Chapter 4: Expulsion

The "table d'hôte," originally referring to a practice where all guests and the innkeeper sat at a single large table to share a meal at set times, eventually evolved into a widely accepted style of dining where anyone could join for a fee.

It was more refined than the cheap bistros where the beef was as tough and leathery as a boot, yet more modest than restaurants offering private dining areas. It was perfectly suited for Maupassant and Leonard, two friends who had just met.

It was noon, so the food was not as lavish as the evening spread, making it cheaper as well. Even so, the table was laden with roasted sausages, beef stew, and several varieties of curious fish.

"If we could come in the evening," Maupassant whispered, "we could have their famous roast grouse—but I have another engagement tonight."

Leonard nodded. "This is already quite a feast!"

At the edges of the table sat baskets of bread, a full tureen of thick soup, a large bowl of salad, salt cellars, and cruets filled with pepper or cinnamon. Naturally, there was also wine from various regions, its deep red color inviting.

Whenever a platter of food was emptied, the hostess would step forward to remove it and replace it with a fresh, overflowing dish.

At a "table d'hôte," there was no need for fancy plating; so long as the portions were generous, diners would loudly praise the proprietor's munificence.

The table was already crowded with people: old men, youths, intellectuals, government clerks, engineers... Most were strangers to one another, yet as they stuffed themselves, the clatter of silverware and the mingling of wine and conversation created a convivial atmosphere.

This was a far cry from the elegant, noble "French dinners" in Leonard's memory that lasted three or four hours; it felt more like a rustic banquet.

Watching seasonings splash onto the lukewarm tablecloth and breadcrumbs scatter everywhere, Leonard found it rather amusing. He picked up his knife and silver fork and joined the gluttonous feast.

From a platter two arms' lengths away, he speared a chunk of tender, braised rump, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, carved off a large piece, and began to chew.

In an instant, the rich, savory essence of the meat filled his mouth, surged up through his nose, and struck directly into his brain. The body’s primal hunger for high-quality protein, fat, and amino acids was finally sated. He followed this by ladling himself a bowl of mushroom soup, the warmth spreading through his body, which had been chilled all morning.

The "hunger and cold" of the past half-month seemed to find total redemption in this moment.

"If only I could eat like this every day..." No sooner had this thought emerged than Leonard extinguished it.

He had watched with his own eyes as Maupassant pulled eight francs from his pocket to pay the proprietor of the Hotel Prince—meaning four francs per person. An ordinary person's daily food budget was barely one franc.

Since his rebirth, he had scoured the original owner's memories and every corner of that cramped attic, confirming his total assets were only 90 francs and 35 centimes. Even that 90 francs had been borrowed before Christmas by pawning his grandfather's pocket watch.

The 900 francs from last year had long been spent, and the 900 francs for this year had been requested by letter several times with no response.

Maupassant was quite the conversationalist. Within fifteen minutes, Leonard learned that he had just received a transfer from the Colonial Administration of the Ministry of the Navy to the Ministry of Education, set to take office next month, and was currently on leave. That was why he had the leisure to "inspect" the Sorbonne.

Mid-meal, he even began debating with a retired primary school teacher whether the "Empire" or the current "Republic" was better. The intensity of the argument almost made the elegant, conservative old man jump up and hurl insults, but he finally just spat out, "France cannot exist without an Emperor!" before dropping his cutlery, wiping his lips with a napkin, and storming out of the Hotel Prince.

Maupassant, flushed and exhilarated, felt no guilt for provoking the stranger, even mocking his retreating back: "The only thing France cannot exist without is wine, not an Emperor!" He then drained his glass of Bordeaux in one gulp.

Leonard watched the over-excited Maupassant in silence, trying to keep a low profile. This great literary giant would later lose his mind, end up in an asylum, and die prematurely at forty-three—it seemed there were omens.

However, his appetite was indeed astonishing; he ate nearly three portions before setting down his cutlery under the murderous glare of the innkeeper. Leonard finally understood why he had brought him to this "table d'hôte" buffet.

Maupassant let out a resounding belch, wiped his mouth carelessly, and asked Leonard, "Why did you eat so little?"

Leonard: "..."

The two finally left the Hotel Prince before the owner reached his breaking point.

Maupassant still seemed unsatisfied. "The taste here is only average, far inferior to the weekend lunches at M. Zola’s..." He stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

Leonard’s heart fluttered; his instinct was to press for more, but he suppressed the urge and acted as if he had heard nothing. Yet, Maupassant’s keen observation caught that fleeting tremor, and his estimation of the young man rose a notch.

He pulled out a gold pocket watch. "It’s 1:40 already. You should get back to the Sorbonne. I am curious, though—if you are late again this afternoon, will you still perform as well as you did this morning?"

This was clearly a joke. Leonard smiled shyly. "Thank you for the meal! I really must go back to class—and you?"

Maupassant shook his head. "I have other business this afternoon."

Leonard tactfully tipped his hat and bowed in farewell. "Then I wish you all the best!" With that, he turned to leave.

Maupassant looked a bit surprised, hesitated, but ultimately said nothing, watching as Leonard disappeared around the street corner with hurried steps.

The afternoon class was a tedious Latin lecture. The professor read from the text while the students grew drowsy. In this era, the Latin originals of the Homers were long obsolete; only freaks and bookworms cared for them. Yet, for Leonard, attending his first Latin class, it was fascinating.

It was 5:00 p.m. when the classes finally concluded.

Having gained much, Leonard did not take a public carriage but walked for nearly an hour to reach his apartment on Oberkampf Street in the 11th arrondissement, managed by the widowed Madame Martin.

As he entered, he was hailed by Madame Martin. The foul-tempered old woman, whose cooking was even worse than her manners, poked her white-haired head out from the first-floor parlor and said in a shrill, mocking tone, "Isn't it our young Monsieur Sorel? You’ve received a letter from home."

She tossed an envelope at Leonard’s feet—she had no patience for this provincial who often lagged on his rent.

Leonard sighed, bent down to pick up the letter, and began to open it as he climbed the stairs, his heart filled with anticipation: "The living expenses have finally arrived..."

However, the first line of the letter left him stunned:

"My dear Leon: You had better drop out of school..."