Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 92 Charpentier's Tuesday
When Lionel arrived at "Charpentier's Bookshelf" by carriage, the Parisian twilight was gently enveloping the somewhat old-fashioned, pre-Hauman five-story building.

Although he had received an invitation beforehand, this was his first time visiting.

Salons usually don't have a fixed start time; you can start, join, and leave at any time.

The same is true of "Tuesdays with Charpentier".

It often begins in the afternoon when some bored writer chats with Mr. Charpentier (or someone else), and as coffee and cigars, snacks and desserts are consumed, more and more people come up to the third floor...

Lionel said to the doorman, "I am Lionel Sorel. Mr. Charpentier sent me to the party."

The doorman immediately stepped aside to make way for him: "Mr. Sorel, Mr. Charpentier instructed that you can go directly to the third floor."

When Lionel pushed open the heavy oak door to the third-floor living room, the atmosphere inside immediately captivated him.

The gaslight shone through the frosted glass shade, casting a warm glow on the dark beechwood bookshelves, the heavy velvet curtains, and the faces of the men sitting around.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of fine cigars, the fragrance of aged brandy, the stale smell of old paper, and the delicate scent of burning unknown spices.

The people who were discussing the matter all looked in his direction when they heard the door open.

Dressed in a blue tuxedo and with a slender build, Georges Charpentier rushed forward, unable to contain his excitement, exclaiming, "Ah, look who's here! It's our hero, Lionel!"

Then he gave Lionel a light hug, patted him on the back and said, "Well done, Lionel! You've worked hard!"

Immediately afterward, everyone else in the reception room applauded, including familiar faces like Zola, Flaubert, and Turgenev, as well as a few unfamiliar people.

Lionel's hair stood on end. He had just experienced this script, these lines, this scene yesterday, and he already had PTSD.

Did Baroness Alexievna also sponsor the "Charpentier Bookshelf"? How much did she spend this time?
Lionel felt as if an invisible net was hanging over his head!
Thinking of the scandalous rumors about him and the baroness at university, he thought that if these great writers were to use this place to tease him, he would really jump off the third floor.

Lionel was eager to explain and frantically searched the crowd for the only "witness"—Guy de Maupassant.

Unfortunately, he is not here today.

Perhaps he went to Mallarmé, or perhaps he was in that brothel—although he had once told Lionel in Jersey that he "absolutely...try not to go to prostitutes."

Fortunately, Georges Charpentier's next words relieved him: "Léon, your 'Letter from an Unknown Woman' is such a pleasant surprise!"

You saved *Modern Life*, you are a true hero! To write such a masterpiece in such a short time must have taken a lot of effort!

A short, stout, bald man also came over and shook hands with Lionel: "I am Emil Bergera, we correspond. When Monsieur Charpentier asked me to illustrate this for color printing, I thought he was crazy."

It has now been proven that my foresight was too short-sighted—this issue of *Modern Life* needs a second printing because of your novel and Mr. Charpentier's wise decision!

Lionel then noticed that everyone in the drawing room was holding a copy of "Modern Life".

Flaubert picked up the newspaper and waved it around, calling out, "Come on over, Mr. Sorel! If you don't come this week, we're going to have a salon at your apartment!" Lionel finally relaxed, a cheerful and relaxed smile spreading across his face: "Mr. Flaubert, then I'll have to have the money to buy a bigger apartment!"

Turgenev, sitting on the sofa, joked with him: "With 'The Old Guard' and 'Letter from an Unknown Woman,' there will be big apartments and carriages."

After Lionel was seated, Flaubert eagerly began: "Léon, the first sentence of this novel is—'Years later, facing the woman in his bed, the novelist L will recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from a strange woman.'"

Under what circumstances, and what kind of magic, did you manage to conceive such a sentence?

Sure enough, anyone with a sensitivity to literature would be immediately drawn to this opening.

Lionel's answer was naturally confident: "I was just trying to capture a feeling—the feeling that time is compressed, stretched, and distorted when a huge emotional shock comes."

I forcibly bound 'L' together with the changes in tense at that moment: his past, that distant afternoon; the present, the instant of reading the letter; and the future, recalling this moment while facing the woman in bed.

Only in French, only in French, can this entanglement be so clearly presented! Gentlemen, it's not that I've acquired any magic, but that French itself possesses this magic!

Everyone present—including the Russian Turgenev—was a leading writer of French and believed that French was the most beautiful and expressive language in the world. This statement undoubtedly resonated with them.

So everyone wore a faint smile, and their gazes toward Lionel became increasingly appreciative.

“Magic, yes!” Emil Bergera, editor-in-chief of Modern Life, exclaimed excitedly.

His forehead shone brightly under the light: "It instantly imbues the act of 'reading a letter' with the weight of predicting the future and the inevitability of looking back at the past."

It throws the reader into a temporal vortex from the very beginning, foreshadowing a tragedy about fate and memory. This is a novel approach in our literature!

Georges Charpentier elegantly swirled the brandy in his glass, his mustache slightly upturned: "Émile, bold innovation is the cornerstone of *Modern Life*. And Lionel..."

He looked at the young man: "You not only provided innovation, but also... topics—women all over Paris are talking about the women in your writing."

My wife, and her friends who are all married women, are crying for this woman, talking about her devotion, her ruthlessness, her sacrifices... and cursing us men along the way.

Ha, we old folks were just talking about her too. Ivan, what were you saying about this woman again? You said she was intelligent? That's interesting..."

Lionel was speechless for a moment. He had thought that these old folks would be interested in the early stream-of-consciousness techniques he used in this novel, but he didn't expect that they were most concerned about this woman.

Turgenev put down his pipe, his grey-blue eyes revealing deep thought: "George, of course, it's wisdom—the wisdom of this woman, and also the wisdom of Lionel—"

The opening line, "My son died yesterday," is like a cold key that instantly unlocks all doubts, forcing you to believe that every word she says, every tear she sheds, and every hopeless wait she gives is real.

This is the wisdom of despair, the cornerstone of tragedy.

“Excuse me for speaking frankly, but you have misunderstood Lionel!” A deep, yet slightly cold, voice rang out.

(End of this chapter)