The French Writers' Association has a long history, founded in 1838 by Balzac and others.
Victor Hugo and George Sand were early members, and Alexandre Dumas Sr. briefly served as chairman.
The association's main purpose was to protect writers from piracy and to provide legal assistance to those entangled in publishing disputes.
However, the French Writers' Association has always been exclusive; even established writers might not be admitted.
For example, Émile Zola is still not a member.
Although Lionel has recently risen to fame, he is still young and holds no official position, making him, by any standard, an unlikely candidate for membership in the French Writers' Association.
With a sense of bewilderment, Lionel pulled out the letter and scanned it, almost spitting out a mouthful of coffee.
The letter was very brief, calling on writers in Paris to petition on behalf of Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve, the author of The Decadent City, to prevent the Church from performing a grand exorcism ritual on him.
The French Writers' Association was not defending him for his fraud, but rather was concerned that if novel content could be linked to demonic possession and the Church given the power to perform exorcisms, then writers' creative freedom would be threatened.
This was intolerable to the French Writers' Association, so it not only mobilized its members but also sought out non-member writers to join the petition.
Lionel was one of them.
Lionel found himself in an awkward position now; several simple matters seemed to be slowly intertwining, becoming complicated.
He put down the letter, pondered for a moment, and finally decided to visit Zola at the Médaan Villa again today to ask for his opinion.
No sooner had he stepped out of the door at 64 Rue Laffitte than the journalists waiting outside swarmed him—
"Mr. Sorel, do you consider yourself a product of secular education, or did the Church's education have a greater influence?"
"Mr. Sorel, do you support all women receiving an education? Would this lead to the corruption of social morality?"
"Mr. Sorel, it is said that you are a supporter of Minister Ferry and Count Rohan; do you agree to reduce religious content in the curriculum?"
"Mr. Sorel, who do you love more, Baroness Alekseyevna or her daughter, Miss Sophia?"
"Hmm?"
The last question not only startled Lionel but also surprised the journalists from other newspapers.
The questioner was a tall, skinny bald man, his face a bluish-green from overindulgence and lack of sleep.
Seeing everyone looking at him, he awkwardly said,
"I'm from Le Polichinelle..."
Everyone: "..."
After the journalists tossed this "clown" to the street corner, everyone surrounded Lionel again.
Journalists of this era, though without microphones or cameras, were no less persistent in achieving their goals than those of later generations.
Lionel knew he couldn't avoid them, so he simply waited for them openly and generously.
The first to squeeze in front of him was a reporter from L'Univers.
After hearing him introduce himself, Lionel offered a slight smile: "The article in L'Univers reminded me of an interesting fact—yes, I did spend my initial years at the church school in my hometown.
The nuns were kind, and the priests were diligent.
They taught me to read, taught me to make the sign of the cross, told me that stealing was wrong, and to share bread...
I am very grateful for these basic moral guidelines."
The L'Univers reporter became excited:
"So, are you retracting your speech at the Count's ball and turning to support the Church?"
Lionel shook his head:
"I systematically studied French, Latin, history, as well as basic geometry and algebra at the La Ranier Public Secondary School.
This knowledge trained my thinking, taught me how to analyze, how to express myself, and how to understand this complex world.
Without these abilities, I would not have been able to pass the secondary school exams, enter the Sorbonne, or write the works I produce today."
The L'Univers reporter showed an ambiguous smile:
"So you're choosing 'neutrality,' aren't you? Neither offending the minister nor the Church..."
Lionel glanced at the reporter, thinking that this profession was always more or less the same, always digging traps for people.
Of course, he wouldn't fall for it.
In this era, he certainly had no illusions about which stance to take on such a question—anyone with a slight understanding of educational history knows that France was a beacon of modern public education.
No matter how hard the Church tried, it was merely an ant trying to stop a chariot, unable to prevent the widespread popularization of free, compulsory, and secular education.
But this didn't mean he should provoke the Church at this moment.
Lionel carefully chose his words before speaking:
"To be precise, what I support is a system that can more stably, comprehensively, and sustainably provide educational resources and opportunities to children of all social strata.
Minister Ferry's reforms are based on national taxes, which can be said to be taken from the people and used for the people. I can't think of a smarter or kinder use;
But if the Church is willing to spend money to build thousands of classrooms for France and waive all fees, then perhaps it could also become a counterweight on the other side of the scale."
The questioning reporter was momentarily at a loss for words.
One of the sources of contention in parliament was the post-reform financial expenditure.
According to preliminary calculations, the national education budget would balloon from 250 million francs annually to 500 million francs annually within the next 10 years.
This was a major national policy that only the full might of the nation could support; the Church, by any means, could not produce such a sum.
The reporter, still unwilling to give up, pressed on:
"Couldn't it be done this way—the state could allocate these funds to church schools, allowing the Church to expand school sizes and waive fees? That way, all French children could still go to school..."
Lionel realized that the other party was likely a reporter from a pro-Church newspaper, consistently trying to guide him into saying things that would benefit the Church.
He was a bit impatient, but maintained a gentle smile on his face and an even more amiable tone:
"Actually, I have an even better suggestion for the Church. Would you like to hear it?"
The reporter's spirits lifted, and he quickly asked,
"Please tell me, what is your suggestion?"
Lionel's expression grew serious:
"Since the Church is so enthusiastic about the education of French children, it could absolutely ask the parliament to restore the 'tithe'!
That way, there would be no need for state treasury appropriations; one-tenth of the income of all French citizens would go into the Church's bank accounts. What is a mere free education then?"
Upon hearing this, the reporter's face turned pale; he knew he had been tricked by Lionel.
It should be noted that one of the significant achievements of the Revolution was the abolition of all feudal privileges, including the "Church tithe."
Later, the French government even directly took over Church property, and the clergy's salaries were paid by the state, which led to the current situation where secular forces hold sway.
Even if the vast majority of French people were devout believers, they would never willingly hand over even one percent of their income to the Church.
With a few casual words, Lionel linked "allocating funds to church schools" with the "tithe."
If other newspapers sensationalized this, probably no one would support them.
The L'Univers reporter dared not ask any more questions, tucked his notebook and pen into his pocket, and left crestfallen.
It was then that reporters from other newspapers squeezed forward. Lionel, not wanting to get too entangled, expressed his views more directly:
"Rather than debating which school deserves more credit for my modest achievements today, let's look at which kind of education is more likely to make France's tomorrow brighter.
Well, at least one of them, we've given enough time and enough opportunities to already..."
(End of Chapter)
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