The morning mist in the Alps had not yet fully dispersed when Lionel Sorel, treading a dew-dampened path, walked towards Saint Joseph School at the foot of the Alps.
This was his "alma mater," and as the LUnivers put it, "the place that shaped his soul."
Today, he was going to teach a class for the children of his "alma mater."
Saint Joseph School, originally a converted abandoned chapel, was now even more dilapidated than Lionel remembered.
Large areas of plaster had peeled off the stone walls, and several tiles were missing from the roof, crudely patched with wooden boards.
The heavy oak door, which once required several children to push open, now hung askew, groaning painfully whenever its hinges moved.
The only bright spot was the faded but still legible white sign above the door, which read "Saint Joseph School" with a cross at the top.
The classroom was dim and cold, the high vaulted ceiling making the space seem particularly empty, and the air was filled with a mixed scent of old books, damp wood, and cheap ink.
Greeting him was the only teacher here for the past forty years, Mr. Jean-Baptiste Reynaud.
He was very old, his back severely hunched, like an old tree bent by the mountain winds.
Mr. Reynaud had lived a life of poverty, with a meager nominal salary of 90 francs per month, of which he actually received only 60 francs—
The other 30 francs were withheld by the local priest under the sacred pretexts of "supporting church causes" and "donations."
Over forty years, three priests had served here, each coming up with new reasons.
This income meant he could never marry, yet it was this almost destitute old man who gave Lionel his initial intellectual enlightenment and love for words.
They had met a few days ago, and Lionel still felt a pang of sadness.
Lionel tightly clasped his teacher's cold, rough hand: "teacher Reynaud, I'm here!"
Mr. Reynaud looked around the empty, cold classroom, his voice low: "Good, good… It's good that you're here. Lionel… Saint Joseph is not the same as when you were here…"
Times are hard, everyone thinks studying is useless, that knowing a few words and how to count is enough, better to go home early to herd sheep, chop wood, or be sent to a workshop as an apprentice.
At least it saves a meal and earns a few sous…"
Just as he was speaking, the children arrived one after another.
There were even fewer than Lionel had expected, only about twenty, of varying ages.
The youngest was only six, shyly tugging at an older child's coattails; the oldest were thirteen or fourteen, tall and thin, with stubborn, wary expressions.
Most of their shoes didn't fit, and their faces lacked color.
Lionel stood in front of the rough blackboard at the front of the classroom.
There was no podium, so Mr. Reynaud offered him his creaky old chair.
Lionel looked at the pairs of eyes below him, large, small, naive, precocious, curious, wary…
His prepared lesson plans on French grammar or historical stories suddenly seemed so pale.
He cleared his throat, trying to start with the most basic greetings, wanting to talk about the power of words, the vastness of knowledge.
But soon, he realized this wouldn't work.
The children's attention couldn't be held for long; they had no interest in preaching.
They were more interested in Lionel himself.
Sure enough, before he could speak for a few minutes, a slightly bolder boy couldn't help but raise his hand and interrupt him: "Mr. Sorel, are the houses in Paris really as tall as mountains?
Can you reach out and touch the clouds?"
A buzz of discussion immediately broke out in the classroom.
Another little girl with sparkling eyes asked: "I heard the priest say that Parisians don't go to Mass, they dance in the streets all day, is that true?
Don't they… don't they fear going to hell?"
A slightly older boy was more direct; he almost shouted his question: "Mr. Sorel, they all say you can earn 10,000 francs a year in Paris! Is that true?
How much can 10,000 francs buy? Is it truly inexhaustible?"
This question caused an exclamation from all the children; even the most wary teenager looked up.
Lionel was stunned, then he laughed—he realized that this lesson had truly just begun!
He put down the chalk, walked among the children, and simply pulled over a stool to sit down.
"The houses in Paris are indeed very tall, but they are not mountains; they are called 'apartments,' and many, many people can live in one building.
But, you can't touch the clouds, though standing high up, you can see far-off scenery, just like when we stand on a mountain."
Lionel cleverly steered the conversation towards areas the children were familiar with.
Regarding the Parisians' faith, he pondered for a moment and cautiously replied: "There are many, many people in Paris; some devoutly go to church, and others choose to seek inner peace in other ways.
What's important is kindness and integrity, isn't it? Whether in Montiel or in Paris."
Directly challenging the priest's authority now would undoubtedly be unwise, but this answer was already sufficiently broad.
As for the most realistic question—10,000 francs, he burst out laughing:
"10,000 francs sounds like a lot, but in Paris, things are also very expensive! A loaf of bread might cost several sous, and renting a small room can be hundreds of francs."
"So, it's not inexhaustible. What's important is that earning money requires knowledge and ability."
With every answer, he tried to be more honest and humorous, so the children could understand.
"Want to know why Paris has so many tall buildings? That's because there are many people who know how to count there."
"Factories, newspapers, shops, they all need people who can read and write and understand principles to work."
"And these abilities, here at Saint Joseph, Mr. Reynaud will teach you, just as he taught me back then."
"The reason I could go to Paris and write is precisely because when I sat here, Mr. Reynaud taught me to read and write."
The classroom atmosphere became lively, the children chattering with all sorts of questions, and Lionel patiently answered, striving to build a bridge between them and the wider world.
Mr. Reynaud sat in the corner, a smile of both relief and complexity on his face.
Lionel noticed that the oldest, most wary teenager hadn't spoken.
The teenager also noticed Lionel's gaze and suddenly gave a scornful smile: "Mr. Sorel, you've said so much. Reading is good, knowledge is the key…
teacher Reynaud often says these things too. But what we want to know is—
If we read books, learn to write, count, and understand principles, will we really be able to leave here, go to Paris, and earn 10,000 francs a year like you?"
The classroom instantly fell silent.
All the children's gazes, including Mr. Reynaud's hopeful yet somewhat anxious look, focused on Lionel.
This question concerned hope, concerned disillusionment; it was the most genuine confusion of these children from the Alps.
Lionel fell silent; he could not easily give a false promise.
He knew that for most of the children here, the path to Paris and "success" remained impossibly narrow.
Class, poverty, regional discrimination… these were all obstacles more difficult to overcome than the Alps.
Knowledge was a weapon, but not everyone could obtain equally fine equipment, nor could everyone win in the cruel competition.
He took a deep breath, carefully choosing his words, thinking how to both protect their hope and not shy away from the harsh reality, to tell them that the meaning of education was far more than "earning 10,000 francs a year" when—
With a clang, the dilapidated classroom door was suddenly pushed open!
Everyone jumped, turning to look, only to see a postman, panting and leaning against the doorframe, clearly having run all the way up the mountain.
He waved a thick letter in his hand, gasping: "Mr. Li… Lionel Sorel! Good news! Amazing good news!
A money order and letter from Paris… from Paris! It says… it says a 'Friend in Paris' has donated to Montiel!
Lionel was a bit bewildered, completely unaware of what was happening, and instinctively asked: "Donation? How much?"
The postman replied in a strange tone: "Tw… twenty thousand francs!"
This number exploded like a clap of thunder in the dilapidated classroom.
The children's mouths dropped open, their eyes wide, twenty thousand francs!
Even Mr. Reynaud was so shocked that he stood up, adjusting his glasses that had slipped to the tip of his nose.
The postman then added: "The 'Friend in Paris' said that this money is to be collected by you, and entirely up to you to decide how to distribute it…
The mayor is waiting at the post office right now, when… when will you go?"
All eyes once again focused on Lionel, filled with disbelief, ecstasy, and an almost superstitious reverence.
The tall, thin teenager who had just posed the ultimate question was also stunned, he looked at Lionel, his gaze no longer scornful, but a daze as if falling into a cloud.
At this moment, the abstract and difficult relationship between "knowledge" and "success" was instantly materialized by this sudden, tangible "twenty thousand francs."
Lionel's head began to ache—he had to distribute twenty thousand francs?
This precious holiday, it seemed, was about to be ruined!