Claretie's heart almost stopped, his blood instantly congealed.
He wanted to retreat, to escape, but his legs felt like lead.
He wanted to yell, to drive them away, but his throat felt as if an invisible hand was strangling it.
General Mattimprey's voice still echoed in his ears; but the scene before him directly shattered his mental defenses!
At this moment, the unusually tall, distorted man spoke in a terrifyingly calm voice:
"Mr. Claretie?"
Claretie nodded instinctively, unable to utter a sound.
"We are all Paris's 'freaks,'"
The man continued, his voice devoid of angry accusation, filled only with emotions as heavy as lead.
"We are the people you and your newspaper refer to with the word 'freak' in your articles.
We're not here to cause trouble either. Mr. Lionel Sorell said in his article, 'Freaks don't create ugliness; they merely expose it.'
We bear his words in mind. So, we choose to stand here, not with ugly violence, but with our very existence.
You don't need to think about calling the police – your wife already tried, but the police have no right to stop a group of citizens from standing on a public road in Paris!"
At this moment, a young woman whose half-face was covered in red tumors took a small step forward, her voice trembling:
"Mr. Claretie, you called Benjamin Bouton a 'freak,' and his story 'blasphemous' and 'subversive.'
But do you know? When we read about Benjamin in Le Petit Parisien, we cried.
We saw ourselves in him! We saw how we were rejected and ridiculed because of our appearance!
We also saw how he longed to be understood and accepted, until Delphine saw his 'sparkling, cat-like eyes'!
We also hoped to meet a 'Delphine' – and now we know, Mr. Sorell is our 'Delphine.'"
At this point, her emotions became agitated, and she pointed to the red tumors on her face:
"Do you think this is ugly? Yes, it is ugly! But beneath this ugly skin, my heart, just like yours, beats and yearns for love!
You only see the superficial appearance of a 'freak' and are quick to deny its meaning of existence, quick to label it 'blasphemous.'
But Mr. Sorell saw the struggle, loneliness, and longing for warmth beneath the 'freak's' exterior!
He is speaking out for people like us! Yet you are silencing him, and by doing so, you are silencing every heart that might understand us!"
Jules Claretie had not expected things to escalate to this point, and he hastily denied:
"No... I didn't... I'm not..."
But his usual eloquent tongue was now unable to utter any moving words; fear, hesitation, and bewilderment filled his mind.
He suddenly thought of Lionel's recent 'nickname' – 'the Conscience of the Sorbonne.'
The last person in France to be called 'the Conscience' was Mr. Hugo – 'the Conscience of France.'
He thought of the grand spectacle when Mr. Hugo returned to Paris from Guernsey, the thunderous shouts, the tidal crowds...
He was startled and alarmed – Lionel now had behind him not just a few publishers and writers, but two highly motivated groups, united by shared suffering and a sense of injury.
Flaubert wrote Madame Bovary, but it wouldn't make lonely and secluded wives in the French countryside shout for him;
Alexandre Dumas fils wrote La Dame aux Camélias, but it wouldn't make the hedonistic courtesans of Paris march for him;
But Mr. Hugo wrote The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and Les Misérables, and that truly would make gypsies and ex-convicts like 'Jean Valjean' do something for him.
Lionel's The Old Guard and The Curious Case of Benjamin Bouton had similar effects, and were even more likely to stir people's hearts because the groups they depicted were more precisely targeted.
General Mattimprey today, and the 'freaks' before him, proved this point.
At this moment, the ghost-like pale youth spoke, his voice bitter:
"We were born this way, or fate played a trick on us to become this way. When did we ever wish to 'blaspheme' anything?
We only want to live, to live with dignity! It is you who constantly remind us that we are 'freaks,' that we 'shouldn't exist'!
Mr. Sorell, through Benjamin Bouton's story, tells the world that even the most 'grotesque' lives have their value, and the right to be understood and loved!
And you, Mr. Claretie, you and your articles, are tearing our hearts apart!"
The youth's skin was almost transparently pale under the streetlight; he stood silently, his voice as soft as a sigh, yet capable of piercing the soul.
The dwarf spoke; he moved his short legs, trying to stand in the bright spot of the streetlight:
"Mr. Sorell gave us, those whom fate 'wrote wrong,' a little bit of courage and hope to live on.
Yet you want to deny him, to humiliate him, even to put him in the dock for ecclesiastical trial?
Are you going to take away this last glimmer of light from us?"
Just like General Mattimprey earlier today, he didn't roar, his voice was even ridiculously sharp – but Jules Claretie couldn't bring himself to laugh.
He stood before the cold stone steps of the apartment building, facing these dozen-plus pairs of eyes – eyes filled with grief and indignation, accusation, despair, but more than that, an unyielding calm.
They didn't need to lift a finger, didn't need to hurl insults; just by standing there, displaying the 'mistakes' fate had bestowed upon them, they made Claretie feel utterly mortified, wishing he could die of shame.
This group of silent 'freaks' before him, with their living, scarred existence, subjected him to the most thorough and cruel judgment of his soul.
He felt as though he had been stripped naked, exposed in broad daylight, undergoing the most severe moral interrogation.
The tall, twisted man finally said:
"Mr. Claretie, we stand here not to gain your pity, and certainly not to intimidate you.
We just want you to see what kind of heavy lives lie behind the flimsy words 'freak' you write with your pen."
With that, he slightly nodded, no longer looking at Claretie.
Then, these seven or eight 'different ones' of various forms, as if rehearsed, at the leader's signal, slowly and solemnly bowed deeply in Claretie's direction.
Jules Claretie knew this was not submission, let alone begging.
It was their way of showing him a silent strength, a dignity born of suffering yet transcending it, in the noblest posture they could maintain.
After bowing, they didn't utter another word.
They turned in silence, supporting each other – some leaning on crutches, some pushing wheelchairs – and slowly, silently disappeared into the deep twilight of Île Saint-Louis.
Only Claretie was left in the alley, standing blankly on the cold stone steps; the evening breeze blew, chilling him to the bone.
At that moment, the door behind him opened, and his beautiful wife ran out, her voice as panicked as a rabbit in hunting season:
"Darling, are you alright...? I was just too scared to come out..."
Jules Claretie then came to his senses and hastily pushed his wife away:
"I need to go back to the newspaper office, I need to go back now..."
Meanwhile, Maupassant, Huysmans, Paul Alexis... were holed up in Maupassant's reeking apartment, working overtime and writing furiously, preparing to pull Le Figaro, which they once admired so greatly, down from its pedestal.
(End of chapter)
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