Dominique, who had resisted alone, was subsequently captured by the Prussians.
The Prussian officer wanted him to point out the path through Sauval Forest to prevent a French counterattack, but Dominique refused.
The Prussian officer initially intended to shoot him, but after old Man Merlier's plea, he was imprisoned first.
In the middle of the night, his beloved Françoise climbed through the window and set him free.
The next day, when the Prussian officer discovered that Dominique had killed a sentry during his escape, he threatened Françoise to find Dominique in the forest, or he would kill her father.
Facing death, Dominique showed no fear, voluntarily returned to the village, and exchanged his own life for that of his beloved's father.
Just as Dominique was about to be executed, French forces burst out of the forest, launched a counterattack, and wiped out the Prussians defending the mill.
But Dominique was already dead, and the miller, old Man Merlier, also died from a stray bullet; the mill became a pile of ruins under the French shelling.
As the story reached its end, Zola's voice was filled with weariness:
"The captain was the first to rush into the courtyard. It was the only victory he had fought since the war began. He was elated, laughing loudly.
He saw at a glance, amidst the ruins of the mill, a girl sitting like a marble statue between the corpses of her husband and father.
The captain raised his saber in salute to her, shouting, 'Victory! Victory!'"
This ironic ending plunged everyone present into contemplation, and Zola added an even more cruel coda to it:
"Dominique remained alone in the main hall, continuing to shoot forward. The soldiers had all left, but he didn't know it at all. He just kept firing, eliminating an enemy with each shot..."
Dominique had died before the French attack, with twelve bullet holes in his chest – who was shooting then? Was it his soul?
A Belgian, fighting for the French, died under Prussian gunfire, and even as a soul, never stopped shooting...
Zola's story silenced everyone; Maupassant, who had just been emotional, also fell silent.
Before he finished telling "The Battle of the Mill," all five others, except for Lionel, had underestimated the difficulty of constructing such a story.
They thought praising the bravery of ordinary soldiers, the resistance of the French people, or mocking the decadence and incompetence of the upper class would suffice.
But the complexity of the theme and the critical depth of "The Battle of the Mill" far exceeded their imagination.
Was that "captain" a hero? One could say yes, because he first tenaciously blocked the enemy, and later won a battle, eliminating many Prussians.
But one could also say no, because his recklessness and arrogance led a good young man, who could have stayed out of it, to die under enemy fire.
His shouting "Victory!" at the poor girl who had lost both her father and her beloved simultaneously, not only lacked any sense of grandeur or joy, but was instead full of irony and tragedy.
In the past, Lionel had only seen records of the "Médan Evening Gathering" in literature and had simplified the process in his mind.
Now that he was personally involved, seeing the solemn expressions on Maupassant's and others' faces, he truly understood the leadership role Zola, as the elder of the "Médan Group," played among them.
After a long while, the few of them exclaimed in unison:
"Émile, you've written a great story... You should write it down tonight."
It was then that the atmosphere gradually livened up, and smiles reappeared on everyone's faces.
Zola smiled and looked at Maupassant:
"Guy, tomorrow night, it's your turn to tell one. You're the only one among us who's been to the front lines; I believe you can tell us a good story."
The excitement on Maupassant's face instantly froze.
He scratched his damp hair:
"Huh? Tomorrow? So soon? Émile... I... I need to think about it carefully..."
————
On the night train back to Paris, Lionel and Maupassant sat in an empty second-class carriage.
Everyone else stayed at the Médan villa.
Only Maupassant had to continue being a "wage slave" at the Ministry of Public Instruction and Fine Arts the next day, and Lionel couldn't stand sleeping in a room with drunks, so the two accompanied each other back to Paris.
As soon as Maupassant got on the train, he appeared anxious and uneasy; Zola's story and the expectations placed on him created immense pressure.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"
He cursed under his breath, tugging at his hair:
"Defeat... stories after defeat... heroes? Grand and tragic? Émile has written everything that could be written! What else can I tell?"
He looked at Lionel:
"Writing about looting by routed soldiers? Too clichéd! Spies? Too bizarre! Love? Too false in that environment!"
A few vague fragments flashed through Maupassant's mind: panicked refugees, hooligans taking advantage of the chaos, indifferent bureaucrats...
But he always felt a lack of a captivating core, a story that would both fit the tone set by Zola's narrative and reflect his own style.
Lionel said nothing, only smiled as he watched Maupassant murmur to himself like a trapped beast.
Maupassant suddenly grabbed Lionel's shoulder:
"Léon! My brother! Save me! Émile has built a towering mountain, and I... I feel like I only have a small shovel in my hand!
I've conceived a few stories, but even I find them bland and tasteless, like stale bread! I have to tell one tomorrow, what should I do?"
His face was etched with distress, completely devoid of his usual ease and dashing charm.
Lionel looked at the predicament of this future king of short stories, feeling both amused and reflective.
He, of course, knew what story Maupassant would eventually come up with – nor was he prepared to snatch away the most brilliant pearl of his friend's life.
Lionel gestured for Maupassant to calm down, patting his back:
"Don't rush, Guy. While Mr. Zola's story is indeed cruel and tragic, war is made up of countless fragments; it's not only battles and bloodshed that can move people's hearts..."
Seeing Maupassant gradually calm down, Lionel continued to guide him patiently:
"Think about what you are most familiar with? What kind of people are you best at observing?
During wartime, under the shadow of defeat, what dramatic changes would their fates undergo?"
Maupassant paused,
"What I'm most familiar with?"
He then laughed self-deprecatingly, his voice full of candor:
"God knows, Léon, besides writing, what I'm most familiar with are probably taverns, racecourses, and... those lovely ladies."
Lionel also laughed:
"Excellent! Then start with the group you're most familiar with!
Think about it, on the road of routed retreat, in towns occupied by Prussians, in the chaotic rear...
Those ladies, what would they encounter? How would they survive?"
Maupassant furrowed his brow, falling into thought:
"Their... their lives would certainly be harder. The occupying forces would cause trouble, the police would cause trouble...
They are among the most looked-down-upon groups... but they also have to survive..."
Lionel said nothing more; he felt that if he said any more, Maupassant might end up thinking of something else entirely.
Maupassant stood up from his seat, pacing back and forth in the narrow aisle, murmuring to himself:
"Prostitutes... morality... scorn... civilization... order... instinct... innocence... decency..."
Word after word tumbled from his mouth, colliding and bouncing around in the cramped 19th-century train carriage.
And scene after scene combined, shattered, re-combined, and shattered again in Maupassant's mind...
When the train let out its final long whistle before entering the terminal station, a dazzling light suddenly burst forth in Maupassant's eyes.
He embraced Lionel's shoulder again:
"Thank you, my good brother! I have my story!"
(End of Chapter)
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