Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 18: Fame!

“That old pedant, Tainer, you know, is as mean and stubborn as a stone that’s been preserved in the seminary since the Middle Ages. He loves to pick on commoner students. That kid was a few minutes late, and Tainer held a grudge against him, publicly humiliating him as a ‘diligent gravedigger’!”

Maupassant stood up and began to perform with remarkable skill.

He slightly hunched his back, mimicking Professor Tainer's mannerisms, pushed up his non-existent glasses, and repeated in a deliberately affected, heavily nasal tone: 'Look who it is! Our industrious gravedigger has finally decided to leave his warm bed? Mr. Sorel, please come in, please come in!'

His exaggerated imitation made Zola grin, and the corners of the others' mouths twitched upwards.

Maupassant was always like this, full of passion for wonderful stories and vivid characters.

"After Lionel sat down, those good-for-nothing dandies started mocking him, saying he was dressed in rags like Jean Valjean living in the slums—guess how he retaliated?"

Maupassant left this a mystery.

Huysmann guessed, "Rastignac?"

Maupassant immediately chimed in, "Yes, Rastignac."

He whirled around to a gilded human-shaped stand beside the fireplace that served as a coat rack, as if it were the arrogant Albert himself, mimicking Lionel's expression and tone: "'And you, Albert? Are you paying homage to Rastignac?'"

"Pfft...!" Zola was the first to burst into hearty laughter.

His broad shoulders trembled with laughter: "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Spot on!"

Huysmann's tightly furrowed brows completely relaxed, and a smile curved his lips: "What a precise irony—'Rastignac'..."

This kind of retort is a hundred times more vicious than any crude insult!

"That's not the most exciting part. That old guy Tainer wasn't satisfied, so he asked Lionel two tricky questions."

Maupassant then perfectly imitated Lionel's response, which made everyone burst into laughter.

After the performance, Maupassant concluded: "You didn't see the faces of those spoiled brats; they were as white as drowned ghosts just pulled from the Seine!"
Absolutely brilliant! For a full five minutes, the entire classroom was completely silent; even that old man, Tainer, was so stunned he forgot to continue his sarcastic remarks! The scene…”

He savored the memory, as if he were tasting a fine wine: "It was simply a living drama lesson!"

Conflict, reversal, a perfect counterattack! It's brimming with the most primal and exquisite power!

Zola picked up his cigar again, took a slow puff, and his deep gaze seemed to pierce through the wisps of smoke, seeing even further: "To maintain such composure under the pressure of Taine, and to launch a sharp counterattack amidst the mockery of the surrounding nobles..."

This composure and quick wit are qualities that neither bookworms nor spoiled brats can possess.

This young man possesses a special quality—as hard as stone and as proud as a mountain eagle.

Unfortunately, the Sorbonne is a greenhouse, full of delicate flowers; it probably can't accommodate a weed like him.

His words carried the wisdom of someone who had seen the world's vicissitudes, as well as a deep concern filled with sympathy.

"In a place like the Sorbonne, a poor boy from District 11 would be crushed by a bunch of arrogant nobles and rigid academics!"

Talent? Before the barriers of class, talent is often the first sacrificed!

Zola's tone became somewhat heavy and angry, as if he had already foreseen some tragic ending.

Maupassant's excitement faded somewhat as he walked back to his armchair and sat down: "Indeed... I had intended to talk to him again after lunch, and even invite him to some salons..."

But he walked quickly and cautiously. That caution was the instinctive wariness and weighing of a poor person in the face of unfamiliar kindness.

He paused, as if recalling the details of the time: "His coat was terribly worn, and although he behaved properly while eating, you could tell that he cherished that ordinary communal meal with an almost reverent appreciation. I guess it was the best meal he had eaten in a long time."

Zola and the others looked on with sympathy and pity.

Zola, in particular, spent his childhood and adolescence in poverty, with creditors frequently visiting his home, bringing him indelible pain and torment.

He hesitated for a moment, then asserted: "The universities of France are rotten! They only breed parasites of society, the successors of scheming, selfish nobles, bureaucrats, and contractors!"

This child—is his name 'Lionel'?—does not bow to authority, does not compromise with violence, and is not ashamed because of money; he has a sensitive, noble, and innate self-esteem.

Juyi, you have found an unpolished gem! It is still dull, but it already possesses an undeniable brilliance!

Maupassant and the others were surprised by Zola's high regard for Lionel—they then realized that Zola, with similar life experiences, had projected himself onto Lionel.

The group then launched into a scathing critique of the current French university system, their fervor as intense as a fire in a fireplace!

The discussion continued until the restaurant once again emitted an enticing aroma of food...

After another hearty meal and drinks, Zola, Maupassant, and the others agreed that every Saturday after the start of summer, the six of them would gather at this villa in Médan!

Why Saturday?
Because Sundays are already occupied by Flaubert's salon!

At this gathering, besides the young Guy de Maupassant and his teacher Gustave Flaubert, there was also Ivan Turgenev, who came from Russia but wrote in French; Alphonse Daudet, whose novelistic skills were superb; the highly respected Edmond de Goncourt; the publisher Charpentier; and Johann Pierre Baudelaire, a member of the French Academy and a linguist...

Of course, Émile Zola, whom I had just met yesterday, was also present.

Everyone was engaged in lively discussions, sharing their latest insights and fresh observations.

Halfway through the gathering, Maupassant cautiously asked, "Is Mr. Hippolyte Taine not coming today?"

Flaubert was a little surprised that his student would ask such a question. Didn't he always dislike the rigid Taine? But he still answered, "Mr. Taine has caught a cold and has even taken leave from the academy."

Maupassant breathed a sigh of relief, a pleased expression on his face, and stood up: "This week, I met a student at the Sorbonne named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, penniless, wearing a coat with shiny elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the supposedly stinking eleventh district..."

Flaubert: "Hmm?"

Zola: "This..."

Others: "Oh?..."

Two days later, at the weekly Tuesday evening gathering of the "Naturists," hosted by Mr. Charpentier—

Maupassant rose again: "Do you all know that in the Sorbonne, there is a student named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, penniless, wearing a coat with worn-out elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the supposedly stinking eleventh district..."

……

In less than a week, Parisian cultural circles had vaguely learned that "there was a provincial student at the Sorbonne named Lionel, who was dirt poor, wore a coat with shiny elbows, commuted by horse-drawn carriage, and lived in the stinking 11th arrondissement..."

As for what he did, I can't quite remember.

After all, each salon lasts at least four or five hours, and the people, works, events, topics discussed are too numerous to count. Everyone can only pick out the key points to take notes.

Meanwhile, Lionel, who was "penniless," experienced both joy and sorrow.

(End of this chapter)