Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 417 You are the lost generation!
The completion of the script for "The Café" relieved both Lionel and Maupassant of a heavy burden.

A mix of satisfaction and exhaustion lingered, and the two desperately needed a celebration to unwind.

Lionel suggested that he invite Huysmann, Paul Alexis, Leon Einique, and Henri Céar to have dinner at the "English Café" in Paris.

As a connoisseur of food, Maupassant readily agreed, even recounting how he had once invited Lionel to dine at a communal restaurant.

"Who would have thought that the poor boy who could only eat black bread for lunch back then could now go to 'English coffee shops'!"

The "British Café" is decorated in a style typical of the Second Empire's heyday, and although it is slightly outdated, it is still dazzling.

The gilded decorations, the enormous crystal chandelier, the deep red velvet curtains, and the waiters in their sharp uniforms who walk silently create a unique sense of luxury.

This is a place favored by wealthy businessmen, foreign tourists, and successful artists.

Lionel had reserved a relatively quiet, semi-enclosed box.

In the evening, everyone arrived by carriage, and after taking their seats, they began to chat in a relaxed and pleasant atmosphere.

Maupassant eagerly placed a thick stack of manuscripts from "The Café" on the table, drawing everyone's attention.

Lionel picked up the menu and said with a smile, "Gentlemen, to celebrate the completion of 'Café,' and to reward our hardworking Guy, please don't be shy tonight."

He ordered a lavish meal:
The appetizer was fresh oysters from Normandy, paired with a refreshing Chablis white wine;
The soup is a classic onion soup, topped with a thick layer of caramelized cheese.

The main course is the signature dish of "British Café"—grilled Charlotte steak, served with succulent foie gras and a secret black pepper sauce;

Pair it with a full-bodied red wine from the Saint-Estèphe appellation in Bordeaux.

After the meal, there is a selection of cheese platter and a soufflé soaked in Cointreau.

Fine wine and delicious food were soon served, filling the air with their aroma.

Everyone raised their glasses to toast the completion of "The Café" and to their friendship.

The silver cutlery clattered against the delicate porcelain plate, and the conversation gradually grew more lively.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Yusman pointed to the stack of manuscripts and asked, "Is this the masterpiece that you two have been working on for half a year?"

Lionel nodded, and Maupassant proudly handed over the manuscript, which began to circulate among Yussmann, Alexis, Ennique, and Céar.

They started off with relaxed smiles, but as they read on, the atmosphere in the private room gradually quieted down, leaving only the rustling of pages turning and faint noise.

Everyone was deeply shocked!
The script's portrayal of a grand historical tragedy through the fates of ordinary people, along with its powerful dialogue, struck their hearts like a hammer.

Leon Ennique read his boss Pierre's lines in a low voice, his tone bitter: "This perfectly captures the sorrow of all the little people."

Henri Céar repeated the Viscount Saint-Cyr's lament, "I love our France, but who loves me?" with a complex expression: "This helplessness of being abandoned by the times..."

Paul Alexis also quoted Lefebvre's irony: "If you have money, you should eat, drink, be merry, and go with the flow, but don't do anything foolish like 'revitalizing French industry'!"

He shook his head with a wry smile: "This is the most desperate way to deny one's life's pursuit. It's so powerful, Leon, Guy, these sentences are practically etched on a tombstone!"

Finally, Huysman put down the manuscript and exhaled a long smoke ring.

He rarely expressed his admiration so directly: "Fantastic. This isn't writing history; it's showcasing the soul of France!"

Congratulations, Léon and Guy! Once this play is performed, it may be even more sensational than *Thunderstorm*—it touches something deep within the hearts of us French people.

He looked at Maupassant, his tone filled with genuine envy: "Guy, it's truly enviable to be able to participate in the creation of such a work!"
This play is destined to be remembered in literary and theatrical history.

The others nodded in agreement, their eyes filled with similar envy as they looked at Maupassant.

Maupassant's face glowed with a mixture of joy at being recognized and pride as a participant.

At this moment, Lionel gave everyone a meaningful look: "You're all so busy envying Guy for participating in the creation, haven't you noticed that Guy himself is quite different from before?"

This statement startled everyone, and all eyes turned to Maupassant.

Hussman squinted, scrutinizing him closely; Alexis, Enik, and Seal also observed him thoughtfully.

Indeed, the Maupassant before them was significantly different from the typical Parisian playboy they had in mind.

In the past, Maupassant was flamboyant and outgoing, with a wild and unrestrained love life, and his complexion often appeared unhealthy bluish-white due to excessive indulgence.

He was also a well-known syphilis patient among his friends. It was common for him to frequent brothels and stay out all night. He always had a restless and thrill-seeking aura about him.

But now, Maupassant's eyes are noticeably calmer, and that flamboyance has been tempered by an inner sense of fulfillment.

His speech was still witty, but with a touch more composure.

The most obvious change was in his complexion, which was no longer a sickly pale color, but instead had a healthy rosy glow, making him look radiant.

Maupassant felt a little embarrassed by his friends' stares. He subconsciously touched his face and suddenly realized the changes in himself.

He smiled shyly and explained, "Now that Leon mentions it, it seems to be true. These past few months, for 'Café,' I've been either spending every day at the National Library researching or discussing characters, structure, and dialogue with him..."

His mind was filled with thoughts of the French Revolution, empires, and restorations; he even thought about the fates of those figures while sleeping! He paused, his voice tinged with self-deprecation: "To be honest, even I'm surprised; in the past few months, I've only gone to a brothel once a week."

Everyone was somewhat taken aback, then revealed a teasing smile.

Huysmann slowly exhaled a smoke ring: "Two years ago in Vienna, someone said he could do it twenty times in a row—who won that night?"

Everyone burst into laughter!
Lionel smiled as he looked at Maupassant, but in his heart he recalled Flaubert's dying words—"Lionel, if possible, lend Guy a hand..."

He knew that with the technological level of this era, even if he tried his best to get in touch with Dr. Pasteur and inspire him, he might not be able to cure Maupassant's syphilis in time.

But if his lifestyle could be changed, and he could break free from that endless, self-destructive indulgence, perhaps he could live longer and be more mentally stable.

These past few months, allowing Maupassant to focus on serious creative work rather than taking a yacht trip to Italy for pleasure, have undoubtedly been a good remedy.

Lionel seized the opportunity to ask, "Guy, to be honest, I've always been curious. Why did you choose to live such a dissolute life before?"

That doesn't seem to be entirely you.

This question made the atmosphere at the dinner table a little more tense.

Maupassant's smile gradually faded, and he remained silent for a while before gazing into the void.

After a long silence, he said in a low voice, "That war changed me..."

Everyone present knew that he was referring to the war with the Prussians.

Maupassant was once drafted into the army and personally experienced gunfire and death on the battlefield.

Maupassant's voice trembled: "Ever since I witnessed those around me falling like wheat being harvested on the battlefield, and how I myself barely survived the mud and gunfire..."

I'm disillusioned with the value of life because you never know whether tomorrow or death will come first.

Those lofty ideals and wonderful plans seem so ridiculous and naive in the face of death.

I believe life should be lived to the fullest, seizing every moment of pleasure, otherwise... otherwise, when you look back on your life on your deathbed, all you'll find are regrets for what you never experienced.

That would be the biggest regret!

His words instantly resonated with everyone else present.

Hussman put down his glass, nodded with a gloomy expression: "That's right, that damned war... I was also in the quartermaster department, and I've seen enough chaos and despair."

During the siege of Paris, hunger, cold, and the ever-present threat of artillery shells made everything meaningless.

After the war ended, I felt like nothing mattered anymore; only sensory stimulation could make me feel alive.

Leon Ennick sighed: "Although I didn't go directly to the battlefield, I volunteered in a rear hospital."

Those mutilated limbs and painful groans are enough to destroy any beautiful imagination of the world.

For a long time after the war, I couldn't stand the silence. I needed to constantly find ways to have fun, to numb myself with alcohol and noise, so that I wouldn't relive those scenes.

Henri Céar and Paul Alexis also whispered similar sentiments.

The disastrous defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, the Republican government's bloody crackdown on the Paris Commune...

This series of traumas profoundly affected their generation of French youth who had just come of age and experienced it firsthand.

Their general mental state is one of disillusionment, loss, and despair, so many people seek stimulation and solace in debauchery, which has become a kind of ailment of the times.

Ten years have passed, but the nightmare of war still haunts their minds, driving them to escape the emptiness and pain within through a life of debauchery.

Lionel listened quietly to their stories, scrutinizing these talented faces, yet shrouded in the shadows of their time.

Behind their unrestrained lifestyle lies a deep-seated trauma of the times and a spiritual wasteland.

A word naturally came to mind and slipped out:

"You are a lost generation!"

This sentence is like a peculiar pause, instantly cutting off all narration and sentiment.

Huysmann, Maupassant, Alexis, Ennique, César—everyone was stunned.

They stared blankly at Lionel, their eyes filled with astonishment and bewilderment, as if they had been instantly struck by a bullet.

Maupassant unconsciously repeated the phrase: "The Lost Generation..."

The private room was completely silent, save for the faint sound of music drifting from afar and the aroma of the dishes wafting from the table…

Lionel nodded: "Yes, the Lost Generation! My next novel will be dedicated to you!"

(Please give me a monthly pass)
　That concludes the two-chapter update. Just a heads-up, I'll make up for all the previous missed updates. The writing environment has been too unstable lately, so I'll be updating only two chapters for now. Please vote with your monthly tickets!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)