Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 383 Lionel's Fairy Tale! (Bonus Chapter 6 for every 1000 votes)

In Paris, mornings are usually awakened by the rumble of milk carts and the shrill cries of newsboys.

But on this August morning in 1881, an unusual commotion spread through the streets.

The newsboys waved their copies of Le Petit Parisien, their voices louder than ever before:
"Breaking News! Breaking News! Exclusive photos from Le Parisien! The devastating state of the Sorel villa exposed for the first time!"

"Look at the real atrocities! Clearer than ever before! The photos are printed directly in the newspaper!"

Curious pedestrians stopped to watch and took out their wallets to buy newspapers.

Then, almost simultaneously, they gasped, their eyes glued to the huge "illustration" on the front page.

That's a photo of the living room of the Villa Leonard in Vernev.

The image has no color, consisting only of black, white, and gray, but it is so real it's chilling!
Occupying the center of the photo is a huge overturned desk, its legs pointing towards the ceiling, like some kind of dead animal.

Around the desk, books and manuscripts, like fallen leaves swept by a storm, covered the entire floor, extending all the way to the edge of the photograph.

In the foreground, shards of a broken vase are clearly visible, next to a hardcover book torn in half.

Further away, the sofa was slashed open with a sharp blade, revealing the grayish-white filling inside, like an ugly wound.

Where a painting used to hang on the wall, only a lone nail remains, and below it on the floor is an irregular dark stain, like bloodstains.

The clarity of the photos is unprecedented.

Every scratch on the wooden floor, every crease on the pages, and even the blurry but still discernible handwriting scattered on the manuscript paper are all meticulously detailed.

This undeniable sense of realism instantly shattered the psychological defenses of all readers.

It is completely different from previous woodcut illustrations—woodcuts can exaggerate, omit, beautify or uglify.

But the photographs, coldly and objectively, recorded everything, laying bare the most primal details of the atrocities in a bloody manner before everyone.

Le Parisien used no fancy borders or decorations; it simply added a concise yet ironic black headline to the photo:
"Look at France today!"

Below the title, there is a line of smaller print explaining:
[This photo was taken by our reporter at Mr. Sorel's residence in Vernef.]

This is the first time a French newspaper has published a "photograph" using screen printing technology, a technique previously used by the American Daily Pictorial last year, which was incredibly expensive.

But Le Parisien still only sold for 1 sou, which was definitely a losing proposition.

Paul Pigut gritted his teeth and did it anyway; he wanted to express his support for Lionel in this way.

The second page of the newspaper then took an even bolder approach, dedicating an entire page to publishing more photos taken from different angles:
A garden trampled into a swamp, a mattress slashed in the bedroom, a sea of ​​overturned bookshelves in the study, and a chaotic mess of debris in the kitchen…

Each photograph is like a powerful punch, slamming into the reader's chest.

Throughout Paris, from cafes to salons, from stock exchanges to workers' pubs, people were passing around and discussing this newspaper.

Although newspapers had previously described Vernev's "atrocities" in words and woodcut illustrations, these were only scratching the surface.

The impact of the photograph at this moment allows the reader to feel completely immersed in the scene.

Sympathy, anger, shock, shame... a variety of emotions surged and fermented in the hearts of Parisians.

A professor in a coffee shop exclaimed in shock, “My God, this is a massacre! A massacre of civilization!”

A young student slammed his fist on the table: "Look at those books! Those manuscripts! They're not just destroying a building, they're destroying ideas! They're destroying talent!"

A well-dressed woman covered her mouth with a handkerchief: "I always thought the 'Youth Guard' were just a bunch of mischievous kids... but this, this is thugs!"

The immense empathy evoked by this visual evidence quickly translated into action.

That afternoon, small groups of young people arrived in Vernev, either by horse-drawn carriage or on foot.

There was even a group of people riding Sorel 1 bicycles, ringing the bells on their handlebars. They brought fresh lilies and roses and silently placed them in front of the closed gate of the damaged villa.

The white and red petals stood out starkly and mournfully at the entrance to the courtyard, which was covered in mud and footprints.

As time went on, more and more people came to offer flowers.

The bouquets gradually piled up, forming a small, silent monument.

Others brought cards that read "Support Sorel," "Long live freedom of thought," and "Condemn the atrocities," carefully pinning them to the bouquets.

Some people, seeing the dilapidated scene, couldn't bear it and spontaneously wanted to go in and help clear the ruins to restore the house to its former tranquility.

But their good intentions were thwarted by Maupassant, who stayed behind to guard the place.

The writer, who was usually witty and sarcastic, had no hint of humor on his face at this moment.

He stood in the doorway, blocking the way of the kind people: "Thank you, gentlemen and ladies. But please stop."

He pointed to the mess behind him: "This place should remain as it is. So that everyone who comes here can see it with their own eyes and experience it firsthand."

Some wounds cannot be easily stitched up. They need to be seen, they need to be remembered. Covering them up is the beginning of forgetting; forgetting is another injury.

People fell silent, looking at Maupassant's resolute eyes, then at the villa that resembled ruins, before finally nodding slowly and leaving.

They understood that this dilapidated house was no longer just private property; it had become a symbol, an indictment.

Flowers piled higher and higher at the entrance, while the devastation inside the house remained a shocking sight under the summer sun.

------

On the same day that the photos in Le Petit Parisi shocked Paris, in the editorial office of the magazine Good Words in London.

Norman McLeod, a cigar dangling from his lips, waited anxiously for the typesetters to deliver the proofs for the latest issue of the magazine.

At that moment, his secretary walked in with an email.

"Sir, there is an urgent letter for you. It is from Mr. Lionel Sorel."

Norman McLeod's eyes lit up instantly, like a cat spotting its prey.

He practically snatched the email and quickly tore it open.

Inside was a stack of neatly typed manuscript papers, the title of which was on the top page: "The Happy Prince".

“The Happy Prince?” Norman MacLeod murmured, a relaxed smile spreading across his face.

"Ha! It seems he's had a good rest in London and is finally in the mood to write something light and cheerful."

A fairy tale! Perfect for giving readers a change of pace.

He thought to himself with delight that this must be a story full of wonderful fantasies and heartwarming stories, and it might even boost the magazine's sales among children and families.

He adjusted his posture, sinking more comfortably into the armchair, and began to read with great interest.

He turned the pages of the manuscript paper one by one in his hands.

At first, he had a contented smile on his face, as if he was about to enjoy a sweet story.

But soon, the smile on his face froze, and his brows furrowed more and more.

Finally, Norman McLeod couldn't help but sigh, "Leon, what are you trying to do?"

(End of fourth watch)
(End of this chapter)