The Christmas holidays ended on January 7th, and Sorbonne University welcomed its opening day the following day.
The winter's cold wind couldn't disperse the lively atmosphere at the entrance of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts.
As Lionel Sorel stepped down from his carriage, he was astonished by the scene before him.
Dozens of students were gathered at the entrance, and upon seeing him, they immediately burst into spontaneous applause, their faces alight with enthusiastic smiles.
"Good morning, Lionel!"
" 'The Chorus' was absolutely brilliant!"
"You are the pride of the Sorbonne!"
...
Greetings rose and fell, as if welcoming a triumphant hero.
Everyone wanted to shake his hand or gently pat his shoulder.
Soon, a familiar figure pushed through the crowd, walking towards him with open arms – it was Principal Henri Patin.
Principal Patin's voice was booming:
"Ah! Our young Orpheus! You've finally returned!"
Then he gave Lionel a firm embrace:
" 'The Chorus' has conquered Paris, my boy! I took my whole family to see it, and my little daughter cried through two handkerchiefs!"
The surrounding applause and laughter grew louder.
Principal Patin affectionately put his arm around Lionel's shoulder and whispered,
"Well done, Lionel. Not just for art, but for reason. Now all of Paris is discussing education, discussing children! Keep it up, the Sorbonne is proud of you!"
Walking into the academy, people nodded to him all along the way.
Entering the classroom, Albert directly placed a pile of newspapers in front of Lionel —
The culture section of Le Figaro called "Night," an interlude from "The Chorus," "the most moving sound in Paris this year"; and the closing song, "Gazing at Your Path," "a song every Frenchman has learned."
Le Petit Parisien featured a lengthy report on its front page titled, "France's Good Friend to Children—Lionel Sorel."
The article thoroughly reviewed Lionel's works, noting that his pieces often adopted a child's perspective or were filled with deep sympathy for children's fates, and "The Chorus" brought this concern to a climax.
The article concluded:
[Mr. Sorel uses his pen to speak for the children of our era, revealing their world and instilling infinite hope. He is not only an outstanding storyteller but also a guardian and shaper of the souls of France's future citizens.]
Albert excitedly told Lionel:
"On the evening of January 4th, Minister Ferry watched the final performance of 'The Chorus's' Christmas season from our family's box!
Do you know what he told my father?
'Thank you for discovering such a young warrior for the Republic!'
He also said, 'This play is the best cannonball to smash those hardliners who oppose the secularization of education!'
Haha, Lion! That's Minister Ferry!
Everyone says he's a man who's destined to become Prime Minister!"
Hearing this, Lionel acutely picked up on something:
"The parliament resumed work today too? What bill is being discussed today?"
Albert was stunned, and after a moment, replied:
"Minister Ferry wants to completely drive the Church out of French education, and perhaps even dissolve the Jesuits..."
------
Left Bank of the Seine, directly opposite Place de la Concorde, Palais Bourbon, French Chamber of Deputies.
Jules Ferry stood at the podium, every word like a hammer blow:
"Gentlemen!
The Republic cannot, and absolutely will not, entrust the minds of the next generation to a religious order that pledges allegiance to foreign powers and openly declares hostility to republican principles—the Jesuits!
Education must be national education, secular education, education that cultivates free citizens and strengthens republican faith!"
Before his words had fully subsided, a clamor erupted from the conservative benches.
The 5th Duke de Broglie, Albert de Broglie, abruptly rose, his face flushed with anger:
"Minister Ferry! You are committing sacrilege!
You are destroying the moral foundations of France! Education without religion is a body without a soul!
The secular schools you speak of will produce nihilists, fearless and without faith, dynamite for society!"
Albert de Menton followed closely, pointing to the religious frescoes painted on the ceiling:
"Look above us!
The history of France is inextricably linked to faith! Do you intend to completely expel God from our schools?
What a mad idea! You are personally severing the roots of our nation!"
Pro-church deputies applauded and stomped their feet, loudly echoing, and some even excitedly made the sign of the cross.
The Republicans were not to be outdone; Paul Bert and others successively took the stage, fiercely attacking the Church's monopoly on educational resources and its suppression of scientific spirit.
Although the President of the Chamber of Deputies, Léon Gambetta, had not yet spoken, his shadow loomed over the entire assembly.
The debate devolved into arguments, and the arguments nearly turned into insults...
It wasn't until order briefly spiraled out of control that Gambetta had to frequently strike his gavel, warning both sides.
The atmosphere in the Chamber of Deputies was so tense it felt as if a single spark could ignite an explosion.
Just as both sides were at an impasse, Jules Ferry once again requested to speak.
He slowly walked to the podium, his face betraying no emotion, holding no manuscript, as if he intended to speak extemporaneously.
His voice was calm, yet it carried throughout the chamber:
"Gentlemen, the crux of our debate seems to hinge on one point—Whether, without the constraints of religion, our schools can still cultivate citizens who are moral, emotional, and understand love and goodness."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the haughty faces of the conservative deputies below.
"On this matter, I could cite many theories and cases. But today, I wish to take a different approach.
I wish to ask you all to recall, or, if you haven't had the chance, I implore you to make time to see—The play currently being staged at the Comédie-Française, 'The Chorus'."
A slight stir and murmurs of confusion rippled through the chamber.
Discussing major national education policy, how did it suddenly turn to a play?
Ferry ignored them:
"In that play, there is also a 'school,' a reformatory managed by church personnel.
The head of that institution, a priest, firmly believed that only the strictest discipline and severest punishment could save those 'lost lambs.'
He forbade all 'useless' emotions, rejecting all 'weak' arts, such as music."
Some conservative deputies seemed to know what Jules Ferry was about to say and began to panic—they tried to create noise to interrupt Ferry's argument, but were silenced by Speaker Gambetta's stern gaze.
Jules Ferry on the podium quickly changed his tack:
"An ordinary, even somewhat unsuccessful, secular music teacher went there. He relied on no doctrine, used no corporal punishment. He simply believed in beauty, in music, and in the children's deep-seated yearning for light.
He formed a choir, and what was the result?
—Cold discipline failed, while secular music and the teacher's compassion succeeded!
Those children, considered beyond redemption, their eyes rekindled with sparkle, their hearts felt warmth and dignity!
Gentlemen, this is what 'The Chorus' tells us—the source of morality lies not in the fear of hell, but in the pursuit of human beauty!
It exists in a beautiful song, in the encouragement of a kind teacher, and in the reason and fraternity that the Republic seeks to champion!"
Jules Ferry's gaze was piercing, directed squarely at several conservative deputies:
"So, I ask you, gentlemen who oppose the secularization of education, how can you firmly assert that only the Church holds the key to moral education?"
For a moment, the previously formidable conservative camp fell into a brief, awkward silence.
Several deputies opened their mouths but could not immediately find suitable words to refute him.
They couldn't say, "That's just a fictional play"—because this was France, where art transcends reality!
To deny the power of art was tantamount to making an enemy of the entire cultural elite.
Furthermore, they had witnessed the resounding success of "The Chorus"—no one would be foolish enough to deny the beauty of the play and the moving nature of its music.
Finally, Jules Ferry delivered the knockout blow:
"Don't forget, at the premiere of 'The Chorus,' who did the audience give their most enthusiastic applause to!"
As his words fell, everyone subconsciously looked towards an empty high seat next to Speaker Gambetta, a seat reserved for the highest religious representative.
Originally, the Archbishop of the Paris Diocese, Louis-Antoine-Augustin Guibert, should have been seated there.
But the day before parliament convened, he declined to attend the discussion of this bill, citing ill health.
The Duke de Broglie's face turned ashen, and he slumped back into his seat.
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 400+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon