Chapter 53: The House Stands, Though Its Inhabitant Has Gone

An hour later, Maupassant crawled out of a foul-smelling blanket reeking of cheap perfume, sour sweat, and the stale vomit of overnight alcohol, feeling thoroughly refreshed.

This place was worlds apart from the high-class brothels in the Second, Third, and Fifth Arrondissements. The low ceiling was pasted with cheap, yellowed wallpaper, where massive mold stains spread like ugly sores, and several damp water marks were slowly expanding.

Murky light squeezed with difficulty through the cracks of a small, heavily grease-stained window that was almost opaque, barely outlining the contours of the room.

Aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room was a rickety, paint-peeling little table piled high with empty wine glasses, cigarette butts, and leftover, hardened breadcrumbs. In the corner, an enamel basin held turbid water, with suspicious impurities floating on the surface.

Yet Maupassant paid no heed to these details. He dressed himself in his respectable suit, fished out a few coins, and tossed them to the naked woman sitting on the bed.

Crawling across the mattress, the woman picked up the coins one by one. "Thank you for your generosity! May God bless you, sir!"

Just as he was about to drop his signature parting remark and leave amidst her terrified gaze, he suddenly remembered something and casually asked, "Do you know if a Sorbonne student lives on this street?

Named Lionel Sorel!"

As a student at the Sorbonne, there shouldn't be many living in a neighborhood like this, and a brothel was one of the information hubs of the district; perhaps she might know something.

Hearing the name, the woman's eyes lit up, followed immediately by a sly smile. "You mean 'Young Master Sorel'? Of course I know him. He's quite famous around here."

Maupassant looked at her in surprise, not expecting to hit the mark right away. "Oh? Can you tell me where he lives?"

The woman said nothing. Instead, she stacked the coins in her hand, pinched them between her fingers, and dropped them into the palm of her other hand.

Maupassant chuckled and fished out another ten sous. "Ten sous. Tell me where he lives."

A look of desire flashed in the woman's eyes, and she reached out to take them.

To her surprise, Maupassant closed his fist tightly. "These ten sous are yours, but you have to give me one more round, and then you can casually tell me where Lionel lives—though I'm sure quite a few people on this street know."

The woman stared in astonishment at the well-dressed, handsome gentleman before her, and finally nodded helplessly. "Very well, sir—you truly are the most peculiar guest I have ever met."

Maupassant unbuckled his belt, and his trousers slid to the floor. "Is that so? Then you should feel honored..."

***

Half an hour later, Maupassant stood before Madame Martin's apartment building. Like every other structure on this street, the house was drab, dilapidated, and on the verge of collapse.

He sighed, stepped forward, and pushed open the creaking, paint-peeling front door. A wave of odors rushed at him—a mixture of aged stew, damp wood, cheap soap, and the distinct domestic aura of numerous tenants—scarcely any better than the stench outside.

The building's foyer came into view: narrow and dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of a kerosene lamp. The floor was covered with a heavily worn, inferior carpet whose color was long past recognition.

A cheap icon of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall, with a short stub of a nearly burned-out candle flickering before it, wax pooling beneath. A bulky, dark-brown painted wooden mailbox was nailed to the wall, many of its compartments standing open and exposing curled letters crammed inside.

Madame Martin's lean figure soon appeared, her voice as sharp as ever. "Well, look who we have—a great man gracing our apartment! Good afternoon, sir, and may God bless you—though if you're here to rent a room, it means God simply hasn't had the time to bless you yet!

We only have one attic left to rent, and the monthly rate is—"

Before Madame Martin could state her price, Maupassant interrupted her. "I'm looking for someone—does Lionel Sorel live here? He's a Sorbonne student."

Hearing that name, Madame Martin's expression changed, and the words poised on her lips vanished.

The previously noisy apartment suddenly fell silent, and Maupassant could clearly feel several pairs of eyes peering at him from the dimness of the hallway.

Maupassant thought to himself that he had indeed come to the right place; the prostitute named Méril had not lied to him.

However, Madame Martin's next words felt worse than swallowing a fly. "Looking for who? That student, Sorel? He moved out! Moved out ages ago! Paid his rent in full, too! Hmph, unlike some people—"

As she spoke, she cast a meaningful glance backward, and the eyes hidden in the gloom instantly retreated.

Maupassant felt a headache coming on. "He used to live here? He moved? Where did he move to?"

Madame Martin let out a cold snort. "Who knows? 'Young Master Sorel' must have caught the eye of some noble benefactor, and now he's moved into a luxury apartment. As for where he lives, is it a place for poor wretches like us to know?"

Upon hearing this, Maupassant's scalp tingled—not because he might fail the task assigned to him by his teacher Flaubert, but because Lionel had actually beaten him to winning the favor of a wealthy lady!

This rankled him far more than being rejected by *Le Figaro* a hundred times!

***

Yet he could not afford to lose his composure now. He simply nodded with an air of breezy indifference and asked, "Which room did he live in? Can you show me?"

Madame Martin stared at him strangely, shook her head, and pointed toward the stairs. "He stayed in the attic. The door isn't locked; go up and look for yourself. But it's completely cleared out now—just a bed and a table..."

Maupassant looked up, only to see a dim, indistinguishable expanse where the sunlight filtering through the skylight churned into a chaotic blur.

***

"So, to which publication are you willing to give *The Old Guard*?" Professor Gaston Boissier asked, taking a sip of coffee and looking leisurely at Lionel.

As a professor at the Sorbonne and editor-in-chief of the *Sorbonne Literary Review*, he felt immensely satisfied with having "discovered" Lionel.

Calling Lionel to his office today was primarily to discuss the syndication and republication rights of *The Old Guard*.

The *Sorbonne Literary Review* was not run for profit; its regular circulation hovered around two thousand copies per issue. Even though the previous issue had drawn widespread attention thanks to the masterpiece by the "impoverished Lionel," it had only gained fewer than a thousand additional readers.

Yet *The Old Guard* had already built a formidable reputation. Major newspapers such as *Le Figaro*, *Le Petit Parisien*, and *Le Gaulois* had all inquired about the possibility of republishing this masterpiece.

This was the crucial step that would propel both the short story and its author, Lionel, across all of Paris and indeed throughout France.

However, in this era, choosing a newspaper also meant choosing a faction, which could heavily influence an author's creative path for a long time—perhaps even for life.

Looking at the innocent-looking Lionel before him, Gaston Boissier felt it necessary to use his life experience to guide this promising student onto the right path.

He gave a slight cough before speaking. "I believe that although *Le Figaro* does not match *Le Petit Parisien* in circulation, nevertheless—"

At that moment, as if suddenly jolted awake from a dream, Lionel interrupted the enthusiastic Professor Boissier. "Which one pays higher royalties?"

Professor Gaston Boissier: "..."