Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 58 Lionel's First Night

(Some people say I dislike Maupassant—honestly, he is one of my favorite writers and one of my mentors in literature. In some ways, I love Maupassant second only to Lu Xun.)
The shadow of the Paris Cathedral (Notre Dame) seemed to also loom over Archbishop Guillaume Merme de Boan's well-maintained, yet slightly flushed, round face, tinged with "divine wrath."

His grey eyes, usually filled with compassion during sermons, were now blazing with scorching fury as he stared intently at the thick book spread open on his desk—its cover almost defiantly plain, yet inside churning what he called "hellfire powerful enough to destroy the foundations of two centuries of faith."
"The Decadent City"

He was about to call Father Marcel, who had reported the book to him, when he suddenly remembered something. He looked at his right hand somewhat guiltily, quickly took out a soft piece of silk, carefully wiped it, and then threw it far away before calling out, "Marcel, come in here for a moment."

Father Marcel, a young clergyman with a resolute face, quickly stood before Bishop Gibber's desk: "At your service!" However, the scent of heather in the air made him frown slightly.

“Blasphemy! Shamelessness! Unprecedented malice!” Bishop Gilbert’s deep, furious voice echoed in the spacious, luxurious office, like that of a wounded donkey.

His short, thick, but pale fingers jabbed fiercely at the open pages of the book, as if trying to purify the filthy words with the holiness of his fingertips—the page depicting how Mr. Simmons used money and power to make a parish doctor, who should have represented holiness, an accomplice in covering up the truth about the poisoning of pastry chef Francesco Pisto.

“Look! Look at how they defile the sacred white robes! How they trample the conscience of God’s servants into the mire! This is not just simple moral depravity, it is an erosion of the very foundation of the church!”

More direct and more vicious than Boccaccio's *The Decameron* or Hugo's *The Hunchback of Notre Dame*!

He rose, walked around his desk, and went to Father Marcel, who stood silently to the side, barely daring to breathe. Suddenly, he gripped his shoulders tightly, his voice rising sharply, trembling slightly: "Marcel, my child, have you ever thought about this—"

When the men of Paris, regardless of social status, indulge in writings depicting the bribery of clergy, the blasphemy of sacraments, and the utter debauchery of extravagance, where will their souls stray? Where will our prestige find its place?!

Father Marcel lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the bishop's spotless, exquisite leather shoes, and deftly used a turn to free himself from the bishop's hands: "As you said, this...this text is indeed full of dangerous poison, and is worrying."

Bishop Gibert, reflecting on the subtle changes the jokes about the priests in the newspaper over the past few months had subtly altered in him, licked his thick lips and gave a knowing smile, but his voice rose again: "Worry? No, Pierre, this is war!"

His well-tailored purple robes, a symbol of holiness and authority, swayed as his body trembled, the golden cross on his chest gleaming in the light: "A war against God, against the Church, against the pure hearts of France!"
We must fight back! We must uproot this cancer!

Bishop Gibel's eyes sharpened. The worldly pleasure he had derived from reading "street gossip" was a thing of the past ten minutes, now replaced by a grander, more "sacred" ambition.

He leaned close behind Father Marcel, his breath brushing against the young man's ear, and his voice suddenly softened, becoming almost gentle as he said, "Marcel, my dear child, would you be willing to do something to help us win this war?"

Father Marcel hurriedly turned around again, now facing Bishop Gibert: "May...may you serve me!"

Bishop Giber gave a cryptic smile: "It's not difficult—this afternoon, take my souvenir to the police station, find Chief Gigo, and hand him the souvenir."

"At the same time, you must tell him—" At this point, Bishop Gibel suddenly straightened up, spreading his arms wide, like a compassionate saint in the oil painting behind him.

"Out of deep concern for public order, good morals, and the mental health of the next generation of France, I, on behalf of the Church, strongly urge the Paris Police Department to take swift and decisive action to trace the source of these poisonous books. The Church will closely monitor the progress of this matter and is willing to fully support its sacred duty, both spiritually and morally, to uphold the purity of the French capital."

He then lowered his hands and stared into Father Marcel's eyes: "Can you do it, my child!"

Father Marcel, drenched in sweat, barely managed to compose himself: "Yes...yes, I will do my best not to disappoint you, Your Excellency. Then...may I take this book with me?"
Otherwise, even Chief Gigo might not know what "The Decadent City" is.

Bishop Gibert's face showed a mocking expression: "He doesn't know? Believe me, Marcel, if only one person in Paris has this book, it must be him!"

Marcel lowered his head in alarm: "Understood, Your Excellency."

Bishop Gibbon waved his hand, signaling Marcel to go out first; he needed to get some rest.

------

"...So, gentlemen, the birth of 'The Old Guard' did not stem from a grand historical theme, at least not initially. It stemmed from a...almost physiological visual impact."

That was in the Alps, a rough and real world quite different from the glitz and glamour of Paris. In a small bar filled with the smells of cheap gin and pickled olives, everyone could see 'him'—

An old soldier, dressed in faded, worn clothes but trying his best to maintain a certain demeanor, stood outside the counter, drinking the cheapest liquor with the workers in coarse cloth jackets. Every wrinkle on his face was etched with the smoke of past battles and the predicament of the present.

He was an out-of-place ghost, a living specimen forgotten on the margins of time.

Lionel stood in the center of the living room, speaking in a calm and composed tone.

The living room wasn't large. Apart from the sofa and some clumsy Chinese-style furniture and porcelain that Europeans imagined, there was only a huge desk piled with books, manuscripts, and small ornaments, but at this moment a red cloth had been covered on the desk.

The room was filled with the rich smoke of cigars, the leather and paper scents of old books, and the crackling of the fireplace. The heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn, allowing the natural light from outside to illuminate every corner of the room along with the gas lamps.

On the sofas surrounding Lionel sat several men of varying ages, enough to constitute half of 19th-century French literature.

This was "Flaubert's Sunday," and also Lionel Sorel's first night at the prestigious Parisian Salon, a gathering that would be remembered in literary and art history.

(End of this chapter)