On the morning of April 12, 1881, as usual, newsboys, with their bulging cloth bags slung over their shoulders, moved through the streets and alleys.
They hawked the day's news in their clear voices, awakening the whole of Paris.
However, today, the eyes of readers of Le Figaro, Le Petit Parisien, and Le Matin were captivated by a magnificent illustration that took up half a page.
It was the work of Gustave Doré.
This master illustrator, already renowned throughout Europe, had poured his talent into a theater poster this time.
The image depicted a luxurious drawing-room, complete with carved furniture, velvet curtains, and a wall of portraits...
However, what drew everyone's gaze were the man and woman frozen in a powerful flash of light in the center of the picture.
The man's body leaned back slightly; the horror, anger, and panic on his face were clearly illuminated by the ghastly white lightning tearing through the night sky outside the window.
The woman opposite him, plainly dressed, had her face equally lit by the electric light, which revealed a mix of immense pain, shock, and despair.
Their eyes clashed in the flash of lightning, as if an invisible force was about to erupt.
In the shadows deep within the drawing-room, Doré also used delicate brushstrokes to outline several blurry figures.
A young silhouette seemed to be cowering in fear, while another was hidden behind a pillar.
The entire image was filled with suffocating dramatic tension, as if one could hear the roar of thunder in their ears and feel the turbulent emotions surging within the characters.
"My God, this is..." exclaimed a gentleman enjoying his breakfast in a café.
He adjusted his monocle, almost pressing his face against the newspaper.
His female companion pointed to the signature beneath the illustration and gasped:
"Look! Painted by Gustave Doré!"
It wasn't just them—in company offices, in quiet university libraries, in the resting corners of government buildings... this painting, and the preview text beneath it, sparked more whispers.
[Comédie-Française proudly presents
Mr. Lionel Sorel's brand new masterpiece
Thunderstorm
Premiere at 8 p.m. on May 5, 1881, at Rue de Richelieu
New stage technology brings a soul-shaking audio-visual feast]
"Thunderstorm? Is this Sorel's new play?"
"Mr. Doré's painting... which scene is this?"
"Who are this man and woman? What happened between them?"
"Look at the light! Look at the expressions! It's as if they were truly illuminated by lightning!"
"Premiering in early May? I heard the Comédie-Française tore down and rebuilt the stage for this play, and even installed electric lights!"
"It's for safety, after the Nice incident... But this poster is truly captivating."
Curiosity spread through Paris like wildfire.
People speculated about the plot in the picture, debated the relationships between the characters, and were both puzzled and excited about the promised "new audio-visual experience."
Gustave Doré's illustration itself was also regarded as a masterpiece by many art lovers.
Not a few people carefully cut out the entire illustration and tucked it into their notebooks for safekeeping.
That afternoon, Director Émile Perrin slammed a copy of Le Figaro down in front of Lionel, who had come to visit.
His finger pointed heavily at Doré's illustration, his round face beaming with undisguised triumph.
Émile Perrin's voice trembled with excitement:
"Look! Lionel, look! This is Doré! This is the power of a master! All of Paris is talking about this painting, talking about our Thunderstorm! There are long queues in front of the box office! I bet all the tickets will be sold out before the premiere!"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice:
"Remember our bet? I know Mr. Gauguin is a young man you favor, and Cézanne has praised him too... But facing a giant like Doré, I'm afraid... well? You've lost, my dear friend!"
Lionel glanced at the exquisite illustration in the newspaper.
Doré had indeed perfectly reproduced the stage scene at the moment the lightning flashed during the test, even intensifying the dramatic effect on the characters' faces.
He looked up at the triumphant Perrin, his face devoid of any sense of defeat, and merely smiled faintly.
His tone was calm:
"Don't rush, Émile. The bet isn't over yet. Mr. Doré's work is excellent, but let's wait and see. It's only a hundred francs, don't be anxious."
Director Émile Perrin was momentarily stunned, then waved his hand, dismissing it as Lionel's stubborn refusal to admit defeat:
"Alright, alright, I understand. Then let's wait and see! But, I must say, the current situation is highly favorable to me!"
He hummed a cheerful opera tune and left the office.
Five days slipped by amidst the Parisian anticipation and speculation for Thunderstorm.
On April 17, the Sixth Impressionist Exhibition officially opened at the studio of the photographer Nadar, at 35 Rue des Capucines.
Although this group of painters was still not accepted by the Academic Salon and conservative critics, they had become widely popular among ordinary citizens after the previous exhibitions.
After all, not everyone had the money to buy the exquisite and complex "masterpieces" of the Academy.
In this exhibition, familiar names like Monet, Renoir, Cézanne, and Sisley did not appear.
Exhibitors included Mary Cassatt, Edgar Degas, Berthe Morisot, Camille Pissarro, and Paul Gauguin.
On the opening day, visitors came in an endless stream.
Art lovers, critics, curious citizens, and gentlemen and ladies crowded the exhibition hall.
The air was filled with the mixed scent of paint, perfume, and cigar smoke.
Soon, some commotion in the central area of the exhibition hall attracted more and more attention.
Displayed there was a new work by Edgar Degas—a wax sculpture titled The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer.
The sculpture was placed in a glass case; the little dancer wore a real tulle tutu and a ribbon in her hair.
However, her posture left many viewers confused and even uncomfortable—her arms were stretched extremely far back, her chin was tilted too high, and her feet were in a stiff, awkward stance...
"This... what kind of posture is this?" a gentleman frowned.
"My God, she looks like a... a deformed child!" a lady half-covered her face with a fan.
"Did Mr. Degas get something wrong? Aren't ballet dancers supposed to be graceful and beautiful?"
"This is what they call 'realism'? I'm afraid I can't appreciate it."
Voices of doubt and criticism echoed softly through the crowd.
However, not far from The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, an increasing number of people gathered around another work.
They burst into near-unanimous cries of admiration.
It was a work by Paul Gauguin, with a very simple title: 'Thunderstorm'.
(End of Chapter)