Chapter 48: The Heartbeat of Paris

“‘The Old Guard’? Léonard Sorel? Second year at the Faculty of Letters?”

Each word on its own was easy enough to understand, but put together, the students found their minds spinning.

They clutched copies of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin, occasionally glancing back at Léonard, who sat alone in the corner of the last row, then back down at the name in the journal.

There was only one Faculty of Letters at the Sorbonne, and only one Léonard Sorel in the faculty.

Suspicious looks gradually gave way to envy and jealousy. Some students whispered complaints, “Hasn’t Professor Bouché always been the most impartial? How much sponsorship did that marquise really provide?”

A loud bang sounded as a fist slammed down hard on the desk before the complaining student.

Albert looked arrogant as he declared, “Léonard is my friend! A friend of the Roanne family! To insult him is to insult me, to insult the Roanne family! I won’t tolerate such talk again!”

The other student nodded repeatedly, too frightened to retort.

Albert proudly shot Léonard a look that said, “See how loyal I am?” Then he opened his own copy of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin and loudly began reading Professor Bouché’s editorial:

“...If we confine our gaze merely to the specific historical identity of the ‘Old Guard,’ we greatly underestimate Mr. Sorel’s creative depth and narrow the universal resonance this masterpiece can evoke. The tragedy of the ‘Old Guard’ does not stem from loyalty to any regime but from a universal human predicament...”

“‘The Old Guard’ astonishes on another level through its highly mature and innovative narrative art. Mr. Sorel rejects the romanticism’s usual passionate embellishments and the naturalists’ habitual piling of facts, choosing instead an almost ruthless ‘observer’s perspective’—that of a young waiter in a tavern.”

“Mr. Hugo, with his penetrating insight into the era, asserts that this work ‘belongs to the future.’ To receive such high praise from the ‘conscience of France’ is a great honor for both the Sorbonne and the author himself.”

The classroom gradually fell silent. No one was paying attention to Albert’s words anymore; nearly every eye was fixed on the full-page feature of ‘The Old Guard’ on the second page of the journal. They couldn’t look away, let alone at the clownish Albert.

Albert grew more anxious as he read on. Though a reckless scion who had gained admission only through generations of generous Roanne family patronage of the Sorbonne, he had received a strict upbringing and been forced to read many books. He understood well that if the Sorbonne’s professors and Victor Hugo himself praised the story so highly, Léonard’s ‘The Old Guard’ must be extraordinary.

Money might buy off Gaston Bouché, perhaps even the dean Henri Patin; but could it buy off Victor Hugo?

Albert hurriedly finished the last paragraph of the editorial, then flipped to the second page of the journal and, like the others, began reading ‘The Old Guard’.

Minutes later, Albert suddenly looked up, eyes wide with disbelief as he glanced back toward Léonard sitting in the shadowed corner, as if seeing him for the very first time.

———

“Grandpa, today I read a story that seemed to be about you and your comrades,” a clear, youthful voice roused the drowsy Jean-Baptiste Dupont.

At ninety-five, his days were numbered. He lay frail and sickly in bed, sometimes going days without uttering a word.

His youngest granddaughter, Marie, clutching a newspaper, came cheerfully into the room and sat by his bedside.

“Grandpa, the story is called ‘The Old Guard.’ It’s set in the Alps—did you have comrades in the Alps?”

The words “Old Guard,” “comrades,” and “Alps” stirred Jean-Baptiste’s fading memories. He opened his cloudy eyes and gazed toward one corner of the room—

Where hung a red military uniform and an aged military drum, its surface yellowed with time.

Marie began to read ‘The Old Guard’ aloud to her grandfather—

“The ‘Old Guard’ is the only man standing, drinking, wearing a tweed coat. He is tall; his face pale and wrinkled, often marked with scars; a wild, graying beard...”

“People say in whispers that the Old Guard really did follow His Majesty the Emperor, winning honors at Austerlitz and Jena. But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII ordered the disbanding of these elite imperial troops...”

“The Old Guard immediately showed signs of despondency and unease; his face clouded gray as he muttered about ‘the heavy snow at Moscow,’ ‘damned Cossacks,’ and ‘that old Bruecher’—words some no longer understood.”

“He always stole. This time, in a delirium, he stole from the cellar of Mayor Morot’s house. Was it really stealing from his own? ‘What happened then?’ ‘First, the constable forced him to fingerprint a confession, then they beat him—most of the night—finally breaking his leg.’ ‘What then?’ ‘Then his leg was broken.’ ‘And after that?’ ‘Who knows? Perhaps he died.’”

“Since then, the Old Guard was not seen for a long time. At Christmas, the landlord took down the blackboard and said, ‘The Old Guard still owes nineteen sous!’ At Easter the next year, it was the same. At Pentecost, nothing was said, and by Christmas, he was still nowhere to be found. I have never seen him again—perhaps the Old Guard has truly died.”

Marie’s voice grew softer and more choked as she read, finally breaking into tears: “Gran... Grandpa, is this the ‘Old Guard’? Did... did you all really...?”

Through tear-filled eyes, she was shocked to see her once near-death grandfather suddenly rise from his bed. His skeletal fingers gripped the edge of the mattress, his cloudy eyes straining to open as if searching for the gunpowder and drumbeats buried deep in his memory.

“Hyenas... the Bourbons’ hyenas... following... always following... afraid we... afraid the Emperor would return...” His sunken chest heaved violently.

Marie hurried forward to steady him but was caught by his hands, which gripped hers with astonishing strength, leaving deep red marks.

She saw tears streaming down his deeply lined face: “Child... it’s true... all true... Gérard... Marcel... they... died like that... in the trenches... no one cared... medals... exchanged for bread... uniforms... the last shred of dignity...”

He groped toward the military drum on the wall; Marie quickly took it down and handed it to him.

———

The old man hugged the drum tightly, as if embracing a long-lost child: “Long live the Emperor?… He’s gone too... all gone... only... shame... and... cold... remain.”

His voice trailed off, leaving only heavy, wheezing breaths. He no longer spoke, his hollow eyes staring blankly into nothingness, as if all life had fled from him.

———

Banker James Rothschild and his wife were enjoying a pleasant afternoon at their estate on the outskirts of Paris.

He took a newspaper handed to him by his wife and listened absentmindedly as she described a poor student at the Sorbonne, then his eyes settled on the editorial for ‘The Old Guard’ on the front page.

Minutes later, having finished the editorial, he scoffed and tossed the paper aside with a sharp retort: “Hugo? An outdated poet, always droning on with his sentimental airs. Debt? France has enough debt—national debt, reparations... Must we pay for every obsolete old soldier as well?”

He snorted disdainfully: “Gaston is at least clever enough to steer the conversation toward ‘universal humanity’ and ‘artistic value.’ But the Sorbonne’s ‘Poetry Society’ wants works that showcase France’s elegance and vitality, not these... unsightly sores.”

“Tell Patin that this year’s funding will remain the same, but next year’s bulletin should feature more ‘uplifting’ themes. We fund a bright future, not ghosts of the past.”

Madame Rothschild nodded silently, her eyes shadowed with disappointment before lowering her gaze to read ‘The Old Guard’ herself.

———

“Is this truly your friend, the ‘poor Léonard,’ who authored this masterpiece?” Zola closed the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin and turned to Maupassant beside him. “He doesn’t seem as cynical or wild as you described in your stories, does he?”

“In this ‘Old Guard,’ he displays precise craftsmanship, uncovering the hereditary affliction lodged deep within the Old Guard—and all the French people’s hearts... If Paris had a heartbeat, it would beat faster and stronger for this masterpiece!”

Flaubert, Turgenev, and Daudet all turned their eyes to the youngest among them, who had, over the past two months, become the chief architect of the “Legend of Poor Léonard”—Guy de Maupassant.

Maupassant’s scalp tingled; he barely remembered what he had said in the previous chapter...