Chapter 61: In the Eyes of a Thousand People, There Are a Thousand "Old Guards"

As *The Decadent Metropolis* swept through Paris's underground book market with astonishing speed and momentum, vastly enriching the nocturnal lives of Parisian gentlemen, a formal and dignified short story published in *Le Petit Parisien* also sparked a considerable response.

However, the title was not simply *The Old Guard*, but had been revised to:

"A Masterpiece Shaking the Literary World by a Sorbonne Scholar: *The Old Guard — A Dirge for a Forgotten Hero*"

It even carried a long, soul-stirring subtitle:

"He once fought beneath the Emperor's eagle standard, yet now he crawls amidst the taunts of a tavern..."

For the vast readership of *Le Petit Parisien*, composed primarily of small shopkeepers, laborers, artisans, and junior civil servants, the name "Sorbonne" carried an inherent sense of distance.

It was a place where young masters, misses, and gentlemen were gilded; it belonged to another world.

Yet, words like "forgotten hero," "Emperor's eagle standard," and "crawling amidst taunts" acted like fat, wriggling earthworms on a fishhook, enticing the hearts of these "fish."

————

Inside a Parisian tailoring workshop, beneath the yellow-white glare of gas lamps, a dozen skilled craftsmen labored diligently.

Pieces of fabric were cut into various shapes, fed into sewing machines with different functions, and transformed into garments beneath nimble hands.

Near the workshop's entrance sat a middle-aged man whose face was covered in scars and whose attire was in rags. The right sleeve of his coat hung completely empty, pinned securely to his waistband.

Using his remaining left hand, he flipped through a copy of *Le Petit Parisien*, reading aloud the contents in a hoarse voice:

[Following All Saints' Day (November 1st), the alpine mountain winds grew colder by the day, signaling the approach of late autumn. Relying entirely on the hearth all day long, I even had to put on my heavy overcoat. One afternoon, when there were not a single customer, I sat there with my eyes closed.

Suddenly, I heard a voice, "A glass of wine." Although extremely low, the voice was thoroughly familiar. When I looked, there was absolutely no one in sight. Standing up and peering outside, I saw the old guard sitting on the steps right beneath the bar counter.

……

As usual, the proprietor smiled at him and said, "Old Guard, you've been stealing things again!" This time, however, he did not argue very much, merely offering a single phrase: "Do not mock me!"

"Mock you? If you didn't steal, how did you break your leg?" the old guard muttered in a low voice, "Fallen, fallen, fallen..." His expression was much like a plea to the proprietor not to bring it up again.

……

Before long, he finished his wine, and amidst the laughter and banter of the others, he sat down and slowly dragged himself out the door using his hands.]

Before the story was even finished, the tailors heard the man reading the newspaper actually begin to sob, his falling tears striking the newsprint with a rhythmic tapping sound.

"Hey, Jacques, what's wrong? Is the story finished?" asked a tailor, pausing his work.

The man hurriedly wiped his eyes with his hand, then apologized to the crowd, "Forgive me, everyone, I was just thinking of myself." With that, he glanced down at his right side.

"You mean the 'old guard' in the story? Don't dwell on it, Jacques. Bourbons, Republic, Empire... they're all pretty much the same," another tailor spoke up.

He stepped away from his sewing machine, approached Jacques, and patted him on the shoulder, "You're lucky, aren't you? Even though you lost your hand at Sedan, you managed to survive. Just think of your comrades."

Jacques nodded, omitting the final paragraph of the story, and instead flipped to another page to begin reading a different news report:

[Recently, Baroness Alekseyevna from Russia purchased an estate worth 700,000 francs in the Montmartre district of Paris, comprising a small eighteenth-century chateau, two farms, and a small lake.

According to informed sources, Baroness Alekseyevna intends to reside permanently in Paris to escape her rigid and dull husband in Moscow. Another informed source reveals that not only are there hundreds of male and female servants in the estate attending to the Baroness's daily life, but a handsome Parisian scholar also accompanies her side from dawn till dusk...]

The tailors chuckled. This was Paris, and this was France!

————

In a noisy working-class tavern on Rue Saint-Antoine, hazy with tobacco smoke and the clinking of glasses, a bearded man pipe clenched in his teeth read the final paragraph aloud:

[From then on, the old guard was not seen for a long time. When Christmas arrived, the proprietor took down the chalkboard and said, "The old guard still owes nineteen sous!" By Easter of the following year, he said again, "The old guard still owes nineteen sous!" But by Pentecost he said nothing more, and by the next Christmas he was no longer to be seen.

To this day, I have never seen him again—most likely, the old guard is indeed dead.]

After a brief silence fell over the tavern, a man with a bulbous, wine-red nose slammed his mug down hard onto the greasy wooden table: "Damn it! Isn't this old Pierre? The one from the corner of the street! He came back from Metz and froze to death in a ditch last winter! It's identical!"

Several drinking buddies nearby nodded in agreement, and someone cursed, "Accursed world! Is this how a man who shed blood for France deserves to end?"

At that moment, another person spoke up: "That sounds nice and noble—if parliament wants to raise taxes to hand out allowances to veterans, would you be happy about it?"

Everyone else fell silent for a moment.

The speaker let out a contemptuous laugh: "Patriotism is fine, but don't touch my wallet! Haha!"

The crowd burst into laughter once more, shouting in unison: "Patriotism is fine, but don't touch my wallet!"

The tavern was filled with an air of jovial merriment!

————

In the small square before Les Invalides in Paris (the Royal Residence of Disabled Soldiers, built in 1670 by the Sun King, Louis XIV), several decorated, disabled veterans sat huddled together. A veteran with a missing eye was reading *The Old Guard* from *Le Petit Parisien*.

After hearing someone finish reading it, another veteran in a wheelchair unconsciously stroked his empty trouser leg with one hand and said in a hoarse voice, "'Long live France,' 'Long live the Emperor'... How many years has it been since anyone shouted those words? We... we are not thieves."

His tone was laden with desolation and offended dignity.

Another one-armed veteran scoffed, "My friend, you weren't even in the Guard; those old immortals went off to see their Emperor long ago. The newspapers are talking nonsense! How could the gentlemen of the Imperial Guard ever steal? Weren't they the proudest of all?" With that, he let out a bizarre laugh.

Another one-eyed veteran laughed bitterly at himself: "Wake up! The Empire is long gone! The dynasty is finished, too! Look at yourselves? Can medals buy you a meal? This story... it's written well enough; we were all just tools for the big men, tools to be tossed into the garbage heap once we were used up!"

The wheelchair-bound veteran paid no heed to these taunts, merely murmuring to himself, "At least someone still remembers us... even if it's in this manner."

————

A neighborhood grocery store. The proprietress weighed sugar for a customer while discussing the matter with a regular: "Tsk tsk, that Sorbonne student has a hard heart! Writing things so coldly. It was wrong for the old fellow to steal, but...

Ah, things being what they are, who has the heart to laugh at him? And that young shop assistant is utterly devoid of conscience!"

The customer concurred, "Indeed! But it is written true to life—taverns watering down their wine while customers watch closely, absolutely spot-on! For such a young man, this author has a remarkably sharp eye!"

The proprietor lazily pointed to the credit chalkboard hanging in his shop: "The old guard didn't run a tab; he was far better than some of these deadbeat debtors we have now!"

Looking somewhat guilty, a customer hurriedly grabbed his goods and walked off, tossing out a remark: "Hmph, what good is being better if you end up with your leg broken in the end? If you ask me, once a person gets old, they just have to accept their fate and stay out of trouble..."

The proprietress delivered the final verdict: "The story is good, just entirely too gloomy. Reading it makes one feel choked up inside."

Then she folded the newspaper back up, intending to use it to wrap fish when she went to market later.

————

In a seventh-arrondissement cafe named "The Debater," several young men brandished newspapers, their emotions running high: "See that? This is the kind of filth the Bourbon spawn get up to! Disbanding the army, keeping veterans under surveillance! Long live the Republic! Liquidate those bastards!"

Meanwhile, an elderly gentleman disagreed, tapping the floor with his cane: "Hmph, *Le Petit Parisien* printing this? They harbor ulterior motives! This is an incitement of hatred against the old era! It's a smear against His Majesty's government!"

A middle-aged man wearing a flat cap said coldly, "This merely proves the Republic hasn't done enough! A better veteran pension system must be established!"

Someone immediately retorted, "Oh, please! This is a debt left over by the previous regime! It's the messy aftermath dragged upon France by Napoleon in his wars of conquest! Why on earth should the Republic foot the bill?"

"This is nothing more than the death rattle of Bonapartism!"

"Wrong! This exposes the chilling indifference of the Republic!"

The proprietor of "The Debater" cafe merely smiled as he watched the scene unfold, showing not the slightest intention of intervening.

————

For the readers of *Le Petit Parisien*, they cared little for the literary value of *The Old Guard*, nor could they perceive the artistic path foreshadowing the future development of fiction as Flaubert might have.

What they cared about were the elements in the story that resonated with them or provoked their disgust.

Yet they all remembered a single name—"Lionel Sorel," a university student from the Faculty of Arts at the Sorbonne, who had penned this widely discussed masterwork...

"Snap!" Albert Gigot, the Prefect of the Paris Police Prefecture, slammed this issue of *Le Petit Parisien* onto his desk, tapping a finger against the title of *The Old Guard* and the author's name, Lionel Sorel.

He glared furiously at the man sitting across the desk who wore a sly grin, and snapped: "Mr. Gabriel, why is it that your *Le Clameur* can never publish pieces by impoverished, upright, and talented young men like this Lionel Sorel?

*The Decadent Metropolis*... Good heavens, do you genuinely wish to stand trial?"