Chapter 49: The Mysterious Visitor (Seeking Monthly Votes)

Maupassant stood up from the sofa, pacing back and forth in the living room as he spoke: "...Yes, that was Lionel's original character, but—he met me!"

Hearing this, Zola, Flaubert, and the others all cast incredulous glances his way.

Although they were all quite fond of the talented young man, they were well aware of his lifestyle. To suggest that Maupassant could have any positive influence on Lionel Sorel was unlikely, to say the least.

It was a miracle he hadn't dragged Lionel through every brothel in Paris.

With an embarrassed cough, Maupassant casually began to explain: "I once shared our master's famous maxim with him—'The most glorious day in life is not the day of success, but the day that gives birth to a will to face life's challenges and bravely stride forward from lamentation and despair.'

I believe it was those very words that enabled him to cast off the inferiority complex born of his humble origins, begin challenging life's adversities, and stride toward a new dawn through his writing."

Maupassant cast a furtive glance at Flaubert, and seeing the master's expression soften slightly, he secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

Yet, his audacious nature compelled him to elaborate further: "I also shared Mr. Zola's famous saying with him—'The only happiness in life is to keep moving forward.'

That is how Lionel realized that mere cynicism would only bring his life to a standstill; only by brewing the ordinary details of life into poetry, much like Mr. Zola, could he reap happiness along the path of progress."

Hearing this, Zola remained somewhat skeptical, but nevertheless gave a slight nod of approval.

Growing even more excited, Maupassant turned toward Turgenev: "Mr. Turgenev, Lionel holds you in the highest regard as well..."

Turgenev hastily interrupted: "Alright, I'm not particularly interested in knowing which of my quotes you shared with him—what I really want to know is how this Lionel Sorel is doing lately. Is he still in such dire straits?"

Maupassant’s old face flushed. In truth, ever since treating Lionel to a single public meal, he had never laid eyes on him again. Every subsequent episode of the "Legend of Poor Lionel" short playlet was entirely the result of his impromptu improvisations.

Countless times, he had told himself: "I mustn't talk about Lionel at this salon!"

Yet the hosts of those salons, particularly the vapid society ladies, somehow had an insatiable appetite for this story of a "poor boy's counterattack."

Consequently, he had been forced to turn his short pieces into a serial, constantly peppering them with foreshadowing, twists, climaxes, and resolutions... utilizing every single trick Flaubert had ever taught him.

He even drew inspiration from "sideline stories" overheard at other salons...

In the end, he usually concluded with a flourish: "Such is my young friend Lionel—poor yet upright, hot-tempered yet learned, rude yet eloquent. Please forgive me for bringing such a rough-hewn story into so refined a setting. I shall certainly have a stern word with him!"

Then the ladies would hide their smiles behind their fans, instructing him in a slightly intoxicated tone: "Guy, don't... Just let Lionel remain true to his nature.

Good heavens, 'Poor Lionel,' 'Rude Lionel,' 'Hot-tempered Lionel'... Does Paris really harbor such a destitute young man!?"

Consumed by a frenzy of jealousy, Maupassant desperately wanted to shout at them: "I can be rude too! I can be hot-tempered too..."

Yet Maupassant was not without his rewards—precisely because of his brilliant storytelling, he had secured sponsorship, allowing his play *Old Stories* to be staged at the Théâtre de Ballande.

Though the reception was lukewarm, it was nonetheless a successful beginning.

"Guy, what is the matter with you?" Seeing Maupassant remain silent for so long, Turgenev couldn't help prompting him: "Have you not seen Lionel recently?"

Snapping back to reality, Maupassant hurriedly patched things up: "Lionel has been utterly consumed by his writing lately, so I indeed haven't seen him. But... he should still be living in the Eleventh Arrondissement, if I recall correctly... somewhere around Oberkampf Street.

Yes, Oberkampf Street!"

At these words, Turgenev turned to Zola and Flaubert: "Mr. Zola, Mr. Flaubert, I think we ought to invite this 'Poor Lionel' to our salon.

Aren't you the least bit curious about what kind of person this young man truly is?"

Taking a sip of his red wine, Zola stood up from the sofa as well, walked over to the desk, and picked up the copy of *The Sorbonne Literary Review*. Occupying a full page right before him was *The Old Guard*.

Zola was a slow reader who had the habit of taking notes as he went, so the margins of the newspaper and the spaces between the lines were covered in pencil marks.

After swiftly scanning the novel, he spoke with deep emotion: "What a magnificent pathological dissection! This young man has used a microscope to observe the maladies of society, yet he has not—or perhaps simply refuses to—prescribe a remedy.

And that very detachment constitutes the harshest indictment of all!"

He promptly turned to Flaubert: "We must meet him. His method is worthy of the most serious consideration by 'Naturalism'!"

Flaubert nodded: "Lionel Sorel... His vision is too piercing, and his heart too stern—yet are these not the essential qualifications of a true writer?

I agree. This piece, *The Old Guard*, is proof enough that he is one of our own!"

At this, Flaubert turned to Maupassant: "Guy, go and invite him. Have him come to my house this very Sunday."

Biting the bullet, Maupassant consented: "Yes, Master! I shall go find Lionel tomorrow!"

Alphonse Daudet, who had remained silent for quite some time, suddenly smiled: "Guy, you've certainly found yourself a formidable 'rival'!"

Meeting Daudet's all-knowing gaze, Maupassant felt an inexplicable surge of anxiety.

***

Far removed from the eye of the storm, Lionel's life was far more tranquil than anyone could have imagined.

Due to the stark class segregation of the era and the lagging speed of media dissemination, the tidal wave stirred up by *The Old Guard* had not yet washed upon his shore.

Congratulatory remarks from his fellow classmates remained the most significant reaction he had experienced over the past two days.

At present, Lionel had a much more pressing task: finishing the first part, "Temptation and Ascent," of *The Decadent City* and handing it over to Gabriel, with the concluding section being precisely *Irena Drunkenly Disrupts the Grape Trellis*.

Compared to the original text of *The Plum in the Golden Vase*, the plot progressed at a much faster pace. After all, Lionel had already omitted many highly sinicized elements that defied adaptation, as he had no intention of genuinely turning the work into a masterwork of French vernacular fiction.

Nor did Gabriel possess the patience to wait for him to meticulously polish the prose.

The only thing Lionel regretted was that he lacked the time—and couldn't afford—to hire a copyist. Although he had secured a copying job for Alice, *The Decadent City* certainly could not be entrusted to her.

At the post office on Boulevard Saint-Martin, he wrapped up the thick manuscript, filled in the address, requested the post office's most expensive "same-day delivery" service, and paid a full ten sous in postage.

Leaving the post office, he boarded an omnibus to attend his classes at the university.

To his utter astonishment, the moment he stepped down from the carriage, he spotted a carriage so luxuriously gilded it could only be described as opulent, parked right at the gates of the Sorbonne. The usual bustling, noisy crowds were nowhere to be found, and the carriages of other students and professors were parked at a respectful distance.

Immediately afterward, the great gates of the Sorbonne swung wide open, allowing this magnificent carriage to roll unhindered straight into the campus courtyard.