Chapter 47: Everyone Has Two Hands; No One Idles Away in Paris

Professor Gaston Boissier’s distress did not stem from the printing volume of the journal, but from the theme of “The Old Guard.”

In past March issues, the Sorbonne Faculty Bulletin primarily showcased the talents of Sorbonne’s gifted students, featuring mostly novels in the styles of aestheticism, romanticism, or light comedy.

The distinguished patrons who generously supported the faculty attended the “poetry gatherings” mainly to display their magnanimity while cultivating an air of refinement.

After all, listening to young, handsome university students recite stories about lost shepherds in the forest falling in love with fairies was something everyone could critique and enjoy.

But “The Old Guard” was far too weighty; its critical edge targeted both the autocratic government and the republican government alike.

Victor Hugo’s notion of “historical debt” and his claim that “we all owe a debt” made anyone who heard it uncomfortable—these patrons came to the poetry gatherings to donate to the Sorbonne, not to repay its debts.

The “Old Guard” was a profoundly unique presence in 19th-century French history. Their fearless courage and loyalty to Emperor Napoleon recalled an unforgettable glorious era in modern French history, yet also symbolized a stubborn, ignorant, and coarse persona.

In Paris, political journalists often called the long-term close followers of politicians “the Guard,” a term tinged with a certain derogatory meaning.

Therefore, the publication of “The Old Guard” was likely to revive French memories of this nearly vanished group—whether the outcome would be favorable or not was beyond anyone’s control.

Thus, Dean Henri Patin felt it necessary to add a commentary before “The Old Guard” to prevent readers from overreacting—and the biggest question was how to write this commentary.

On one hand, it had to reflect that “The Old Guard” was a rare masterpiece, even praised highly by Victor Hugo himself.

On the other hand, it could not be so blunt as to wound the sensitivities of powerful figures with certain taboos—such as Ernest Renan, a staunch loyalist of the Bourbon dynasty.

One key reason for Renan’s hostility toward Lionel was that Louis XVIII, who granted their family status and wealth, was the very one who had ordered the disbanding and surveillance of the Old Guard.

After much deliberation, Professor Gaston Boissier finally dipped his quill into the inkwell, shook off the excess ink, and penned the following on the manuscript:

“At the time of this issue’s publication, we enthusiastically and cautiously present to you a student work destined to resonate not only within the Academy but across the broader literary realm—Mr. Lionel Sorel’s short story ‘The Old Guard’…

Mr. Sorel’s ‘The Old Guard,’ with its distinctly different temperament, somber strength, and impeccable artistic integrity, unveils a profoundly stirring and unique tableau… It has received the personal appreciation and high acclaim of our most esteemed literary giant—Mr. Victor Hugo.

Yet precisely because of the overwhelming artistic power of ‘The Old Guard’ and the profound depth and unique perspective of its theme, as editors, we feel a responsibility to guide readers to appreciate its literary value with clarity and beyond political contexts…”

While writing, the office door was pushed open, and Ippolito Thena stormed in, scowling and shouting at Gaston Boissier, “What exactly happened the day Mr. Hugo came?”

Boissier looked bewildered. “What happened… Didn’t you read the meeting minutes?”

Ippolito Thena sat down opposite him, clutching his chest as he struggled to steady his breathing, then said through restrained fury, “Last night, Armand attended Madame Adèle’s salon. She asked him if Mr. Hugo had gotten my medical fees reimbursed!”

Boissier remained silent.

Thena continued, “Now everywhere, people are saying ‘The poor Lionel kicked Professor Thena and owes medical fees; Mr. Hugo personally came to the Sorbonne to collect the debt and said that the student’s debt is the Sorbonne’s debt!’

Good heavens, is this still the Paris I know? Is this still the France I grew up in? Now, wherever I go, people look at me strangely…”

Boissier said nothing for a long moment, then gently reminded his hot-tempered colleague, “I think you might have misunderstood Lionel. Such rumors don’t seem like something Lionel would concoct—what benefit would that bring him?

Last night, at Madame Célestine’s, I heard a different version: ‘Professor Thena feels indebted to Lionel and wants to marry his daughter to the poor Lionel to repay the debt.’”

Thena exclaimed, “My daughter? Madeleine has been married for ten years!… Wait, so it really wasn’t Lionel?”

Boissier looked at him meaningfully, took a manuscript copy of “The Old Guard” from his drawer, and handed it to Thena. “First, read his story—I don’t believe such a young man would seek fame through such shameless means.

His talent rivals any genius I’ve seen at the Sorbonne!”

Thena took the manuscript hesitantly…

———

At Apartment 502, No. 12 Antan Street, two young men and a little girl gathered for a warm reunion.

The rectangular dining table was covered with a pristine white linen cloth; the silverware gleamed brightly, each seat set with a patterned china plate and a tall crystal goblet; the fire crackled in the hearth, and candlelight fractured delicately upon the crystal.

At the center of the table sat a large tureen containing a tenderly stewed old hen, golden broth, and mushrooms and chunks of carrot floating within.

Around the tureen were duck breast, creamy gratin potatoes, butter-roasted vegetables, and a basket filled with traditional baguettes and soft brioche.

The accompanying wine was a bottle of ordinary sparkling wine.

Lionel raised his glass: “Let us toast Miss Petty’s safe return! Cheers!”

Alice and Petty raised their glasses as well: “Cheers!”—though Petty’s glass contained lemonade.

———

Alice had hidden indoors at Lionel’s for two weeks, not even daring to open the curtains; Lionel attended classes at the Sorbonne by day and wrote late into the night, often mysteriously disappearing for whole days on weekends.

Beyond reading newspapers, Alice had no other amusement—until that day when Lionel brought home a little girl named Petty, claiming she was his maid.

She had long since grown accustomed to the strange events surrounding Lionel—suddenly becoming a writer, earning a considerable fee, and moving into an apartment she never dreamed of—and so she did not question it, especially with a ten-year-old maid now added to their household.

She was simply grateful for the company.

After the celebratory dinner, Alice finally mustered the courage to ask Lionel, “I want… I want to find a job. I can’t keep freeloading here…

Do you have any connections to help me?”

Lionel was not surprised.

Alice had been raised on her father’s farm, accustomed to hard work; staying indoors for two weeks without stepping outside was already remarkable.

But her face had appeared in several missing persons notices in the papers; if she showed herself now, the Church would likely come to “apprehend” her.

He pondered for a moment, then suddenly asked, “How is your handwriting?”

Alice was taken aback but nodded, “I’ve copied the Bible at Notre-Dame de Lure; my governess said I write well.”

Lionel smiled, “Then that makes things easier!”

———

On March 1, 1879, the current issue of the Sorbonne Faculty Bulletin was officially published.

As the most anticipated edition of the year, soon every Sorbonne student had a copy in hand.

Then, to their shock, they discovered that the front page’s most prominent spot was not occupied by some scholar’s or professor’s grand discourse, but by an introduction to a student’s work.