The mid-June written exam was, for Lionel, more like a routine ceremony.
He sat upright in the Sorbonne's ancient and solemn prayer hall, the rustling sound of his quill pen across the paper like silkworms munching on mulberry leaves—he just didn't know if the French had ever heard such a sound.
The written exam questions covered Latin grammar, French literary history, philosophical propositions, and an argumentative essay writing task.
Thanks to the good foundation laid by the original body and his own profound understanding of 19th-century literary trends—almost a form of "cheating"—he wrote with ease and clarity.
When the last period dropped, Lionel already had a good idea of the outcome.
A few days later, the results were posted, and his name was prominently listed among the top of the successful candidates.
But the real challenge lay in the oral examination at the end of June.
After a week of intense preparation, the day of the oral exam arrived.
The tiered classroom in the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters, used for advanced degree examinations, was filled with an unusually heavy atmosphere.
At the front, behind a long table covered with dark green felt, sat three examiners who would determine Lionel's fate:
Professor Gustave Durand, a doyen of literary history, was the chief examiner; Professor Henri Moreau, a classical languages expert, was responsible for the Latin section; and Professor Philippe Leclerc, an authority on philosophy and rhetoric.
However, what truly made the oral exam as lively as a market was the audience packed into the back of the classroom and the side aisles.
Besides the proctors who were required to attend and a few representatives from lower-grade students, there were more senior students, young lecturers from other departments, and even several well-known journalists and literary critics from Paris who had rushed there upon hearing the news!
They whispered like people awaiting the start of a good show, their gazes burning and focused on the solitary hardwood chair placed in the center of the classroom.
Clearly, the oral examination for "The Conscience of the Sorbonne" had an appeal no less than the premiere of a new play.
Lionel calmly bowed to the professors, then sat down on the hardwood chair.
He could feel the weight of hundreds of gazes behind him, but he forced himself to calm down and focus his attention on the examiners.
The oral exam officially began.
The first round was Latin oral translation and commentary.
Professor Moreau, expressionless, handed him a yellowed sheet of paper with an excerpt from a speech by Cicero:
"Read, translate, analyze its rhetorical structure, and explain its purpose in the speech."
Lionel took the paper and pondered for a moment.
He adjusted his breathing and began to read aloud in clear, rhythmic Latin.
His pronunciation was mostly accurate, and his stress was clear, but it lacked intonation, failing to convey the eloquent momentum of Cicero.
After finishing the reading, he paused almost imperceptibly—thanks to his solid foundation in rote memorization—and quickly translated the Latin into fluent French, with key terms mostly translated accurately.
Then, he pointed to several places in the original text:
"Here, Cicero uses strong parallelism and repetition... His purpose is to accumulate anger, directed squarely at Catiline;
...
Here, he employs a sharp rhetorical question, not seeking an answer, but strengthening the accusation against Catiline;
...
And this series of metaphors, comparing Catiline's conspiracy to a 'lurking plague' and a 'burning fire,' vividly depicts its harmfulness, aiming to provoke fear and vigilance in the Senate.
...
The core rhetorical purpose of the entire passage is to gradually build up emotion and imagery, shaping Catiline into a public enemy of the Roman Republic, laying a moral foundation for subsequent severe sanctions."
Lionel spoke with increasing fluency, almost feeling as if he were back at a Chinese Gaokao (college entrance exam) language test; setting aside the language barrier, 19th-century problems seemed a little too simple in the 21st century.
Professor Moreau listened, his face still devoid of expression, but he couldn't help but nod slightly—Lionel knew he was almost certain to pass this time.
The content of the second round was literary comparison and history of ideas.
Professor Leclerc's voice had an edge to it:
"Monsieur Sorel, let's now turn our attention to the Age of Enlightenment—Rousseau, in Émile, proposed the educational concept of the 'natural man,' while Voltaire, in Philosophical Letters, advocated for reason and civilized progress.
What are the fundamental differences in their stances? And how do these differences manifest in their styles?"
A slight gasp came from the auditing seats behind, clearly startled by the difficulty of the question.
Lionel requested a moment to think and received the professor's approval.
He closed his eyes and concentrated for nearly three minutes before opening them, his gaze clear:
"Professor, the fundamental divergence between Rousseau and Voltaire lies in their core judgment of the value of 'civilization.'
Rousseau viewed society as shackles, the root of private property, inequality, and moral decay.
...
His 'natural man,' like Émile, needed to be kept away from social corruption; only in the embrace of nature could his innate goodness and freedom be preserved.
Thus, Rousseau's writing style is filled with surging emotion..."
Lionel paused briefly before continuing, his speaking pace still steady:
"Voltaire, on the other hand, firmly believed that civilization, science, and reason were the only torches to illuminate ignorance and propel human progress.
...
Although he also criticized the darkness of society, for example, Candide's satire of absurd wars, his criticism stemmed from a desire to improve specific ailments, rather than a negation of civilization as a whole.
...
Therefore, he championed England's constitutional monarchy and religious tolerance, viewing them as fruits of reason.
This also shaped his sharp, clear, and satirical style, with short, powerful sentences full of aphorisms, aimed at enlightening the mind.
...
In short, Rousseau was a romanticist who sought salvation within himself and nature, his style like a rushing torrent; Voltaire was a standard-bearer who enlightened minds with reason, his style like a flash of lightning."
Lionel's answer was clearly structured, appropriately referenced, and his views were in line with academic perspectives, impartial and balanced.
Lionel remained calm inwardly; those three minutes he spent preparing were mainly spent recalling content from the History of Foreign Literature he had taught in his previous life.
Professor Leclerc also nodded approvingly, while Professor Durand quickly jotted something down in his notebook.
In the auditing seats, several young lecturers let out sighs of admiration.
For a second-year student to possess such a profound and comprehensive understanding of two masters like Rousseau and Voltaire was truly eye-opening for them.
The third round of the oral exam was a deep analysis of French literature.
Professor Durand pushed up his gold-rimmed spectacles:
"Monsieur Sorel, let's focus on a more recent era. What fundamental differences exist between Victor Hugo and Honoré de Balzac in 'presenting social reality'?
Does this difference stem from their differing understandings of the function of the 'novel'?"
This question went straight to the core debate of 19th-century realist literature.
The entire classroom fell silent, and even Professor Moreau looked up.
Lionel remained unperturbed, his voice steady and strong:
"Professor, Victor Hugo's Les Misérables is a humanitarian epic and a moral allegory.
His ultimate purpose in presenting social darkness is to call for compassion, justice, and divine redemption.
...
His characters often bear symbolic meaning, and the plot is filled with dramatic coincidences and a torrent of emotions, because he believed that the power of the novel lies in inspiring hearts, awakening conscience, and even transforming the world..."
Lionel slightly adjusted his posture, the hard wooden chair digging into his tailbone:
"Monsieur Balzac, on the other hand, leaned more towards dissection and demonstration.
He called himself the 'secretary of French society,' wishing to construct an all-encompassing social replica with La Comédie humaine.
...
He presented reality to reveal the logic of how money, power, and human nature operate, pursuing objectivity in plot development and authenticity in detail.
...
His narration is calmer and more restrained; characters act under the pressure of their environment and the drive of their own desires, with the author's voice hidden behind character dialogue.
...
He believed that the primary function of the novel was to understand society and human nature.
...
Therefore, Monsieur Hugo wrote sacred declarations in the form of novels, while Monsieur Balzac composed social survey reports in the form of novels."
As Lionel's words faded, a round of applause and hushed cheers erupted from the back of the classroom.
His own heart remained calm; what he had just spoken were conclusions from another volume of History of Foreign Literature, which he had highlighted countless times as key exam points for his students.
But to those listening, his analysis was incisive and striking, not only accurately grasping the characteristics of the two masters but also elevating it to the level of literary function.
Under Professor Durand's white beard, the corners of his mouth curved upwards uncontrollably; he rarely praised so loudly:
"Excellent! Monsieur Sorel!"
The atmosphere seemed to reach a climax; the three examiners exchanged satisfied glances, ready to announce the results directly.
However, at this very moment—
"Excellent? With all due respect, professors, this so-called 'excellence' is merely repeating some clichés!"
A clear, melodious female voice, carrying a distinct foreign accent and undisguised arrogance, suddenly rang out from the doorway at the back of the tiered classroom, like an icicle piercing the warm air.
All eyes were instantly drawn to her.
Standing in the doorway was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, tall and slender, like a proud birch tree.
She had dazzling, thick golden hair that shone like molten gold; her face was strikingly beautiful, almost ostentatious, and she wore a perfectly tailored, luxuriously made deep blue travel suit, with expensive sable fur lining the collar and cuffs.
She stood there like a brilliant star that had suddenly fallen to earth, or like a young queen come to inspect her territory:
"I am Sophia Ivanovna Durova-Shcherbatova, daughter of Baroness Alexeyevna.
On behalf of my mother, who is also one of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters' most important donors this year, I formally question the depth and rigor of this oral examination!"
Lionel looked at her in surprise, noticing that Dean Henri Patin was also standing beside her.
The venerable dean's expression was awkward, but Lionel still deciphered its meaning:
"Sorry, Lion, she gave too much..."
(End of chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon