Chapter 42: This is a debt owed by the whole of France! (Seeking monthly votes!)

Ernest Renan stood up angrily, pointing at Lionel with a trembling voice: "You sewer rat, Alpine bumpkin... How dare you... how dare you..."

Noticing that Gaston Boissier was about to say something that would embarrass the Sorbonne in front of Hugo, he quickly interrupted: "Professor Renan, mind your manners! Let Lionel finish speaking first."

Then he turned to Lionel: "Mr. Sorel, please remember your courtesy!"

He was also suffering from a massive headache. Over the past century, France had wavered repeatedly between monarchy and republic, and many notions could not be eradicated overnight.

Ernest Renan was undoubtedly a first-rate Middle Eastern linguist, a positivist philosopher, and an exceptional writer, but he was also a stubborn reactionary hoping for the restoration of the Bourbon Dynasty.

Perhaps it would only be when this entire generation had passed away, and even their children after them, that such ideology could be completely uprooted from the soil of France.

Lionel nodded slightly to Gaston Boissier: "Very well, Professor Boissier. I shall now give Professor Renan the answer to his question—"

As he spoke, Lionel left the area where his chair was placed and walked to the center of the room, standing directly opposite the conference table, and began his reply in an even chillier tone:

"Professor Renan, you asked about observation. Yes, I was indeed a 'bookworm' cooped up in his study in the Alps. But I came to Paris, and then I lived in the Eleventh Arrondissement, that Eleventh Arrondissement you will probably never set foot in.

"Are not those cheap taverns and workers' cafes in the Eleventh Arrondissement my 'Edelweiss Tavern'? In my spare time, to save expenses, I also dined in cheaper, noisier little eateries.

"I observed those workers, apprentices, and impoverished artists. I watched how they spent their last few copper coins on wine, how they stared intently as the tavern keeper poured, and how they argued over a cheap plate of hors d'oeuvres.

"Their caution, their destitution, their defense of the most minuscule rights—in this regard, whether in Paris or in the Alps, there is no difference—though, of course, you will never set foot in such taverns."

The consecutive use of "you will never set foot" caused Ernest Renan's face to flush red, leaving him entirely unable to refute.

He came from an affluent background; although not of aristocratic stock, his father had once served as a court official under Louis XVIII, and he had lived his entire life in a private townhouse in Paris's First Arrondissement. Naturally, he would never visit the cheap taverns and cafes of Lionel's description.

Lionel's statement did not end there, but grew increasingly stern: "As for the Old Guard... over these past decades on the streets of Paris, have there been any fewer of those old men wearing faded old uniforms, pinning the Saint Helena Medal to their chests, and selling matches or trinkets in the cold wind?

"If in days past you had been willing to move your noble steps to the Luxembourg Gardens, you would have seen an old man lying on a chipped bench, murmuring tales of the cannons of Jena.

"From Paris to the Alps, such old men were once ubiquitous; they are the seeds of the 'Old Guard' in my heart. Literary truth, Professor, is not measured merely by walking every inch of land with one's feet! It lies in the insight of the soul!

"The details of the 'short-jacket mob,' I can lead you all to see right now; whereas the soul of the Old Guard is already groaning and perishing away in corners you will never deign to gaze upon."

Lionel's blazing gaze pierced Ernest Renan so sharply that the latter did not dare meet his eyes.

Lionel concluded finally: "Imagination? It is responsible for fusing these observations of mine into a flesh-and-blood whole—the Old Guard! Borrowing? No, Professor, this is a gift bestowed upon me by life, coupled with the eyes and soul that a writer ought to possess."

Hearing this, Ernest Renan fell silent as well. What Lionel described was indeed a realm he had never once touched upon.

He could not deny the existence of what Lionel spoke of, yet he was equally unable to tolerate a lowly commoner's son daring to offend him in such a manner.

Ernest Renan quickly found a "flaw" in Lionel's words and sneered: "Well spoken, Mr. Sorel. But the 'honor of the Imperial Guard' and the slogan 'Long live the Emperor' repeatedly emphasized by the Old Guard in your writing, along with the tattered uniform he insists on wearing—

"Let us not forget, modern France is a Republic! You write of a character so immersed in past glories and so out of touch with reality, making him the protagonist of a tragedy—oh heavens, are you perhaps a Bonapartist sympathizer? Or are you dissatisfied with the reality of the Republic?"

As soon as this question left his mouth, the professors broke into immediate disarray, and Paul Janet even stood up directly: "This falls outside the scope of today's inquiry, Lionel, and you are not obliged to answer."

Even Hugo frowned.

In today's era where the republican system was essentially consolidated, political stances had little actual impact on established figures—just as Ernest Renan was an open supporter of the Bourbons yet maintained his standing in academia through his scholarship.

However, for a young man just starting out, it was a matter of life and death for his future. In an era where everyone wore distinct labels, once you were mislabeled, it meant banishment from the mainstream.

Gaston Boissier also spoke: "Political stance is unrelated to the theme of this inquiry, Lionel; you may choose not to answer."

Ernest Renan let out a "heh" and sat down—he actually did not care whether Lionel answered the question or not; in a sense, it was even better if Lionel did not.

This way, he could plant a seed in everyone's mind that "Lionel Sorel is a Bonapartist and opposes the republican system."

Unexpectedly, Lionel calmly declined the kind intentions of Paul Janet and Gaston Boissier: "Thank you both, but I can answer this question."

He swept his gaze across the Sorbonne professors present and Victor Hugo before speaking: "Professor Boissier, Mr. Hugo, and esteemed professors. What the Old Guard clings to is not some specific political system—whether empire or kingdom.

"What he clings to is 'promised honor' and 'betrayed loyalty.' He represents all those individual lives utilized, consumed, and ultimately ruthlessly discarded by grand historical narratives."

Lionel's tone grew profound, carrying a tragic and stirring resonance, as if he had transformed into that very "Old Guard," moving everyone present: "After Waterloo, the Bourbon Dynasty abandoned him; the farce of the imperial restoration had nothing to do with him either; what can he hope for from the present Republic?

"His uniform is the sole remaining evidence confirming his identity; his slogan is the faint candlewick keeping his spirit from total collapse.

"My writing of his stubbornness, his dissonance with the times, and his tragedy is by no means intended to evoke nostalgia for the old regime, but rather to pose a question—

"When a regime, a movement, or an era draws to a close, what becomes of the dignity of ordinary people who burned their lives and devoted their loyalty to it? Where is their ultimate destination? Does society bear the responsibility to remember them, rather than merely mock or forget them?

"This has nothing to do with Bonapartism or republicanism, Professor Renan. This is about human dignity, about the debts of history, and about the sacrifice and oblivion inflicted upon insignificant individuals that could happen in any era and under any system.

"The tragedy of the Old Guard is my lament for the fate of all 'disposable' individuals. This lament is precisely an echo I have heard from the spirit of 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity' of our great French Republic.

"Respected Professor Ernest Renan, have you never heard this echo?"

Rendered speechless by this interrogation, Ernest Renan abruptly rose from his seat, grabbed his walking stick, and strode out of the editorial office without a word.

As the "bang" of the closing door faded into the air, the Sorbonne's journal editorial office fell into a dead silence, broken only by the occasional crack of firewood in the fireplace being split apart by the fierce flames.

Lionel did not sit down either, but continued to stand proudly.

The suppression and anger brought upon him over the past two months by economic hardship, family changes, and class disparity were finally vented completely at this moment through this inquiry and Ernest Renan's malicious questioning.

Amidst the suffocating silence, someone slowly began to clap, beat by beat.

All gazes turned toward the source of the applause. It was Victor Hugo, seated at the head of the conference table. Faint tears glistened in his deep gray eyes, and his aged, wrinkled hands clapped slowly yet powerfully. The applause was muffled, but it echoed through the vaulted ceiling.

"...Debt. The debt of history. Mr. Sorel, you used that word. Yes, society owes a debt. It owes a debt to those who have been forgotten, crushed, and stripped of their voice."

Hugo stood up, his massive yet already stooped physique casting a vast shadow that enveloped the entire table before him.