Lionel's reply was somewhat cold:
"Émile, gentlemen, my story is meant to convey only one thing—why would an old farmer from the countryside, who perhaps never shouted 'Long live France' in his entire life, kill those Prussians?
Was it for 'the glory of France,' or for 'the pride of the Gauls'?
Did 'Father Milon' hate the Prussians because they defeated the French army?
Or because our 'esteemed' emperor was captured?
Or because our capital, Paris, was breached, turning those noble, respectable people into homeless dogs?"
A series of questions rendered the scene even quieter.
In Zola's The Attack on the Mill, the outsider Dominique took up arms because the retreating French squad used the mill as a stronghold.
Maupassant's Boule de Suif, with its double contrast of status and morality between the "prostitute" and the "respectable people," created an extremely strong sense of satire.
Both stories were excellent, especially Maupassant's Boule de Suif.
Although of humble origins, she possessed a strong sense of patriotism and refused to submit to the invaders.
However, Lionel's "Father Milon" completely deconstructed the halo of "patriotism."
The protagonist, "Father Milon," spoke no noble words, calculating everything from beginning to end as a meticulous old farmer—
His father was killed by Prussians, his son was killed by Prussians, fifty écus worth of hay were stolen from him, along with his cows, his sheep...
He didn't even know where the Prussians came from, perhaps never having left his village his entire life.
But "Father Milon" still raised his scythe...
He killed isolated Prussian soldiers as if completing a task, one, two, three... until the sixteenth, when he was caught.
But he had no regrets, even smiling when facing execution.
The entire story was filled with a shocking power and a chillingly stark poetic quality.
There were no heroic shouts, only the land's silent hatred, and a farmer's stubborn reckoning.
Maupassant murmured,
"Sixteen... like keeping a ledger... heavens..."
Zola slowly exhaled:
"So, if there's no specific object to protect, 'Long live France' is just an empty slogan.
Loving France isn't loving the Napoleons, it's not loving the Louises, it's not even loving the current Republican government.
For 'Father Milons,' he loves his family, he loves his farm.
If the Prussians take these away, he will seek revenge.
This is the foundation of all 'patriotic sentiment'; there's no reason more primitive or more sufficient than this."
He looked at Lionel with unprecedented admiration.
Céard, Alexis, Maupassant, and others were also captivated by the story's unique theme and depth.
Chekhov was moved to tears—he felt that on the Russian land, there were countless farmers like "Father Milon," silent, but who would one day erupt with an unstoppable force...
———
Over the next few days, Lionel spent three hours each morning writing The Adventures of Benjamin Bouton, and each afternoon continued to show Chekhov around Paris.
They no longer just visited the extremely glamorous or deeply gloomy corners to experience emotional shocks, but instead entered the daily lives of Parisians—
The bustling central market, filled with hawkers' cries and the smell of sweat; the cafés along the Seine, where artists chatted and found inspiration; and the coachmen outside the buildings in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, whose idle chatter while waiting often revealed some of Paris's secrets...
Lionel guided Chekhov to observe all kinds of people—workers, clerks, artists, housewives, vagrants—to observe their joys and sorrows, their struggles, and their small hopes.
Chekhov gradually understood that to comprehend the world, one must first accumulate countless subtle observations of people and things, rather than prejudging or binding oneself with grand sentiments.
In the evenings, they consistently went to Médan for the "Médan Nights," where Chekhov listened to the remaining stories:
Huysmans recounted an unwilling soldier's absurd journey caught up in the chaos of war, full of despairing depictions of bureaucracy and individual insignificance;
Henry Céard exposed a corruption scandal during the Siege of Paris, where a high-ranking French officer was seduced by his mistress and thus neglected his duty;
Léon Hennique depicted a troop of Prussian soldiers falling into collective madness, incited by alcohol and rumors, and massacring a brothel.
Paul Alexis narrated the story of a noblewoman searching for her deceased husband's remains on the battlefield, only to develop a morbid romance with an injured soldier she encountered.
Each story, from a different angle, reflected the absurdity of war, the complexity of human nature, and the pathology of society.
Chekhov absorbed everything voraciously, his worldview constantly being washed over and reshaped.
Finally, on the evening Paul Alexis finished his story, Lionel offered a suggestion:
"Gentlemen, we've talked about war, we've talked about human nature.
The atmosphere tonight is just right, why don't we talk about ourselves?
Let's talk about what we were doing before we picked up a pen to become 'writers.'
And what was the most simple reason that first drove us down this path?"
As he spoke, he deliberately glanced at Chekhov, and everyone chuckled knowingly.
Zola was the first to speak, with a touch of self-deprecation:
"Ha, before becoming a writer?
I was a packer and advertising salesman at 'Hachette Publishing'! Dealing with ledgers and flyers all day.
Why write?
Probably because I was too poor, thinking that writing something might earn a few more francs so my mother wouldn't have to worry about bread anymore..."
His reason was so simple it surprised Chekhov.
Maupassant took a gulp of wine and said with a grin:
"Me? A minor clerk at the Ministry of Education!
Copying and writing all day, utterly boring.
Writing? Initially, it was purely to flirt!
You know, reciting a love poem to ladies in the salon, writing a romantic short story, the effect was much better than sending flowers!"
He made no secret of his initial "vulgar" motive, drawing a burst of laughter.
His gaze then turned more serious:
"But later on, I found that observing people and telling stories itself was full of joy, a million times more interesting than those official documents. Especially those lovely girls, they are the best source of stories!"
Huysmans took over:
"He was at the Ministry of Education, I was at the Ministry of Interior. A suffocating place.
Writing? Initially, it was to escape that dead silence and hypocrisy. Amidst piles of documents, I felt like I was rotting..."
After several people had spoken, all eyes fell on Lionel.
Lionel smiled slightly:
"Me? I'm not afraid you'll laugh—because I was poor!
To pay my rent, to stay in Paris one more day, I started writing, writing a story about an old... old guard.
Of course, as I wrote, I discovered that the pen could not only earn bread but also make a voice, sting some things, connect some souls...
That was probably an unexpected gain."
Chekhov sat in the shadows of the corner, his heart surging.
These literary stars he looked up to had such ordinary, even "humble" beginnings—for bread, for flirting, to escape dead silence, to satisfy curiosity...
Not one person initially shouted about "saving the nation's soul"! Although their works all achieved that.
Something stubborn within him cracked, shattering all over the floor...
————
The next day, at Paris's "Gare Saint-Lazare," Lionel saw Chekhov onto the direct train to Moscow, and slipped another 100 francs into his pocket, enough for his expenses along the way.
Chekhov's eyes welled up:
"No, Monsieur Sorel, this is too much..."
Lionel interrupted him, his tone brooking no refusal:
"Take it, Anton, this isn't charity! I believe that in the future sky of Russian literature, there will surely be a star belonging to you.
Consider this money my 'royalties' paid in advance.
Go and be a good doctor; the rigor of medicine will sharpen your observational skills.
When the time is right, you will naturally know what to write!"
The whistle shrieked, the train slowly started, and Chekhov leaned his head out the window, waving vigorously at Lionel on the platform, until the tall figure became a small dot in his vision, finally disappearing.
He sat back in his comfortable seat, his fingers tightly clutching the precious train ticket and envelope, no longer feeling lost.
————
Lionel returned home after seeing Chekhov off, feeling lighthearted. Just then, Alice handed him a newspaper:
"Lion, quick, look, you're in the newspaper again!"
(End of Chapter)
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