief of Le Figaro, Lamotte was not without his pride, but it was clear that General Martial de Montprey's influence could greatly diminish that pride.
Le Figaro could point fingers and curse French parliament members, ministers, and even the president, because being criticized was, after all, part of their job, and readers would cheer when they saw it.
The veteran community, however, was different; whether conservative or republican, both had to, at least nominally, maintain respect for them.
Lamotte hadn't expected that criticizing a young writer would provoke such a fierce backlash, and he couldn't help but feel a little regretful.
As they spoke, Jules Claretie's article was finished.
His handwriting was very scrawled, making his inner anxiety and tension evident.
But as a senior editor-in-chief of the newspaper, Lamotte still easily understood the content:
[A Necessary Correction – To Mr. Lionel Sorel
If anyone had told me that I would mention your name three times in public newspapers within a week, I would surely have dismissed it as a rumor;
If someone had predicted that one of those instances would be me personally writing words of praise, I would probably have advised them to seek treatment at a mental institution.
Yet today, I willingly take up my pen, for truth and conscience—two judges more severe than any literary theory—have compelled me to break my silence.
I confess that my previous article, "Double Betrayal," was written with excessive harshness, and some of its phrasing bordered on a moralistic diatribe.
I completely overlooked that you once comforted France's forgotten wounded soldiers with "The Old Guard," dissected the most subtle folds of a woman's heart with "A Letter from an Unknown Woman," and awakened the initial sympathy for suffering in children's eyes with "My Uncle Jules."
By these three works alone, you have already proven your love for France, for literature, and your guardianship of moral order.
Reflecting today, my criticisms of you certainly contained too many "echoes" but lacked sufficient "ears."
I will not retract the questions I once posed: questions themselves are not wrong; the error lies in the tone.
I cannot deny an entire cathedral merely for questioning a single brick.
Therefore, please allow me to withdraw those judgments that might have obscured readers' views, while retaining my initial and eternally valid respect—that feeling of profound emotion I experienced when reading your debut work, "The Old Guard."
If my words have ever created a rift between you and your readers, may this brief note today be the first stitch to mend that divide.
For me, this matter concludes here.
As for the future, I hope we shall still meet again on paper—whether side by side or in opposition—but please believe, it will invariably be within the same arena, under the same light.
Sincerely,
With respect and apology,
Jules Claretie]
After reading the entire letter, Editor-in-chief Lamotte breathed a sigh of relief, his expression softened, and the smile on his face finally became natural and sincere:
"Claretie, beautifully written! I believe our readers will only have more respect for you because of this."
This last remark was, of course, meant to comfort, but Jules Claretie was no longer in the mood to return the compliment.
Instead, he hurriedly asked,
"Can it be published tomorrow?"
Editor-in-chief Lamotte nodded:
"I'll hand it over to the typesetter shortly."
Only then did Jules Claretie breathe a sigh of relief.
After bidding farewell to Lamotte, he left the editor-in-chief's office distractedly.
After his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, Editor-in-chief Lamotte took out the manuscript page he had just been writing from his drawer, glanced at it twice, and continued to write:
[...I hereby publicly invite submissions from Mr. Lionel Sorel and people from all walks of life:
Should you be willing to contribute an article to Le Figaro's literary supplement, the length, genre, and theme are entirely at your discretion.
This newspaper will reserve ample, most prominent space to welcome the freest of thoughts.
Armand de Lamotte]
————
When Lionel saw the latest issue of Le Figaro, he was preparing to hand over the rebuttal article he had just written to Alice for transcription, intending to continue sending it to La République.
For him, Jules Claretie's criticism not only posed no threat but was instead an opportunity to enhance his reputation and boost the visibility of "Benjamin Boudin's Affair."
Unexpectedly, the other party had ceased hostilities so quickly, even with a hint of capitulation.
Although Jules Claretie declared, "I will not retract the questions I once posed" and "questions themselves are not wrong; the error lies in the tone," a careful consideration would reveal his eagerness to seek peace.
"How boring..."
Lionel muttered, putting the manuscript back into the drawer.
The other party had capitulated; if he continued to "pursue and attack," it would instead make people think he lacked grace, and public opinion would then turn against him.
Even if he was reluctant, Lionel could only "sheathe his sword."
But even though he had stopped, it didn't mean others had—especially those manuscripts already written and submitted to editorial departments; it was already too late to stop them even if they wanted to.
La République, Le Petit Parisien, Le Petit Journal, Le Matin... these rivals of Le Figaro successively published several articles criticizing Jules Claretie within a mere three days, all with quite sharp wording.
For instance, Le Petit Parisien's "Echoes" column published an article signed "Paul Alésic," which contained a sentence:
["Le Figaro habitually wears two faces: one bowing to power, the other glaring at art; when their pages need sales, they open their velvet embrace; when their dogmas are questioned, they bare bloody fangs."]
This quote spread widely, giving Parisians their initial impression of the name.
An article signed "Joris-Karl Huysmans," published in Le Matin, was even more imposing:
["If Le Figaro truly believes that 'sacred order' can become a literary injunction, then it had better also ban steam engines, ban railways, ban all new things that make the old world tremble—for the nineteenth century itself is the greatest offense against 'sacred order'."]
And the most brilliant satire came from "Guy de Maupassant," this young man who had repeatedly submitted articles to Le Figaro, who this time hurled his sharpest javelin at his "dream publication":
["Mr. Claretie and Le Figaro always love to invoke the name of God, as if the Creator left them a spare key in heaven...
Please remember, you are merely someone who coughs loudly in the corridor, yet blames the echo for being too noisy...
I'd like to give Mr. Claretie a small copper coin; I hear you've finally learned to bow instead of crack the whip—very good, here's this copper coin for you to buy some candy."]
Jules Claretie had criticized Maupassant's play titled "Old Story" a few months prior, so Maupassant's piece carried a bit of personal grudge.
Since its transformation in the 1870s, Le Figaro had not experienced such concentrated attacks.
For a time, its reputation and sales both plummeted, and it could only silently lick its wounds in a corner.
And "Lionel and his friends" became a small group hotly discussed in Parisian literary circles.
Lionel also earned a new nickname—"The young man who single-handedly defeated Le Figaro."
(End of this chapter)
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