Chapter 46: The Anticipation of Ten Thousand Wives

"Gentlemen, ladies, and the esteemed Madame Marcella de Peña—when speaking of the maverick and untamed youth of Paris, one must certainly mention that Sorbonne student, Lionel Sorrell!

Lionel Sorrell, the impoverished young man from the Alps, wearing a coat with threadbare elbows, forced to ride the five-sou omnibus every day, living in a stinking Eleventh Arrondissement, yet forever indomitable!"

Standing in the center of Madame de Peña's luxurious drawing-room, Maupassant waved his arms and spoke with dramatic cadence.

Above his head was a ceiling draped in velvet, from the center of which hung a giant brass chandelier—though the candles within served merely as atmospheric embellishment, while the actual illumination was provided by massive gas-powered crystal lamps at the four corners of the room.

The deities depicted in the wall frescoes seemed to whisper through their expressions and features; within golden Baroque frames of varying sizes were the likenesses of the family's ancestors; the long windows were half-draped with curtains of the finest Chinese crimson satin, embroidered with phoenix-tail flowers, a masterpiece crafted by top-tier needlewomen of Suzhou.

The hostess of the salon, Baroness Marcella de Peña, was dressed in a dark blue velvet evening gown fringed with silver tassels, seated in a high-backed chair beside the fireplace, holding an ivory-handled feathered fan in her right hand, which opened and closed with deliberate slowness.

A composed, inscrutable curve always lingered at the corners of her lips—neither intimate nor aloof, as if she were waiting for the weight of a certain sentence to suffice for a nod.

Surrounding Baroness de Peña were four or five young men—some with decadent expressions and vacant eyes; others with blazing gazes full of adoration; and still others leaning slightly forward, as if poised to listen to her every utterance.

In another corner of the drawing-room, several accompanying ladies sat around a tea table, some sipping absinthe, others leafing through the newly published *Le Figaro* while wearing gloves. They occasionally murmured about whose daughter had married into a banking dynasty yet again, or whose valet had recently brawled at the market...

Maupassant was undoubtedly the focal point of the room at that moment.

He paced back and forth in the center of the drawing-room, his complexion flushed, his voice elevated: "...Just this Monday, at dawn, while the idlers of Paris were still curled up in their warm bedding, he had to stand at the tribunal of the Sorbonne, enduring an interrogation as cold and ruthless as a gleaming blade!"

"Oh?" Baroness de Peña's interest was piqued, and she suddenly asked, "Last week... no, the week before last, didn't 'Poor Lionel' reconcile with Professor Hippolyte Taine? Why would the Sorbonne interrogate him then?"

Maupassant was momentarily taken aback. Which version of the "Legend of Poor Lionel" was this, and why had he never heard of it?

Yet, true to the future "King of the Short Story," Maupassant quickly steered the narrative around: "It wasn't on account of Professor Hippolyte Taine, but rather... rather..."

He struggled to recall the fragmentary snatches of conversation he had heard at Stéphane Mallarmé's salon on Tuesday, though Mallarmé's voice was naturally languid and indistinct, and there had been a young man playing the piano on-site, leaving him with only a few keywords.

However, a mere few keywords were quite enough for Maupassant to improvise. He quickly sorted out his train of thought, and his voice regained its confident resonance: "Rather, Monsieur Victor Hugo wished to 'meet' this audacious young man who dared to challenge the authority of the Academicians!"

The appearance of the name "Victor Hugo" within the salon finally drew the attention of those young men who had previously only had eyes for the Baroness.

One of them let out a caustic sneer: "Guy, shouldn't those little tales of yours be published in *Le Figaro*? Why have you brought them here instead?

Monsieur Victor Hugo going to the Sorbonne to interrogate some bumpkin from the Alps? You might as well invent a story about His Majesty Napoleon coming back to life to lead his Imperial Guard in the conquest of Berlin!"

Maupassant grew indignant as well, retorting in ringing tones: "No, precisely because he was willing to come to the Sorbonne to witness the rise of an impoverished youth, he is Victor Hugo! And not some snobbish fool!"

The young man who had been rebuked sprang angrily to his feet from his seat, but was immediately pressed back down by a single glance from the Baroness, leaving him to turn away in a huff.

Baroness de Peña was evidently deeply intrigued by the new tale about "Poor Lionel" brought by Maupassant: "Do go on, Guy."

Encouraged, Maupassant continued to embellish the incomplete, second-hand information he had heard from Stéphane Mallarmé into a fresh legend of Lionel, fueled by his own bold imagination.

In this dramatic episode, Lionel leaped upon a table and righteously denounced the rigid administrative system of the Sorbonne, its backward pedagogical content, and the prevailing ethos of hollow emulation that permeated the entire university!

Neither the Chancellor of the Sorbonne nor the professors in attendance could help being overwhelmed by the young man's daring and eloquence.

As for Monsieur Victor Hugo, after Lionel concluded his speech, he grasped the young man's hands tightly and proclaimed to everyone present: "To suppress and humiliate a supremely talented youth is a debt owed by the Sorbonne and by France!

Gentlemen! Please remember this debt. Only by remembering it do we prove ourselves worthy of a future!"

Maupassant's final declaration was resounding and powerful, stunning everyone in the salon—such resounding, monumental maxims truly bore the distinct rhetorical style of Monsieur Hugo!

Good heavens, Monsieur Hugo actually believed that the Sorbonne and France were in debt to Lionel! What an extraordinarily lofty appraisal!

Baroness de Peña's eyes were already glistening with moisture: "Oh, heavens, I never imagined that 'Poor Lionel' could move even Monsieur Hugo to such emotion!

To allow a youth of such exceptional talent to languish in poverty is a tragedy that ought never to be permitted on the soil of France!

Guy, on the next occasion, might you bring 'Poor Lionel' to my salon?"

Only then did Maupassant realize his performance had gone somewhat too far; Baroness de Peña seemed even more interested in Lionel than in him. He therefore hastily added: "Your benevolence brings glory to the whole of Paris!

Yet Lionel is currently engrossed in crafting a masterpiece, destined for publication in the upcoming issue of the *Sorbonne Literary Review*, leaving him no leisure to attend salons; moreover, Lionel has never frequented such magnificent gatherings..."

Upon hearing this, the Baroness could only nod with a hint of regret: "A masterpiece? I can hardly wait..."

Maupassant finally wiped away a cold sweat. Seeing that the Baroness was in high spirits, he cautiously and piously drew closer to her, adopting a humble tone: "Dearest Marcella, the play I authored, *Tales of Yore*, is set to premiere on the 19th of this month at the Théâtre de Barante...

If you would deign to honor it with your presence, it would be the greatest privilege for myself, for the theatre, for all the actors, as well as the audience..."

Hearing this, the Baroness gave him a look that was half-smile and half-seriousness, asking lazily, "How much more sponsorship do you require?"

"Poor Lionel" and his encounter with Monsieur Hugo swiftly swept through the aristocratic salons of Paris, even reaching the ears of gatherings dedicated purely to the arts.

The masterpiece that "Poor Lionel" was currently creating also became the focal point of these noble ladies' attention—and the March issue of the *Sorbonne Literary Review*, which was to feature it, commanded extraordinary anticipation.

Upon seeing the mounting stack of supplementary subscription forms on his desk, Professor Gaston Boissier felt a sudden, slight tingling across his scalp.