Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 130 Maupassant's Dilemma

Dominic, who then resisted alone, was captured by the Prussians.

The Prussian officer wanted him to point out the path in the Sauvage Forest to prevent a French counterattack, but Dominic refused.

The Prussian officer initially intended to execute him, but after Mr. Mellier pleaded for him, he instead imprisoned him first.

In the middle of the night, his lover Françoise climbed through the window and let him go.

The next day, the Prussian officer discovered that Dominique had killed a sentry during her escape and threatened Françoise to go into the forest to find Dominique or he would kill her father.

Faced with death, Dominic was fearless and returned to the village, sacrificing his own life to save his beloved's father.

Just as Dominic was about to be executed, the French army rushed out of the forest and launched a counterattack, annihilating the Prussians who were defending the mill.

But Dominic was already dead, and the miller, Mr. Mellier, was killed by a stray bullet; the mill was reduced to ruins by French artillery fire.

As the story drew to a close, Zola's voice was filled with weariness:

"The captain was the first to rush into the courtyard; this was his only victory since the start of the war. He was in high spirits and laughed loudly."

He spotted a girl sitting like a marble statue between the bodies of her husband and father amidst the ruins of the mill.

The captain saluted her with his sword and shouted, "Victory! Victory!"

This ironic ending left everyone in the audience deep in thought, and Zola added an even more cruel epilogue:

Dominic remained alone in the hall, continuing to fire forward, completely unaware that the soldiers had all left.

He just kept firing, taking down one enemy with each shot…

Dominic died before the French attack, with twelve bullet holes in his chest—who was shooting at him? Was it his soul?

A Belgian fought for the French and died under the guns of the Prussians, and even in death he did not cease firing...

Zola's story quieted everyone down, and even Maupassant, who had been so emotional just moments before, fell silent.

Before he finished telling the "Battle of the Mill," all five of them, except for Lionel, underestimated the difficulty of constructing this story.

They thought they could get away with praising the bravery of ordinary soldiers, the resistance of the French people, or mocking the decadence and incompetence of high society.

But the complexity and critical depth of the "Battle of the Mill" theme far exceeded their expectations.

Was that "captain" a hero? You could say he was, because he first tenaciously resisted the enemy, and later won a victory, eliminating many Prussians.

But you could also say he wasn't, because his recklessness and arrogance caused a good young man who could have stayed out of it to die at the hands of the enemy.

He shouted "Victory!" at the poor girl who had lost both her father and her lover, but instead of feeling proud and joyful, he was filled with irony and tragedy.

Lionel had only seen records of the "Medan Night Meeting" in documents and had oversimplified the process.

Now that he was personally involved and saw the solemn expressions on the faces of Maupassant and others, he finally understood the leadership role that Zola, as the elder of the "Médan Group," played among them.

After a long while, they exclaimed in unison, "Emile, you've written a good story... You should write it down tonight."

Only then did the atmosphere gradually liven up, and smiles returned to everyone's faces.

Zola smiled at Maupassant: "Guy, you'll tell the story tomorrow night. You're the only one among us who's been to the front lines, so I'm sure you can give us a good one."

Maupassant's excitement froze instantly. He scratched his wet hair. "Ah? Tomorrow? So soon? Emile... I... I need to think about it..."

— On the night train back to Paris, Lionel and Maupassant sat in the empty second-class carriage.

Everyone else stayed at the Meitang Villa.

Maupassant had to continue working as a corporate slave at the Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts the next day, while Lionel couldn't stand sleeping in the same room as a drunkard, so the two went back to Paris together.

Maupassant appeared restless as soon as he boarded the train; Zola's story and the expectations placed upon him created immense pressure.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, clutching his hair. "Defeat... the story after the defeat... heroes? Heroes? Emil has written everything he could! What else can I tell?"

He looked at Lionel: "Writing about fleeing soldiers looting? Too cliché! Spy? Too outlandish! Love? Too unrealistic in that context!"

Several blurry images flashed through Maupassant's mind: panicked crowds fleeing the disaster, thugs taking advantage of the chaos, and callous bureaucrats...

But I always felt that it lacked a core that could capture people's hearts, a story that not only fit the tone set by Zola's stories, but also reflected his style.

Lionel didn't speak, but just smiled as he watched Maupassant mutter to himself like a trapped beast.

Maupassant suddenly grabbed Lionel's shoulder: "Léon! My brother! Save me! Emile has built a mountain, and I... I feel like I only have a small shovel in my hand!"

I've come up with a few stories, but they all seem bland and uninteresting, like stale bread! I have to tell them tomorrow, what should I do?

His face was full of distress, completely devoid of his usual ease and debonair manner.

Lionel found it both amusing and poignant to see the future king of short stories in such a predicament.

He knew, of course, what story Maupassant would eventually come up with—and he had no intention of taking away the most brilliant gem of his friend's life.

Lionel gestured for Maupassant to calm down, patting him on the back: "Don't rush, Guy. Monsieur Zola's story is indeed cruel and tragic, but war is made up of countless fragments, and it's not only fighting and bloodshed that can move people's hearts..."

Seeing that Maupassant had calmed down, Lionel continued to patiently guide him: "Think about what you are most familiar with? What kind of people are you best at observing?"

In the midst of war, under the shadow of defeat, how dramatically will their fates change?

Maupassant paused for a moment: "The one I know best?"

He then laughed self-deprecatingly, his voice full of candor: "God is my witness, Leon, besides writing, what I'm most familiar with are probably taverns, racetracks, and... those lovely girls."

Lionel laughed too: "Very good! Then let's start with the group you know best! Think about it, on the road of defeat and escape, in towns occupied by the Prussians, in the chaotic rear..."

What will those girls face? How will they survive?

Maupassant frowned, lost in thought: "Their...their lives are certainly more difficult. The occupying forces will cause trouble, the police will cause trouble..."

They are the most looked-down-upon group of people... but they also need to survive..."

Lionel stopped talking, feeling that if he said anything more, Maupassant might start thinking about something else entirely.

Maupassant rose from his seat and paced back and forth in the narrow aisle, muttering to himself: "Prostitute...morality...contempt...civilization...order...instinct...innocence...decency..."

Words popped out of his mouth, colliding and bouncing in the cramped train carriages of the 19th century.

And in Maupassant's mind, images were assembled, disassembled, reassembled, and disassembled again...

When the train gave its final long whistle before entering its final station, a dazzling light suddenly shone in Maupassant's eyes.

He put his arm around Lionel's shoulder again: "Thank you, my good brother! My story is complete!"

(End of this chapter)