Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 403 I confess! (Seeking votes at the beginning of the month)

On September 1, 1881, in Paris, before the morning light had completely dispelled the thin mist, the area around the Saint-Lazare train station was already bustling with activity.

The white plumes of smoke from the steam locomotive served as a powerful signal, announcing the imminent arrival of the train from Calais.

On the platform, a dense crowd had already filled every inch of space. They stood on tiptoe, craned their necks, and all eyes were fixed on the distant railway tracks.

The pervasive smells of sweat, perfume, and newspaper ink were all mixed together by people's anxious anticipation, making the air seem almost tangible.

"Whoosh—!" The long whistle ripped through the morning tranquility, and the wheels rubbed against the rails with a heavy panting sound as the train slowly pulled into the platform.

"He's here! He's here!" The crowd instantly stirred, shouts, applause, and whistles blending together, almost lifting the station's huge glass dome.

The police officers linked arms, forming a fragile human wall as they struggled to hold back the surging crowd.

The carriage door opened, and the first person to appear at the door was Lionel Sorel.

He was wearing a dark travel jacket, his face full of fatigue, but his eyes remained clear and calm, as if the surrounding roaring waves had nothing to do with him.

His appearance was like a drop of water thrown into boiling oil, instantly igniting even greater fervor.

"Long live Lionel! Long live France!"

"we support you!"

Truth will prevail!

The slogans have lost their novelty, but people still chant them with great enthusiasm.

Reporters swarmed in like vultures spotting their prey.

"Mr. Sorel! What are your thoughts on the upcoming trial?"

Do you believe this is a political persecution?

How would you defend yourself in court?

Lionel ignored these questions and refused all interviews while on board.

He did not linger on the platform, nor did he give any impromptu speech. He simply waved and nodded to the crowd before boarding the carriage amidst the throng.

His goal was clear—Île de la Cité, Palace of Justice.

------

When the carriage finally crossed the Seine and stepped onto Île de la Cité, the magnificent and imposing Gothic complex of the Palais de Justice stood before us.

This massive building, begun by Philip IV the "Handsome" at the end of the 13th century, was the first royal palace in France.

It was later rebuilt during the Second Empire and became the seat of the French Supreme Court and the Paris Court.

It witnessed the rise and fall of monarchies, the birth of republics, and the judgment of countless fates.

The somber northern prison once held Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette.

Now, it awaits another “enemy of the state” to be judged here.

The square in front of the Palace of Justice was bustling with activity, as if it had returned to the era of the French Revolution.

The crowds were immense, a sea of ​​heads, and everywhere you looked, there were only throngs of people and waving arms.

The clamor crashed against the ancient stone walls of the Palace of Justice like a continuous tsunami.

Countless signs rose and fell in the crowd:

"Justice!"

"Thoughts are innocent!"

"Leonard, we are with you!"

A small group of people stood quietly at the foot of the steps in front of the Palace of Justice.

They were Lionel's closest friends and partners.

Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Joris-Carl Huysmann… all the members of the “Médan Night Party” were there.

Of course, there were also several friends who were often seen at the "Naturalist Gathering," such as Alphonse Daudet and Edmond de Goncourt.

Publisher Georges Charpentier also stood firmly here, surrounded by Impressionist painters such as Renoir, Paul Gauguin, Monet, and Manet.

In addition, there were Sophie and Alice, with Mr. De La Ruwak standing beside them.

Petty, however, stayed at home for her safety because the scene was too big.

Lionel's carriage finally came to a stop in a small open space in front of the Palace of Justice steps, thanks to the combined efforts of the human wall and the police.

All eyes, all cameras, all expectations and fears, were focused on the young man in the carriage at this moment.

Lionel took a deep breath, and alone, he steadily stepped down from the carriage and stood before everyone.

He ignored the crazy slogans and the reporters' questions.

His gaze first met that of each of his friends, and then he embraced each of them.

Everyone was speaking urgently in his ear—some were worried, some concerned, some warning, some reminding, and some were even sobbing silently…

Then he turned to face the towering stone steps that symbolized the state's judicial power.

One step, two steps, three steps... His steps were steady, the soles of his boots striking the stone steps with a clear echo, as if striking the hearts of everyone.

The crowd held their breath, thousands of eyes following his back as he walked step by step toward the door that might determine his fate.

Just before he was about to step onto the last step, he suddenly stopped.

Lionel slowly turned around, facing the entire square and the dense crowd of people.

He stood on high ground, the autumn sun shining obliquely down behind him, outlining a blurry halo around him.

The wind blew his thick black hair and brushed against his calm, expressionless face.

He looked down at the sea of ​​faces below, a sea of ​​longing, anger, support, curiosity... all human expressions could be found in this sea.

The entire square fell silent at that moment.

Even the most talkative reporters fell silent; only the sound of flags fluttering in the wind could be heard. Everyone craned their necks, holding their breath, waiting—waiting for his declaration, his accusations, his battle cry.

They hoped that he would, like those sages of the past, speak eloquently, expose injustice, and ignite the flames of resistance.

Lionel's gaze swept over the countless eyes below; he slowly raised his hands and pressed them down slightly, as if to soothe or to confirm.

Then he spoke; standing on high ground, his voice, though not particularly loud, carried far:

"Citizens! Friends! Everyone who has come here today!"

"Today, I stand here, in front of the Palace of Justice, not to escape, nor to beg for forgiveness."

I am here to respond to the charges against me brought against me by the Palais de Justice in Paris.

The square was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; only his voice echoed.

"They accused me of 'undermining the discipline of the French army,' 'inciting disobedience among soldiers,' and 'insulting the country' in my publicly published articles and statements."

He recited the charges in the indictment as if reading a passage unrelated to himself.

Then, his voice rose a notch:
Regarding these allegations—

The sudden pause made it seem as if time had frozen.

"I plead guilty!"

"I plead guilty!"

These words, like a bombshell, were dropped unexpectedly into the silent square, and then exploded, causing chaos!
"……what?"

"What did he just say?"

"I confessed?! He confessed?!"

"My God! This is impossible!"

After a brief moment of astonishment, there was an uproar and uproar like a volcanic eruption!

The crowd erupted in chaos, filled with exclamations, doubts, angry roars, and sighs of disappointment...

The various sounds mingled together, forming a huge wave of sound that almost broke down the walls of the Palace of Justice!

"He's gone mad! He must be mad!"

A student-looking person clutched their head and shouted in disbelief.

"Why? Why did he plead guilty? We support him so much!"

A man dressed as a worker waved his fist, his face full of resentment and incomprehension.

"Coward! He's scared!"

A few curses rang out from the crowd.

"No! There must be a reason! Let him finish!"

Many more people, in shock, tried to find answers.

The reporters went completely crazy, pushing and shoving forward desperately to get closer to the steps.

The spotlights flashed at an unprecedented frequency, capturing this earth-shattering moment.

The British journalist stared wide-eyed, while the German journalist muttered to himself, "This is too dramatic..."

The American journalist excitedly shouted, "Write this down! It's a headline! It's definitely a headline!"

At the bottom of the steps, Lionel's family and friends were also plunged into great shock and bewilderment.

Lionel stood on high ground, offering no explanation or reassurance, simply waiting quietly for the most intense shockwave to pass.

His face showed no fear, nor any pride, only calmness.

He intended to use these words to completely disrupt everyone's expectations and push the trial into an abyss that no one could have foreseen.

The uproar and commotion in the square lasted for nearly a minute, until the crowd's confusion and anticipation gradually subsided, and he slowly raised his hand again.

His voice remained calm: "Please be quiet, citizens, listen to me—first, I plead guilty to the judges who are about to try me."

He pointed to the huge archway behind him, which symbolized the highest judicial authority in France.

Yes, I will stand in the dock, and I will plead guilty to all charges before the judges.

'Weakening the discipline of the French army,' 'Inciting soldiers to disobey,' 'Insulting the country'... I admit to all of these.

I will not offer any defense, I will not allow a lawyer to speak on my behalf, and I will completely relinquish the right to defend myself.

The judges can make judgments on me freely and without any interference, based on the laws at their disposal.

"Whether it's fifteen days in prison, five years of exile, or the stripping of my citizenship, I will accept it all."

A commotion broke out in the crowd; some people couldn't help but boo, but most were confused.

Lionel's tone was sarcastic: "A writer who has stooped to using flowery words to deny what he has said is already dead in spirit."

Moreover, in a trial whose outcome is predetermined, any defense—no matter how eloquent or logical—is invalid and ridiculous.

Rather than acting like a clown, jumping around in the dock according to their script, futilely trying to prove his innocence;
Or like a stingy street vendor, haggling with the judge, exhausting all your words, hoping to get a lighter sentence...

I choose to use this "confession" outcome they expect to prove to all French people, to the whole world—

In this country, the law has never truly been independent of politics! The judge's robes still conceal the will of politicians and nobles!

Supporters suddenly realized that "confessing" is the ultimate form of resistance!
They relayed Lionel's words one by one to the people behind them, all the way to the edge of the square.

Cheers and applause erupted once again like thunder.

The commotion lasted for a moment before Lionel raised his hand again to quell the noise.

"But these are not my real 'sins'—"

"My second confession is to France!"

(End of this chapter)