Chapter 1: The First Day of School

Crossing Obancamp Street in the 11th district through the morning mist was hardly a pleasant experience. Without any sewage system, the residents here disposed of the night's accumulated waste in a manner little different from the Middle Ages. Leonel had to stay constantly alert to what was overhead and underfoot, lest some crude neighbor ruin his only wool coat and leather shoes.

Thankfully, it was January, and the cold weather kept the stench from spreading too far, sparing him from holding his breath deliberately. He stuck close to the middle of the street, awkwardly dodging horse-drawn carts that occasionally barreled toward him. Amid the coachmen’s curses, he hurried to the public carriage station at the intersection with Market Street.

Seeing several other passengers waiting there, Leonel knew he hadn’t missed his ride and exhaled in relief. From afar came the bell tolling from Saint Margaret’s Church, giving him a more precise sense of the time: 8:30 in the morning.

Though he had been reborn for over two weeks now, Zhang Chaohua—now Leonel Sorel—still hadn’t quite grown accustomed to gauging time by the sun’s height and the direction of shadows. He blamed the original owner of this body for having pawned the only pocket watch before his rebirth, exchanging it for the 90 francs Leonel now relied upon for survival.

Soon, a flurry of hoofbeats approached from the distance—first the crisp clatter on stone, then the dull stomp in mud—as a large four-wheeled carriage pulled by two draft horses rounded the corner. Leonel immediately spotted the heads crowded inside the carriage. Before it even stopped, he stretched out his long legs onto the footboard, grabbed the edge of the window frame, and arched his body sideways, making room for the ticket seller to open the door.

“Sons of whores!”
“You shitbag, get down here!”
“Sewer rats!”

The shouts from other passengers didn’t budge Leonel’s grip. After all, as long as he became part of this carriage, no one dared forcibly pull him off. When the door swung open, he nimbly swung himself in like a monkey and tossed five sous in copper coins to the ticket seller.

“Good morning, Mr. Martin!”
“Good morning, Mr. Sorel!”

After a brief greeting, Leonel found the last vacant seat at the back of the carriage. The cramped space was packed with people, the hardwood bench just wide enough for a medium-sized seat, forcing arms to press uncomfortably against neighbors.

Martin, the ticket seller, closed the door and shook the bell hanging on it twice. Hearing the signal, the coachman cracked the reins, and the two horses resumed their heavy plodding along the Republic Avenue, pulling the carriage filled with 24 passengers.

Leonel gazed out the window. The scenery shifted from the Gothic splendor of Saint Ambrose Church to the bustling, cacophonous Republic Square. Following Saint Martin Avenue, passing through Saint Martin’s Gate, he soon spotted the outline of the town hall under reconstruction.

Even after two weeks inhabiting this body and inheriting most of the former owner’s memories, Leonel couldn’t help but marvel at this 19th-century European capital.

In 1879, its elegance, solemnity, and grandeur seemed almost otherworldly—though, of course, he avoided thinking about the 11th district where he lived.

As the Pantheon flickered past his gaze, the iconic Baroque dome and cross of the Sorbonne University came into view—his destination, albeit five minutes later than usual.

It was January 7th, the first day of classes after the Christmas holidays.

The giant clock beneath the dome showed two minutes to nine. Without hesitation, Leonel leapt off the carriage and strode briskly toward the Faculty of Letters.

His boots clicked sharply but unevenly on the polished stone slabs. He had no time to admire the reliefs of scholars adorning the walls; his mind harbored but one thought: to catch the 9 o’clock lecture on “The Origins of French Literature.”

The course’s lead professor, Ippolito Thena, an esteemed member of the French Academy, was known for his rigorous and inflexible demeanor and a particular disdain for tardiness. Rumor had it that last year, two unfortunate students were mocked mercilessly throughout the entire semester for being late on the first day.

As Leonel ascended the last few steps, he could already hear the professor’s distinctive nasal yet measured voice emanating from behind the heavy oak door of the tiered lecture hall.

“Damn it, class has started early?”

He drew a deep breath to steady his panting from the sprint and gently pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked faintly, the sound jarringly loud amid the professor’s pauses.

All eyes in the room turned to Leonel—curious, indifferent, but mostly condescending and openly disdainful.

Professor Thena, dressed in a black robe with graying hair, adjusted his delicate crystal spectacles perched on his nose. “Ah, look who it is! Our diligent gravedigger finally deigns to leave his warm bed? Mr. Sorel, do come in, do come in!”

A stifled burst of laughter rippled through the room, especially from the well-dressed, poised students.

Most hailed from wealthy Parisian families or were scions of provincial nobility and affluent merchants. They exuded faint cologne scents, their new coats impeccably tailored, shoes polished to a shine.

Leonel bowed respectfully to Professor Thena. “My apologies, Professor, the public carriage was delayed.”

Thena’s lips curled slightly. “Public carriage? What a marvel of ‘commoner ingenuity’ for travel! Seems Mr. Sorel is well-versed in the city’s street life.

Now, don’t just stand there like a post; find yourself a seat. I hope you haven’t missed too much on the noble origins of French literature—though that might be too ‘common’ for your taste.”

Leonel lowered his gaze, striving to control his emotions. He reminded himself constantly: this was the Sorbonne University of 1879, not Yenching University in 2025.

Here, class divisions were as stark and clear as the banks of the Seine. From students to professors, none bothered to conceal their contempt.

The back rows were already full. Only a few seats near the front, close to the podium, remained vacant—deliberately avoided by the wealthy students. Too close to the professor meant a higher risk of being called upon.

With no other choice, Leonel steeled himself and walked quickly to the front row under countless scrutinizing eyes.

No sooner had he settled into a vacant seat than a deliberately hushed snicker came from beside him.

It was a tall, handsome young man with a haughty gaze, dressed in a perfectly tailored deep blue velvet jacket with delicate lace cuffs peeking out. A vivid red carnation adorned his breast pocket.

He idly flicked imaginary dust from his jacket and leaned slightly away, as if Leonel carried some contagious plague.

“Albert de Roan,” Leonel’s mind immediately recalled the name. The original owner’s memories told him this was a notorious troublemaker at the Faculty of Letters, a scion of an ancient noble family who delighted in tormenting commoner students.

“Look at that outfit,” Albert murmured in a lazy noble drawl that only a few nearby could hear. “The latest fashion from Obancamp Street? Or perhaps a tribute to Jean Valjean, that tragic figure in Monsieur Hugo’s tales?”

Leonel didn’t even glance at Albert, fixing his eyes on Professor Thena but quietly retorting, “And you, Albert? Paying homage to Rastignac?”

Rastignac was a character from Balzac’s novels “Old Goriot” and “The Human Comedy”—a fallen noble who sacrificed all morals and conscience to climb the social ladder, losing his humanity in the process.

Albert blinked in surprise before his pale cheeks flushed deeply. He couldn’t fathom how usually timid Leonel dared speak back.

But now that the Republic had been established, Albert lacked the courage to cause a scene in the Academy’s lecture hall. Instead, he glared at Leonel with a warning look. “Just you wait…”

“...Therefore, we can see that the classical rules laid by Corneille and Racine form the unshakable foundation of the French literary pantheon.

Those so-called ‘new ideas’ are merely sensationalist bubbles…”

Professor Thena waved his arms passionately. For Leonel, once a young lecturer in Chinese at Yenching University, this content felt outdated and one-sided, laden with an almost obsessive reverence for classicism and a subtle disparagement of pioneers like Baudelaire and other Symbolists.

At that moment, the professor’s gaze swept over the front row again, as if seeking a “typical example” to support his arguments—or perhaps simply to chastise the tardy commoner student. His eyes settled firmly on Leonel.

“Mr. Sorel!” Thena’s voice brooked no refusal. “Since you so ‘cherish’ our literary history, please elucidate your understanding of the ‘Three Unities’ principle proposed by Boileau in *The Art of Poetry* and its specific embodiment in Racine’s tragedy *Phèdre*. Particularly, how does the unity of time serve the dramatic conflict?”

The entire lecture hall fell silent. All eyes once more fixed on Leonel. Albert de Roan and his companions in the front row exchanged amused, malicious smiles, eager for a spectacle.

The “Three Unities” dictated that a play’s plot, time, and place remain consistent: the storyline follows a single thread, the setting is confined to one location, and events unfold within a single day.

*Phèdre*, a classic French neoclassical tragedy by Jean Racine, was adapted from Greek mythology. It tells the story of Phaedra, wife of Theseus, and her forbidden love for her stepson Hippolytus.

When news of Theseus’s death reaches them, Phaedra confesses her feelings to Hippolytus, who rejects her. Theseus unexpectedly returns; Phaedra falsely accuses Hippolytus of seduction. In a fit of rage, Theseus curses his son, leading to Hippolytus’s death by a sea monster.

In despair, Phaedra commits suicide. In the end, Theseus discovers her sincere confession and mourns deeply.

The question was not particularly tricky, but for a student on the first day, just humiliated and late enough to have missed part of the lecture, being suddenly called upon to elaborate was undoubtedly a form of harassment.

In the back row, a young man slightly older than the students looked up with interest, his eyes fixed on Leonel.