Chapter 3: A Taste of the Exotic

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Lionel was startled and carefully examined the young man before him, realizing that he was indeed the same person as the bearded middle-aged man featured on the cover of the novel collection to be published in the future. Only, at this time, his beard was not yet as wild and thick; instead, it was neatly groomed, lying closely on his upper lip and cheeks.

“1879... 1879...” Lionel murmured the year to himself, confirming that Maupassant was still unknown at this time, and that the famed “Boule de Suif” had yet to be published, shaking the French literary world. Smiling gently, he shook Maupassant’s hand: “It’s my honor—but may I ask why?”

Maupassant’s face lit up with pleasure, his tone unusually relaxed: “You gave me a great show, Mr. Sorel. I had thought the Academy was full of dull bookworms or frivolous noble sons. But you changed my view. Your interpretation of ‘Fedora’ was brilliant!”

Lionel removed the cap from his head and held it to his chest, nodding slightly. “Thank you for your praise, sir! But a mere five-minute classroom speech hardly merits a franc!”

Meeting a future luminary like Maupassant was certainly a good thing, but accepting his invitation rashly seemed imprudent; until he knew Maupassant’s true intentions, Lionel preferred to be cautious.

More than a free meal, he valued earning Maupassant’s respect and lasting friendship.

After all, historical records portrayed this “King of the Short Story” as temperamental, capricious, proud, and arrogant. In his youth, he disliked church schools so much that he deliberately misbehaved to get expelled.

If Lionel truly had value in Maupassant’s eyes, then declining would not make Maupassant give up; if it was a mere whim, then there was no need to become a mere amusement in his life.

Maupassant evidently did not expect Lionel to refuse immediately, instead revealing a tactful probing—showing humility without provoking offense.

This only deepened Maupassant’s interest in the young man.

Usually, such social finesse appeared only in those from affluent families with proper etiquette training. Lionel’s worn coat and poorly polished shoes indicated his family likely lacked the means to hire an etiquette tutor.

—When he sat in the back row, the whispers of other students confirmed this.

Especially when he announced his name, emphasizing the noble particle “de” in the middle—a symbol of aristocratic identity—which, even under the Republic, still commanded respect among commoners.

Yet Lionel showed no emotional reaction, responding gracefully to the compliment and politely declining the invitation.

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Could it be that this commoner student naturally possessed a noble temperament, just like himself?

Unwilling to miss the opportunity, Maupassant took from his pocket a palm-sized notebook, opened to a page, and handed it to Lionel.

Lionel took it and saw it filled with words and short phrases:

“Deep chestnut hair,” “Clean lines of the profile,” “Long eyelashes dusted with golden powder in the morning light,” “Language with an undeniable calm,” “Agitation,” “Dead silence,” “A duck terrified as if seeing an eagle”...

“This is...” Lionel asked, puzzled, “Notes from class just now?”

Maupassant, pleased that he understood, took back the notebook: “This is my shorthand notebook—like a sketchbook for a painter! My teacher taught me to always record the traits of people, events, and things.

He told me, ‘Learn to observe life with your eyes, but more importantly, make your hand obey your eyes and write down what you see with your own hand.’”

Lionel smiled; he knew exactly who Maupassant’s teacher was, but since Maupassant hadn’t named him, there was no need to mention it; still, he had to show respect: “Your teacher must be an outstanding literary master. His training is the true path of literature!”

Hearing Lionel’s compliment, Maupassant became even more excited, yet still did not reveal the teacher’s name, continuing, “I came to the Sorbonne to observe what university students are like nowadays.

To speak frankly, they’re lifeless, showing nothing but reverence to professors, like mice scared of cats.

And the professors? They’re like that American named Edison’s invention from a few years ago—the phonograph—repeating the same dull, outdated lectures every class.

Honestly, sitting in the back row, I nearly fell asleep—

But then you came in, Mr. Sorel—from when you pushed open the door to the classroom, to answering Professor Thénard’s tricky questions—you were a vivid story in yourself, full of dramatic elements, a five-minute ‘Fedora’ worthy of a play.

Had you been sitting in class from the start, it wouldn’t have had the same effect; precisely because you were late, precisely because of your—if I may say—commoner status, precisely because of the hostility from other students, precisely because of Professor Thénard’s harshness—

Of course, most importantly, precisely because of your profound insight and eloquence on ‘Fedora’...

So, Mr. Sorel, I’m not inviting you to lunch for your five-minute speech, but for this brilliant story—does that reason suffice?”

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Listening to the passionate and eloquent Maupassant, Lionel’s smile grew even brighter: “Of course, Mr. Maupassant! It is my great honor to dine with you!

But please, just call me ‘Lionel.’”

Maupassant was delighted and led Lionel outside the Academy.

At that time, universities basically had no cafeterias; students from out of town had to eat at restaurants or return to their rented apartments—if meals were included.

France had not yet adopted the three-meal system; most people paid little attention to breakfast, usually having a brunch between 10 a.m. and noon. Poor students could get by on bread costing ten sous and milk costing five sous.

The main meal was dinner, and it needed to be nourishing.

Students at the Sorbonne from modestly well-off families had annual living expenses of about 1,200 francs, or more comfortably, 1,500 francs.

They often lodged on Saint-Jacques Street or Maison Sorbonne Street, dining at simple eateries like “Wil,” “Rousseau,” or “Fricot,” enjoying dinners costing only 80 sous, then dancing late into the night at inexpensive taverns like “Grand Charrue.”

Poor Lionel, however, had only 900 francs a year, so he lived in the chaotic 11th arrondissement, ate the barely edible meals provided by his landlady Madame Martin, and had never been to a dance.

Though Maupassant was not yet famous, he had worked for years at the colonial administration of the Navy Ministry, so his financial situation was decent, and naturally he did not frequent those cheap eateries.

Instead, he and Lionel walked for a full twenty minutes to a restaurant called the “Prince Inn,” paid eight francs, and sat down to enjoy the same delicious food alongside the owner and other patrons.

This dining experience was eye-opening for Lionel; for Zhang Chaohua, tasting a French grand meal of this era for the first time, it was a rare indulgence.

(The evening chapter follows)