Chapter 57: Lionel's First Night

(Some people say I hate Maupassant—Heaven is my witness, he is one of my favorite writers and one of the literary inspirations of my path. To some extent, I love Maupassant second only to Lu Xun.)

The shadow of the Cathedral of the Archdiocese of Paris (namely Notre-Dame) seemed to cast itself over the well-groomed, yet slightly flushed round face of Archbishop Guibert Guillaume Merme de Bouin, reddened by a bout of "holy indignation."

His gray eyes, usually accustomed to radiating compassion during sermons, were now blazing with scorching fury as they stared fixedly at the thick volume spread open on his desk. The cover was plain to the point of provocation, while its pages churned with what he called "the hellfire capable of burning down the foundations of two centuries of faith":
*The Decadent City*.

He was about to summon Father Marcel, who had reported the book to him, but suddenly remembering something, he cast a guilty glance at his right hand, quickly pulled out a soft piece of silk to wipe it meticulously, and then tossed the cloth far away before calling out: "Marcel, come in for a moment."

Father Marcel, a young clergyman with a resolute expression, soon stood before Archbishop Guibert’s desk: "At your service!" However, the faint scent of heather lingering in the air made him slightly knit his brows.

"Blasphemous! Shameless! Unprecedentedly venomous!" Archbishop Guibert’s low, rage-filled voice reverberated through the spacious and luxurious office, sounding like a wounded donkey.

His short, white fingers jabbed viciously at the open pages, as if trying to use the holiness of his fingertips to purify the filthy text. On that page, it described how Lord Simmons used wealth and power to turn a parish doctor—who ought to have represented the sacred—into an accomplice in covering up the truth of the poisoning of the pastry chef Francisco Pistor.

"Look! Look at how they desecrate the sacred white cassock! How they trample the conscience of God's servants into the mire! This is no simple moral decay; this is an erosion of the very foundations of the Church!
It is more blatant and more venomous than Boccaccio's *Decameron* or Hugo's *The Hunchback of Notre-Dame*!"

He rose, walked around his desk, approached Father Marcel—who stood rigidly aside, hardly daring to breathe—and suddenly seized him tightly by the shoulders. His voice pitched abruptly higher, carrying a trace of tremor: "Marcel, my child, have you ever considered—
When the men of Paris, regardless of rank, become obsessed with such writings that depict the bribing of clergy, the desecration of sacraments, and the utmost depths of luxury and depravity, where will their souls drift? And where shall our authority find its standing?!"

Father Marcel lowered his head, his gaze falling upon the archbishop's impeccably polished, exquisite leather shoes, and cleverly slipped out of the archbishop's grasp by turning around: "As you say, this... this text is indeed filled with dangerous poison and is deeply concerning."

Thinking of the subtle changes brought upon him over the past few months by the jokes about priests in *The Clamor*, Archbishop Guibert licked his plump lips and flashed an ambiguous smile, but his voice turned high-pitched once more: "Concerning? No, Pierre, this is already a war!"

His well-tailored purple cassock, symbolizing holiness and authority, swayed with his trembling body, and the golden crucifix upon his chest gleamed in the light: "A war against God, against the Church, and against the pure soul of France!
We must strike back! We must root out this malignant tumor entirely!"

Archbishop Guibert’s gaze sharpened. The trace of worldly pleasure derived from reading "gossip of the streets" had vanished ten minutes ago; now he was consumed by a grander and more "sacred" ambition.

He leaned in close behind Father Marcel, his breath washing over the young subordinate's ear, and suddenly lowered his tone, speaking in a voice that was almost tender: "Marcel, my dear child, would you be willing to make a small contribution toward helping us win this war?"

Father Marcel hurriedly spun around again to face Archbishop Guibert directly: "I am... at your service!"

Archbishop Guibert revealed an enigmatic smile: "It is not difficult—this afternoon, take my letter of introduction, go to the police station, find Chief Gigo, and hand it to him.
At the same time, you must tell him—" At this point, Archbishop Guibert straightened his torso abruptly, spreading his arms wide like the compassionate saint in the oil painting behind him.

"Out of a deep concern for public order, good morals, and the spiritual health of the next generation of France, I, on behalf of the Church, strongly hope that the Paris Police Prefecture will take action as soon as possible, using thunderous means to trace the source of this poisonous book.
The Church will closely follow the progress of this matter and is willing to support him spiritually and morally in his sacred duty to safeguard the pure soul of the capital of France."

With that, he lowered his hands and stared into Father Marcel's eyes: "Can you do this, my child!"

Bathed in sweat, Father Marcel managed to steady his mind: "I can... yes, I will do my utmost not to disappoint you, Your Grace. May I... may I take this book with me?
Otherwise, Chief Gigo might not even know what *The Decadent City* is."

A mocking expression appeared on Archbishop Guibert’s face: "He doesn't know? Trust me, Marcel, if there is only one man in Paris who owns this book, it is certainly him!"

With apprehension, Father Marcel bowed his head: "Understood, Your Grace."

Archbishop Guibert waved a hand, signaling Marcel to withdraw first, as he needed to rest.

——————

"And so, gentlemen, the birth of *The Old Guard* did not stem from a grand historical proposition, at least not initially. It sprang from a... almost physiological visual impact.
It was in the Alps, a rugged and authentic world completely different from the bustling prosperity of Paris. In a small tavern permeated with the scent of inferior gin and cheap pickled olives, anyone could catch sight of 'him'—
An old veteran wearing a faded, tattered uniform, yet striving desperately to maintain a certain decorum. He stood outside the counter, drinking the cheapest liquor alongside workers clad in coarse linen jackets. Every wrinkle on his face was etched with the smoke of past battles and present destitution.
He was an out-of-place ghost, a living specimen forgotten at the margins of an era."

Léonard stood in the center of the living room, recounting in a calm and steady tone.

The living room was not large. Aside from a sofa and some clumsy pieces of European-imagined Chinese-style furniture and porcelain, there was only a massive desk piled high with books, manuscripts, and trinkets, though the desk was covered with a red cloth at the moment.

The room was filled with the rich aroma of cigars, the scent of leather and paper from aged books, and the gentle crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn, allowing the daylight from outside to blend with the gas wall-lamps indoors and illuminate every corner.

Seated on the sofas surrounding Léonard were several men of varying ages, whose gathering was sufficient to constitute half the landscape of nineteenth-century French literature.

This was "Sunday at Flaubert's," and also the inaugural night of Léonard Sorel's ascension into the legendary literary and artistic salons of Paris.