Chapter 26: Albert's Invitation

Mr. Hugo is now seventy-seven years old, a truly advanced age for this era.

Following a mild stroke last June, he has mostly recovered, yet he rarely ventures out or receives guests. His primary energy is currently devoted to completing the final volume of his last major work, *The Legend of the Centuries*. This epic masterpiece, which chronicles human history through the language of poetry, has spanned the latter half of his life; the first volume was published in 1859, and the second in 1877.

Initially, upon receiving the letter from Professor Taine, Hugo intended to write a polite refusal. However, one sentence from Taine moved the literary titan, who held a place of supreme reverence in the hearts of the French people:

[The Sorbonne cannot afford to lose its youth, vitality, and sense of justice, just as France cannot afford to lose Victor Hugo! Your presence will provide immense encouragement and comfort to these young people and will undoubtedly allow the French people to witness your greatness once more!]

Hugo was reminded of his own days as a law student. Though he had never been truly passionate about the law—merely following his father’s arrangements—the daily proximity to young peers, the clash of ideas, and the sincere exchanges remained an unforgettable memory.

In his later years, despite his growing reputation, Hugo often fell into the loneliness common to the elderly. This was especially true after the Paris Commune of 1871. Because he had sympathized with the Communards and repeatedly called on the government to pardon and release them—even urging foreign governments to grant them asylum—he had sparked a public outcry. One night, a mob of about fifty thugs attempted to force their way into his home, shouting, "Kill Hugo! Hang Hugo! Kill the scoundrel!" Although the violent act was unsuccessful, it devastated Hugo, leaving him disillusioned with the malice of human nature and the insignificance of his so-called "reputation." He felt he had merely become a decorative signboard.

After much hesitation, he took up pen and paper to draft his reply:

[My dear Taine:
Thank you for your warm invitation, and may you remain in good health...
Forgive me for being unable to attend the "Poetry Gathering." My aged, infirm body can no longer dance with beautiful ladies at such grand events.
However, I still have the strength to review the works of the Sorbonne students...]

Having finished the letter, Hugo felt a wave of weakness. Gazing at the ink-thick darkness outside his window, he rang a bell to summon his servant to help him prepare for sleep.

***

The next morning, Léonard woke promptly at the sound of the church bells striking eight.

Opening the door, he found Petit waiting for him, a basin of clean water at her feet. Because the attic was too small to accommodate her, she had recently been sleeping at her parents' home on the second floor. Seeing Léonard, she flashed a bright smile. "Good morning, Master Sorel."

Having eaten plenty of beef and chicken under Léonard’s care over the past few days, the pallor of her complexion had faded, replaced by a faint, healthy flush. Léonard brought the basin inside, shut the door on Petit, removed his coat, and began to wash and sponge himself down.

The biting cold of the water jolted his mind from lethargy to clarity. Having lived in this era for over a month, he had gradually adapted to the local custom of washing everything in cold water. It wasn’t entirely due to the poverty of being unable to afford hot water; rather, washing with cold water was considered an essential health practice of the time.

In the early 19th century, people generally believed that diseases existed in the form of "miasma," entering the body through pores and nostrils. Cold water was thought to shrink the pores and block the entry of this "sick air." Although the "germ theory" introduced by Pasteur later shifted the public’s fear from "pores" to "bacteria," triggering a "disinfection craze" among the middle and upper classes—where households took pride in the smell of lime water—the habit of using cold water persisted.

Léonard, however, had made a firm resolution: if he struck it rich by writing novels and could afford a grand villa like Flaubert, Zola, or Maupassant, he would definitely live a life of hot baths.

After washing, and before heading out, Léonard gave Petit two tasks and two francs: buy food for the two of them for the day and cook it using the method he had taught her; he would return for lunch and dinner. He also tasked her with transcribing the manuscript of *The Old Veteran* left on the desk, telling her to look up any unfamiliar words in the nearby dictionary—he had taught her basic spelling and dictionary skills the previous year. Petit was bright and learned quickly; were it not for her mother constantly interrupting her to do chores, she might have been able to write letters on her own by now.

Watching Petit nod emphatically, Léonard felt a sense of relief. He patted her head and hurried downstairs.

The courses at the Sorbonne were as tedious as ever. The professors repeated theories and works from a century or even three hundred years ago, as conservative as zombies resurrected from the Middle Ages. Professor Hippolyte Taine, though formal, seemed as trendy as a rock star in comparison—if, indeed, there were such a thing as rock music in this age.

Léonard, bored to tears, hid in a corner at the back of the classroom and continued his work on *The Old Veteran* in his notebook. After all, writing *The Decadent City* in class was still too risky.

[I heard people talking behind his back that the old veteran really was a member of the Old Guard who followed His Majesty the Emperor, having distinguished himself at Austerlitz and Jena. But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII issued an order, and the Emperor’s elite were disbanded. Some were sent back to their hometowns, while many others were shadowed by secret police and could find no honest work. They grew poorer and poorer, until they were nearly begging for food. Fortunately, he was a crack shot, and sometimes he would hunt or drive away wolves for people in exchange for bread. Sadly, he had a bad habit: he was a heavy drinker. Once he got a few coins, he would head straight to the tavern and drink himself into a stupor, often neglecting his duties. After this happened a few times, those who had asked for his help stopped doing so. The old veteran had no choice but to occasionally resort to petty theft. Yet, in our shop, his conduct was better than anyone else’s; he never defaulted on a debt. Even if he didn't have cash on hand, he would have it written on the blackboard, and within a month, he would surely pay it off and have his name erased from the board.]

As Léonard wrote, not even rising during the break, the paper suddenly darkened. Someone was standing at his desk, blocking the light.

He looked up to see Albert de Rohan, leading his entourage, surrounding his row of seats. Léonard frowned. Since the incident in the principal’s office, Albert hadn't bothered him for a long time. Was he relapsing into his old ways?

Before he could speak, Albert broke the silence. "Léonard, do you have any plans for the weekend?"

Léonard thought to himself that he certainly did. He had just received 1,500 francs in cash and a 1,500-franc draft from Gabriel, an advance for "An Honest Parisian," and he intended to look at houses over the weekend to move as soon as possible. But seeing that Albert’s tone didn't sound like a provocation, he asked, "Why? Is there something you need?"

Albert hesitated for a moment before stating his purpose: "This weekend, we are going to explore the 'Empire of the Dead.' Would you like to come along?"

Léonard paused. The "Empire of the Dead" was the inscription carved above the entrance to the famous Paris Catacombs, and it was the name by which the place was known. In this vast network of underground tunnels lay the remains of six million people, interred since the 18th century. It was managed by the church and had always been considered a forbidden place, steeped in supernatural legends.

As he hesitated, he clearly saw a smile of contempt slowly creep across Albert's lips.