Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 117 Fatal Blow (Bonus Chapter for 1000 Votes)

(2000 votes reached, bonus chapter for the second thousand votes)

Claretti's heart almost stopped, and her blood froze instantly.

He wanted to back away, to run away, but his legs felt like lead.

He wanted to scold them, to drive them away, but it felt like an invisible hand was gripping his throat.

General Mattim Pree's voice still echoed in his ears; but the scene before him directly shattered his defenses!

At that moment, the unusually tall, contorted man spoke in a terrifyingly calm voice: "Mr. Claretti?"

Claretti nodded subconsciously, but no sound came out.

“We are all the ‘freaks’ of Paris,” the man continued, his voice devoid of angry accusation, but heavy with emotion: “We are all the people you and your newspapers have included in your articles with the word ‘freak’.”

We're not here to cause trouble. As Mr. Lionel Sorel said in his article, 'Freaks don't create ugliness, they merely expose it.'

We remember his words. Therefore, we choose to stand here, not with ugly violence, but with our very existence.

Don't even think about calling the police—your wife has already tried, but the police have no right to stop a group of citizens standing on a public road in Paris!

At this moment, the young woman with a red tumor covering half of her face took a small step forward, her voice trembling: "Mr. Claretti, you said that Benjamin Bouton was a 'freak,' and that his story was 'blasphemous' and 'shaking.'"

But do you know what? When we read about Benjamin in Le Parisien, we cried. We saw ourselves in him! We saw how we were rejected and ridiculed because of our physical appearance!

We also see how much he longs to be understood and accepted, until Daphne sees his 'kitten-like bright eyes'!
We also hoped to meet a 'Daphne'—and now we know, Mr. Sorel is our 'Daphne'.

At this point, she became somewhat emotional, pointing to the red tumor on her face: "Do you think it's ugly? Yes, it is ugly! But beneath this ugly skin, my heart beats just like yours, and it longs for love!"

You only see the appearance of a 'freak' and are quick to deny its significance and label it as 'blasphemous'.

Mr. Sorel saw beneath the 'freak' facade a struggle, loneliness, and a longing for warmth!

He's speaking out for people like us! And you're silencing him, blocking any possibility of him understanding us!

Jules Claretti hadn't expected things to develop this way and quickly denied it, "No... I didn't... I'm not..."

But his usually eloquent tongue was now unable to utter those moving words; fear, hesitation, and confusion filled his mind.

He suddenly thought of Lionel's recent nickname—"the conscience of the Sorbonne".

The last person in France to be called a "conscience" was Mr. Victor Hugo – "the conscience of France".

Thinking of the grand occasion when Mr. Hugo returned to Paris from Guernsey, the deafening shouts, the surging crowds...

He was startled – behind Lionel at that moment stood not just a few publishers and writers, but two groups of people who had been hurt, shared the same pain, and were highly motivated to act.

Flaubert's "Madame Bovary" would not have inspired lonely, isolated women in the French countryside to cry out for him.

Alexandre Dumas fils's *La Dame aux Camélias* wouldn't have inspired Parisian courtesans to march for him; but Victor Hugo's *The Hunchback of Notre Dame* and *Les Misérables* would have genuinely inspired Gypsies and exiled Jean Valjeans to do something for him.

Lionel's "The Old Guard" has a similar effect to "The Curious Case of Benjamin Buton," and is even more inspiring because of its more precise depiction of the group it portrays.

General Matimpree today and the freaks before us prove this point.

At that moment, the white-clad boy, who seemed like a ghost, spoke, his voice bitter: "We were born this way, or fate has turned us into this. Have we ever wanted to 'desecrate' anything?"
All we want is to live, to live with dignity! It is you who keep reminding us that we are 'freaks', that we 'should not exist'!
Mr. Sorel used the story of Benjamin Boudon to tell the world that even the most 'bizarre' life has its value and the right to be understood and cared for!
But you, Mr. Claretti, and your articles are tearing our hearts apart!

The boy's skin was almost translucent white under the streetlights. He stood quietly, his voice as soft as a sigh, yet it could penetrate the soul.

The dwarf spoke, moving his short legs to try to stand in the light of the streetlamp: "Mr. Sorel has given us, those who have been 'miswritten' by fate, a little bit of courage and hope to live on."

But you want to deny him, humiliate him, and even put him in the dock of church trial?

Are you going to take away our last glimmer of light?

Like General Matimpree today, he did not roar, his voice was even ridiculously shrill—but Jules Claretti could not laugh.

He stood before the cold stone steps of the apartment building, facing a dozen pairs of eyes—eyes filled with grief, accusation, and despair, but above all, with a sense of resilience and tranquility.

They didn't need to lift a finger or hurl insults; simply standing there, displaying the "mistakes" fate had bestowed upon them, was enough to make Claretti feel utterly ashamed and want to die of embarrassment.

This group of silent "freaks" before him, through their living, scarred existence, conducted the most thorough and cruel soul judgment on him.

He felt as if he had been stripped naked and exposed to the light of day, undergoing the most severe moral interrogation.

The tall, twisted man finally said, “Mr. Claretti, we are not standing here to gain your pity, much less to intimidate you.”

We just want you to see what a heavy life story lies behind your seemingly casual use of the word "freak."

Having said that, he nodded slightly and stopped looking at Claretti. Then, these seven or eight "different ones" in various forms, as if they had rehearsed it, slowly and solemnly bowed deeply in Claretti's direction at the leader's signal.

Jules Claretti knew that this was not submission, much less begging.

This was their highest form of demeanor, demonstrating to him a silent power, a dignity that originated from suffering yet transcended it.

After bowing, they didn't say another word. They silently turned around, supporting each other—one with canes, the other pushing a wheelchair—and silently and slowly disappeared into the deep twilight of Saint Louis Island.

Claretti was the only one left in the alley, standing blankly on the cold stone steps, the evening wind blowing, chilling her to the bone.

Just then, the door behind him opened, and his beautiful wife ran out, her voice as panicked as a rabbit during hunting season: "Darling, are you alright... I was so scared I didn't dare come out..."

Jules Claretti then snapped out of his daze and hurriedly pushed his wife away: "I need to go back to the newspaper, I need to go back now..."

Meanwhile, Maupassant, Huysmann, Paul Alessic... were holed up in Maupassant's stinking apartment, working overtime and writing furiously, preparing to dethrone the "Le Figaro" they had once so longed for.

(End of this chapter)