Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 2 The first day of school
Walking through the morning fog on Obercamp Street in District 11 is not a pleasant experience.

Since there are no sewers, the way the residents clean up the excrement that has accumulated overnight is not much different from that of the Middle Ages. Lionel must always be careful of what's above and below him, lest his rude neighbors ruin his only wool coat and leather shoes.

Fortunately, it's January now, and the cold weather prevents the smell from spreading, so at least I don't have to hold my breath.

He tried to walk as close to the middle of the road as possible, awkwardly dodging the carriages that kept bumping into him. Amid the coachman's angry shouts, he hurried to the public carriage stop at the intersection with Market Street.

Seeing the other passengers waiting there, Lionel knew he hadn't missed the carriage and breathed a sigh of relief.

Just then, the bells of St. Margaret's Church rang out in the distance, and he finally knew the time more accurately: 8:30 a.m.

Although he had been reborn for more than two weeks, Zhang Chaohua—who is now Lionel Sorel—was still not used to judging the approximate time by observing the sun's altitude and the direction of street shadows.

It's just that the original owner of this body pawned his only pocket watch before he was reborn, in exchange for the 90 francs he now relies on for a living.

Soon, the sound of rapid hoofbeats came from afar, first the crisp sound of horses' hooves, then the dull thud of horses' hooves on the mud, and then a large four-wheeled carriage pulled by two horses appeared from around the corner.

Lionel spotted the throng of people in the carriage at a glance, so before the train had even come to a complete stop, he swung his long legs and put them on the step of the door, then reached out and grabbed the edge of the window, bending his body to the side to make room for the ticket seller to open the door.

"You son of a prostitute!"

"You shit-bag, get down here!"

"Sewage rats!"

The shouts and curses from the other passengers did not loosen Lionel's grip in the slightest. In any case, once he became "part" of this vehicle, no one dared to pull him off.

When the carriage door opened, he nimbly swung and slipped into the carriage like a monkey, casually tossing a copper coin worth 5 sous to the ticket seller.

Good morning, Mr. Martin!

Good morning, Mr. Sorel!

After a brief greeting, Lionel found the last empty seat at the back of the carriage and sat down.

The small space was already packed with people. The hardwood seats were just big enough to fit a medium-sized bottom, and arms had to be squeezed together with the person next to you.

Ticket seller Martin closed the door and rang the bell hanging on the door twice. Hearing the signal, the driver's hands trembled, and the two draft horses, with heavy steps, pulled the huge carriage, full of 24 people, forward on Republic Avenue.

Looking out the car window, Lionel watched as the scenery quickly shifted from the Gothic St. Ambrose Church to the bustling and crowded Republic Square.
Then, walking along St. Martin's Boulevard and passing through St. Martin's Gate, you'll see the outline of the City Hall, which is currently under reconstruction...

Even though he had been reborn into this body for two weeks and had inherited most of the original owner's memories, he still couldn't help but admire this 19th-century European capital.

In 1879, its elegance, solemnity, and magnificence... made it seem like a city that didn't exist in reality—of course, it was inappropriate to think of his own 11th district at that time.

After the Pantheon flashed by, the iconic Baroque domes and crosses of the Sorbonne soon came into view. The Lionel station had arrived—five minutes later than usual.

Today is January 7th, the first day of school after the Christmas holidays.

The giant clock under the dome showed that there were still 2 minutes until 9 o'clock. Lionel dared not delay, jumped off the carriage and ran towards the Faculty of Arts.

Lionel's boots clicked crisply on the smooth flagstones, sounding slightly flustered. He paid no heed to the reliefs of scholars from different eras adorning the walls; only one thought occupied his mind:
Try to catch the 9 o'clock lecture on "The Origins and Development of French Literature".

The professor who teaches this course, Hippolyte Taine, is known for his strictness, rigidity, and aversion to tardiness. It is said that last year, two unlucky students were ridiculed by him for the entire semester because they were late on the first day of school.

As he climbed the last few steps, Lionel could hear Professor Tainer's distinctive, nasal, and melodious voice coming from behind the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall.

"Damn it, did they start class early?"

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his panting from the sprint, and gently pushed open the door.

The door hinges made a slight creaking sound, which sounded particularly jarring in the gaps in the professor's words.

All eyes in the classroom were on Lionel, and those eyes held curiosity, indifference, but more than anything, a condescending scrutiny and undisguised contempt.

Professor Tainer, dressed in a long black robe and with graying hair, pushed up his exquisite crystal glasses. "Aha! Look who it is! Our industrious gravedigger has finally decided to leave his warm bed? Mr. Sorel, please come in, please come in!" A suppressed chuckle erupted in the classroom, especially from the well-dressed and elegant students.

Most of them came from wealthy families in Paris, or were sons of nobles or wealthy merchants from the provinces. They exuded a faint scent of cologne, wore brand-new, crisp coats, and had shiny leather shoes.

Lionel bowed to Professor Tainer: "I'm very sorry, Professor, the public carriage is delayed."

Professor Taine's lips curled slightly: "Public carriage? What a 'common wisdom' mode of transportation! It seems Mr. Sorel is well-versed in the everyday life of Paris?"

Alright, don't stand there like a pillar in the doorway, find a seat. Hopefully, you haven't missed too much about the noble origins of French literature, though that might be a bit too "down-to-earth" for you.

Lionel lowered his eyes, trying to control his emotions—he had to constantly remind himself that this was the Sorbonne in 1879, not Yenching University in 2025.

In this era, the class divide is as clear as the dividing line between the two banks of the Seine, and from students to professors, no one makes a fuss about hiding their contempt.

The back rows were already full, with only a few empty seats scattered around the front row near the podium – these were the "front-line" seats that wealthy students deliberately avoided, as being too close to the professor and risking too much trouble asking questions.

Lionel had no choice but to grit his teeth and walk quickly to the front row under the watchful eyes of countless people.

He had just sat down in an empty seat when a deliberately suppressed sneer came from the seat next to him.

He was a tall, handsome young man with an arrogant gaze. He wore a well-tailored dark blue velvet coat with delicate lace trim peeking out from the cuffs, and a vibrant red carnation was tucked into his breast pocket.

He casually flicked non-existent dust off his coat with his finger, leaning slightly to the other side as if Lionel were carrying some kind of plague.

“Albert de Rohan.” The name immediately came to Lionel’s mind. The original owner’s memories told him that this was a notorious troublemaker in the Faculty of Arts, a scion of an old noble family who took pleasure in belittling and ostracizing commoner students.

“Look at this outfit,” Albert said in a voice only those around him could hear, with the languid tone characteristic of aristocrats, “a new fashion trend on Rue de l’Obercamp? Or is it a tribute to the tragic Jean Valjean from Victor Hugo’s novel?”

Lionel didn't even glance at Albert, his eyes fixed on Professor Taine, who was lecturing, but he muttered his retort under his breath: "And you, Albert? Are you paying homage to Rastignac?"

Rastignac is a character in Balzac's novels "Old Goriot" and "The Human Comedy". Born into a declining noble family, he abandons all morality and conscience in order to rise to prominence, and his humanity is extinguished.

Albert was taken aback, and his fair cheeks immediately turned red. He couldn't understand why the usually timid Lionel dared to talk back.

But now that it was a republic, he didn't have the courage to act out in the academician's lecture, and could only glare at Lionel: "You wait..."

"...Therefore, we can see that the classical principles established by Corneille and Racine are the unshakable cornerstone of the French literary pantheon."

"Those so-called 'new ideas' are nothing but sensationalist bubbles..." Professor Tainer waved his arms, his voice impassioned.

For Lionel, who was a young lecturer in the Chinese Department of Yenching University in his previous life, these contents were outdated and one-sided, full of an almost fanatical admiration for classicism and a veiled denigration of symbolist pioneers such as Baudelaire.

Just then, Professor Taine's gaze swept across the front row again, as if looking for a "typical" example to prove his point, or perhaps just to continue to reprimand the late commoner student. His gaze finally settled on Lionel.

“Mr. Sorel!” Professor Taine’s voice carried an air of undeniable authority. “Since you are so ‘enthusiastic’ about our literary history, please explain your understanding of how Boileau’s principle of the ‘unities’ proposed in ‘The Art of Poetry’ is specifically manifested in Racine’s tragedy ‘Phaedel’.”
In particular, how does the law of temporal unity serve dramatic conflict?

The classroom fell silent instantly, all eyes once again focused on Lionel. Albert de Rohan and his friends in the front row wore smug, amused smiles.

The "unities" refer to the requirement that the plot, time, and place of a play must remain consistent. That is, the plot of a play can only have one thread, the story takes place in the same location, and the plot is completed within one day.

Phaedel is a classic classical tragedy by French playwright Jean Racine, adapted from ancient Greek mythology. In the play, Phaedel, the wife of King Theseus of Athens, falls into a forbidden love for her stepson, Hippolytus.

When news of Theseus's death spread, Phaedel confessed her love to Hippolytus, but was rejected. Theseus suddenly returned, and Phaedel lied, claiming that Hippolytus had tried to seduce her. Theseus, enraged, cursed her son, causing Hippolytus to be killed by a sea monster.

Upon learning the truth, Phaedel committed suicide in despair. Finally, Theseus discovered Phaedel's sincere repentance and was overcome with grief.

This question wasn't particularly tricky, but for someone who had just been humiliated on the first day of school and was late, missing part of the explanation, being suddenly called upon to elaborate was undoubtedly a form of harassment.

In the last row of the classroom, a young man slightly older than the students looked up and gazed at Lionel with interest.

(End of this chapter)