Chapter 43: The Ticket to the Paris Art World
“Professors, and the young Mr. Sorel—
Debt! A weightier, more inescapable word than any crown, any code, or any bank ledger! What is history? It is not merely the monuments of emperors and nobles, the blare of battle trumpets, or the ink on treaties!
It is, above all, a path paved by silent bones—those crushed beneath the wheels of time, stirred by grand slogans, beguiled by promised glory, only to be discarded like worn-out shoes!
Look at this ‘Old Guard’! Once a lion under the emperor’s banner, fighting beneath the sunlight of Austerlitz for France’s eagle flag! His chest once burned with cries of ‘Long live the Emperor!’
But when the empire fell, when the royal standards shifted, when a new era strode forth… what did he receive? Oblivion! Poverty! Laughter in taverns! The ever-watchful eyes of secret police!
In the end… like an old dog with a broken leg, crawling on hands and knees through the winter mud!”
Hugo seemed to grow twenty years younger, transported back to his glorious days—after Napoleon III’s restoration, when he delivered his final speech before embarking on exile, not to return to France for a full two decades.
At this moment, he resembled an aged lion; though his hair and beard were white, his dignity remained as formidable as a mountain.
Fixing his gaze sharply on Sorel, Hugo’s tone grew heavy and heartfelt: “The greatness of ‘The Old Guard’ lies precisely in Mr. Sorel’s insight—his keen capture of that flicker of dignity stubbornly refusing to be extinguished amid the dust.
Mr. Sorel, the tavern boy in your story was not born indifferent; he is a product and accomplice of this oblivion! His numbness reflects society as a whole—a collective evasion of its historical debts!”
Sorel inclined his head slightly in gratitude and respect under Hugo’s steady gaze.
Hugo rose from his seat and began pacing the room that once served as the Sorbonne seminary’s scriptorium. Beneath the watchful eyes of saints etched in stained glass, his voice rang out like a great bell, its echo lingering:
“France is ill—a sickness born of accustomed suffering, of turning blind eyes to injustice, and of complacency before sacrifice.
‘The Old Guard’ is a blade plunged into the festering wound of the times. It reminds us that a nation that only knows how to advance but not to look back, a republic that praises victors but shames embracing the defeated, is crippled, incomplete!
True progress must be built upon memory of the sacrificed and the defense of the dignity of the humblest!
Gentlemen, remember this debt. Only by remembering can we earn the right to a future!”
Hugo finished his final words and, instead of returning to his seat, shook Sorel’s hand and left the editors’ office.
An eerie silence fell over the room, as if even the very breath had ceased.
Hugo’s words echoed like a roar from the depths of the soul, reverberating in every listener’s spirit.
Professor Gaston Boissier understood that any dispute over technique or ghostwriting now seemed trivial and insignificant; the ownership of ‘The Old Guard’ would no longer face challenge.
To do otherwise would be a disgrace to the entire Sorbonne Faculty of Letters and to Victor Hugo himself.
Yet he proceeded to complete the final formalities: “Ladies and gentlemen, do you have any remaining questions about Mr. Sorel’s authorship of ‘The Old Guard’?”
After a polite pause of several seconds, he eagerly announced, “Very well, the inquiry is concluded! Congratulations to Mr. Léonard Sorel for proving his talent and integrity.”
He then turned to Sorel: “You performed admirably today… hmm, when you have time, you might elaborate on ‘the spectators’ and ‘the collective unconscious.’ I believe more than one here would be interested.
Now, you may return to your classes.”
Sorel breathed a sigh of relief, bowed to Professor Boissier, then to everyone at the table, and prepared to leave.
At that moment, a lazy voice broke in: “Hey, Léonard, if you’re interested, every Tuesday evening at 112 Rue de Rome in the 8th arrondissement, I host a small salon. You’re welcome anytime.”
It was Stéphane Mallarmé’s invitation, causing a stir among those present. As France’s most sought-after poet, Mallarmé’s welcoming of Sorel into his salon was a significant signal.
Hearing this, Sorel turned back: “Thank you, Mr. Mallarmé. It is my honor!” Then he left the editors’ office.
On the way back to class, free from the professors’ watchful eyes, Sorel allowed himself a small thrill—not only for Hugo’s recognition but also for Mallarmé’s invitation.
That was “Mallarmé’s Tuesdays”!
One of the most prestigious cultural and artistic salons in late 19th-century France, frequented not only by poets like Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, but also by other artists.
Musicians such as Debussy, painters like Monet and Gauguin, and sculptor Rodin were all regular guests of “Mallarmé’s Tuesdays.”
It was also a ticket of entry, signaling that the Parisian art world was beginning to embrace Léonard Sorel as a newcomer—though he would have to wait a little longer before formally joining, not rushing to appear the very next evening.
Returning to the classroom, Professor Thénardier continued his lecture. Upon seeing Sorel, he showed no particular expression, merely gestured lightly for him to enter and take his seat.
——
In the following days, Sorel’s life remained calm. He attended classes at the Sorbonne by day, and by night he holed up in his new apartment at 12 Antin Street, writing “The Decadent City.”
Having omitted the first ten chapters linked to “Water Margin,” his progress was swift; within just over a week, he had completed about a fifth of the work. The decadent, luxurious, and corrupt worldview centered around the protagonist “Gérard Simons” gradually took shape.
[Gérard Simons’s mansion resembled a beast wallowing in a mire of luxury, exhaling desire day and night... Simons was surrounded by crowds like a bull among swans, robust, vigorous, and brimming with a shameless, almost crude pride. He wore an overly lavish, somewhat gaudy velvet coat; the large gemstone rings on his fingers glittered in the candlelight. At that moment he was spitting as he spoke of his newly acquired Lyon estate, said to rival the Petit Versailles in scale, bragging about the staggering profits he reaped from colonial trade, and how he paved his way with gold Louis coins, finally knocking on the royal door to secure enviable tax farming rights...
“Gold, dear friends!” I remember him raising a glass of deep red wine, his voice loud enough to drown out the orchestra, his face flushed with wine and smugness. “Gold is the sweetest music, the mightiest power! It can buy anything!” His small, lustful eyes swept the room, finally resting on a few young, beautiful women, his possessiveness blatant and naked...]
Following this were several scenes of his entanglements with mistresses. Yet Sorel was cautious—just as with the passage shown to Garibald, he replaced the most crucial content with “□□□ (XX lines removed here).”
The “□□□” content he wrote separately on other sheets...
By Friday, something fresh happened in the Faculty of Letters classroom—Albert de Royan and his usual entourage, absent for several days, all showed up.
Only, he looked paler than ever, as if recovering from a serious illness.
His followers had lost their usual arrogance, their heads hanging like frostbitten eggplants.
When Sorel entered the classroom, Albert stood up.