Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 49 The Heartbeat of Paris

"The Old Guard? Lionel Sorel? A second-year student in the Faculty of Arts?"

Each word above is easy to understand, but when put together, they make these students' heads spin.

They clutched the Sorbonne College Bulletin, glancing occasionally at Lionel sitting in the last corner of the last row before looking back at his name in the journal.

The Sorbonne has no second Faculty of Arts, and the Faculty of Arts has no second "Lionel Sorel".

The surprised and suspicious looks gradually turned into envy and jealousy, and some students even complained in whispers: "Isn't Professor Boischer always the most fair? How much sponsorship did that Marquis actually give?"

With a loud bang, a fist appeared in front of the student who had spoken, slamming hard onto the table.

Albert said arrogantly, "Leon is my friend! He's a friend of the Roon family! By insulting him, you are insulting me and the Roon family! I don't want to hear such remarks again!"

The other person was so frightened that they nodded repeatedly, not daring to say a word.

Albert gave Lionel a smug look that said, "See? I've been pretty good to you," then opened his copy of the Sorbonne College Bulletin and loudly recited Professor Boischer's introduction—

...If we limit our focus solely to the specific historical identity of the "Old Guard," we greatly underestimate the depth of Mr. Sorel's work and narrow the universal resonance this masterpiece can evoke. The tragedy of the "Old Guard" does not stem from any particular regime he served, but from a universal human dilemma...

Another astonishing aspect of *The Old Guard* lies in its highly mature and innovative narrative art. Mr. Sorel eschews the passionate embellishments common in Romanticism or the voluminous data collection typical of Naturalism, opting instead for an almost detached "observer's perspective"—that of a young waiter in a tavern.

[With his profound insight into the times, Mr. Hugo asserted that it "belongs to the future." To receive such a high evaluation from this "conscience of France" is a tremendous honor for both the Sorbonne and the author himself.]

The classroom gradually quieted down. No one was listening to what Albert was saying. Almost everyone's eyes were glued to the second page of "The Old Guard," unable to look away, let alone at the clown-like Albert.

Albert was increasingly alarmed as he read on. Although he was an uneducated playboy who was able to enroll in the Sorbonne only because of the generous support of the Rohan family over generations, he had received a rather strict education at home since childhood and had been forced to read a lot of books.

He knew that Lionel's "The Old Guard" must be something special to receive such praise from Professor Sorbonne and Hugo.

Money might be able to bribe Gaston Boischer, or even Dean Henry Patan; but could it bribe Victor Hugo?
So Albert hurriedly found the last paragraph of the introduction, quickly read it, and then turned to the second page of the journal, where he began reading "The Old Guard" like the other students.

A few minutes later, Albert suddenly looked up and turned back in disbelief to look at Lionel in the shadows in the corner, as if he were seeing him for the first time.

--------

“Grandpa, I read a novel today that seems to be about you, your comrade-in-arms.” A clear female voice woke the drowsy Jean-Baptiste Dupont.

He is 95 years old and doesn't have much time left. He lies in bed all day, feeling sickly, and sometimes he won't say a word for days.

His youngest granddaughter, Mary, came running in happily, clutching a newspaper, and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Grandpa, this novel is called 'The Old Guard,' and the story takes place in the Alps—do you have any comrades-in-arms in the Alps?"

"Old Guard," "Comrade-in-Arms," ​​"Alps"—these words stirred Jean-Baptiste's remaining memories. He opened his cloudy eyes and looked towards a corner of the room—

There hung a set of red military uniforms there, and a military drum with a yellowed drumhead.

Mary began reading "The Old Guard" to her grandfather—

The "old guard" was the only person who drank standing up while wearing a woolen coat. He was very tall; pale-faced, with wrinkles often interspersed with scars; and a unkempt, grizzled beard. ...

[I overheard people talking behind his back that the old guard was indeed a veteran of His Majesty the Emperor's personal guard, having distinguished himself at Austerlitz and Jena. But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII ordered the disbandment of these elite imperial troops. ...] [...The old guard immediately looked dejected and uneasy, his face turning ashen, muttering things; this time it was all "the heavy snow of Moscow," "damn Cossacks," "that old devil Brüchel," and things like that, some of which I couldn't understand.]

"He's still stealing. This time, he was out of his mind, stealing from Mayor Moreau's cellar. Could he possibly steal from his house?" "What happened next?" "What happened? First, the sheriff forced him to put his fingerprints on a confession, then he was beaten—beaten for most of the night—and his leg was broken." "And then?" "His leg was broken." "And what happened after that?" "What happened?...Who knows? Maybe he died."

[After that, the old guard was not seen for a long time. At Christmas, the boss took down the blackboard and said, "The old guard still owes nineteen sous!" At Easter the following year, he said again, "The old guard still owes nineteen sous!" But he didn't say anything at Pentecost, and he was not seen at Christmas again.]

I haven't seen him yet—the old guard must have really died.

Mary's voice grew softer and softer, more and more choked with sobs, until finally she broke down in tears: "Grandpa...Grandpa, is this the 'Old Guard'?...You...you..."

Through her teary eyes, she was shocked to see her grandfather, who had been on the verge of death, suddenly get up from the bed. His withered fingers gripped the edge of the bed, and his cloudy eyes struggled to open, as if searching for the smoke and drumbeats deep in his memory.

“Hyenas…the Bourbon hyenas…following…always following…afraid of us…afraid of the emperor returning…” His withered chest heaved violently.

Mary rushed forward to help the old man, but he grabbed her hands with surprising strength, leaving red marks on her hands.

She saw tears streaming down her grandfather's deeply furrowed face: "Child...it's true...it's all true...Gérard...Marcel...they...just like this...died in the ditch...nobody cared...medals...for bread...uniforms...their last bit of dignity..."

He groped for the military drum on the wall, and Mary quickly took it down and handed it to him.

The old man clutched the war drum tightly to his chest, as if holding a long-lost child: "Long live the Emperor?... He... is gone too... all gone... leaving only... shame... and... cold..."

The old man's voice trailed off, leaving only heavy, whistling breaths. He fell silent, his sunken eyes staring blankly into the void, as if he had lost all life.

--------

Banker James Rothschild and his wife are enjoying a pleasant afternoon at their estate outside Paris.

He took a newspaper from his wife and listened casually to her introduction of a poor student in the Sorbonne, then his gaze fell on the introduction to "The Old Guard" on the front page.

A few minutes later, he finished reading the introduction, scoffed, and tossed the newspaper aside, offering a scathing critique: "Hugo? A washed-up poet, always singing lofty tunes of pity and compassion. Debt? France has enough debt already—national debt, reparations… must it also pay for every outdated veteran?"

He then gave a dismissive snort: "Gaston is clever enough to steer the conversation toward 'universal humanity' and 'artistic value.' The Sorbonne's 'poetry gatherings' need works that showcase French elegance and vitality, not this...unpleasant scar."

Tell Patan that this year's grant will continue as usual, but hope that next year's Bulletin will feature more 'bright' themes. We are funding a bright future, not the ghosts of the past.

Mrs. Rothschild nodded silently, a look of disappointment in her eyes, then lowered her gaze and began to read "The Old Guard" intently...

--------

"Is this really the masterpiece of your friend, the 'poor Lionel'?" Zola closed the Sorbonne Academic Bulletin and asked Maupassant beside him, "He doesn't seem as cynical and unruly as you portray him in your story?"
In "The Old Guard," he demonstrates precise writing skills, uncovering the hereditary disease hidden deep within the heart of the old guard, and indeed, of all French people...

If Paris had a heart, it would beat faster and stronger because of this masterpiece!

Flaubert, Turgenev, and Daudet all turned their attention to Guy de Maupassant, the youngest participant among them and the main architect of the “Leonard in Poverty” story in the past two months.

Maupassant felt a chill run down his spine; he couldn't even remember what the previous episode was about...

(End of this chapter)