In the following days, the small villa in Croisset seemed to become a magnet for the French literary world.
Telegrams flew in like snowflakes, expressing shock, mourning, and regret.
Zola was the first to arrive.
He was travel-worn, his face full of grief and fatigue.
He tightly embraced Maupassant and Lionel, his voice choked:
"I was still looking forward to the next 'Flaubert's Sunday.' How could this be so sudden..."
Next came Edmond de Goncourt, looking solemn.
He carefully inquired about Flaubert's final moments, sighing with emotion.
Alphonse Daudet also arrived, his gentle face filled with sorrow, softly comforting everyone.
Ivan Turgenev also came.
He appeared deeply wounded in both body and spirit, his already snow-white beard and hair looking particularly disheveled and dejected.
Madame Caroline Commanville, Flaubert's niece, arrived with her family.
Although she was sad, her main concern was the handling of Flaubert's estate, constantly keeping an eye on the artifacts in the villa and Flaubert's manuscripts.
She maintained a polite yet distant relationship with Maupassant, Lionel, and other "literary children."
The small villa was crowded with people, and the air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke, coffee, and profound sadness.
People conversed in low voices, recalling their interactions with Flaubert, sharing his literary insights and anecdotes about his fiery temper in his early years.
Lionel played the role of a semi-host, assisting Juliette in receiving guests, handling miscellaneous tasks, and maintaining order as much as possible.
Wednesday, May 12, 1880, Rouen, Saint-Ouen Church.
The sky was overcast, and the church's ancient stone walls appeared particularly solemn under the gray daylight.
The funeral mass proceeded as scheduled.
The church was packed, and flickering candlelight illuminated the solemn faces of the attendees.
The solemn prayers of the priest and the ethereal singing of the choir echoed through the air.
Attendees included local officials from Rouen, Flaubert's local friends, curious and admiring citizens, and, of course, representatives from the literary world who had traveled from Paris.
Zola, Goncourt, Daudet, Maupassant, Lionel... sat in the front rows.
Georges Charpentier also arrived, his expression grave, occasionally wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.
Maupassant's gaze never left the oak coffin covered with flowers.
After the mass, the funeral procession slowly made its way towards the Rouen Monumental Cemetery.
The sky remained overcast.
The procession was long, numbering some three hundred people, walking silently through the streets of Rouen.
Citizens along the route spontaneously stopped, removed their hats, and paid their respects.
They might not have been able to fully comprehend Madame Bovary, but they knew that Rouen had lost a son worthy of pride.
Upon reaching the cemetery, an unexpected incident occurred.
The pre-prepared grave was too small and could not accommodate Flaubert's coffin.
The coffin hung awkwardly above the grave, unable to be lowered, creating a momentarily suffocating scene...
The mourners waited quietly, a subtle emotion spreading through the air—
It seemed as if even death and the earth could not easily embrace this giant, whose soul was so immense.
The gravediggers had no choice but to immediately begin, swinging their shovels, hastily enlarging the grave.
Soil was dug up, and the entire process was delayed for nearly an hour.
The funeral procession could only wait in silence, time feeling exceptionally long and agonizing.
Finally, the grave was enlarged to the appropriate size, and the coffin was slowly lowered.
Ropes rubbed against the pulleys, emitting a soft creaking sound, before the coffin finally settled firmly into the embrace of the earth.
Soil began to be shoveled into the grave, falling onto the coffin lid with a dull, final sound.
At this point, people began to deliver eulogies.
Maupassant called Flaubert "our master, our mentor," and "the most tenacious and sincere servant of French literature," stating that his passing had left all lovers of literature as "spiritual orphans."
His eulogy was not like a meticulously prepared speech, but rather a heartfelt confession to his mentor, moving all who heard it.
Zola spoke next.
He emphasized Flaubert's revolutionary status in literary history, calling him "the true founder of the modern novel," who "combined scientific precision with artistic perfection," and whose influence would last forever.
Finally, all eyes fell upon Lionel Sorel.
Lionel took a deep breath, stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over all the sorrowful faces present, then looked towards the coffin, now mostly covered by earth, and slowly began to speak:
"Gentlemen, friends."
"We are gathered here today not merely to bid farewell to a great writer—though Monsieur Gustave Flaubert's greatness already requires no words from us at this moment to prove it.
Madame Bovary, Salammbô, Sentimental Education... these works themselves are immortal monuments standing before his grave.
Time will pass, eras will change, but these works will forever be indelible coordinates in humanity's spiritual world."
"We stand here today, moreover, to bid farewell to a giant-like mentor, a saint who remained loyal to literature his entire life."
"What Monsieur Flaubert taught us goes far beyond writing techniques. He led by example, making us believe that searching for 'the only right word' is not a form of obsession, but a sacred duty, a noble battle to defend the dignity of literature."
"He told us that a writer's duty is not to judge, but to understand; not to incite emotions, but to present truth—that most accurate truth achievable only through rigorous refinement.
He was like Prometheus, not stealing ordinary fire, but the radiance that illuminates humanity."
"He once said, 'A writer should be like God, present in his work, nowhere visible, yet everywhere present.' He himself was such a God, creating worlds, hidden behind them, gazing at his creations.
Now, this God has returned to his heavenly kingdom, leaving behind the myriad worlds he created for us to study and revere."
"His physical body will eventually return to dust, just like all of ours. But his dedication to sincerity, his reverence for language, his loyalty to thought—all of this will certainly not perish with him."
At this point, Lionel slightly raised his voice, as if not bidding farewell, but making a solemn vow:
"Monsieur Gustave Flaubert never married and had no children. But he possesses the richest legacy—that is, all the works he left behind.
He also has the broadest inheritors—all writers who, like him, are willing to endure solitude, pursue perfection, and refuse to compromise."
"Monsieur Flaubert has left us. But he is not gone far. He is right there—"
Lionel extended his finger, pointing to the void, and also to the heart of each person:
"In every word, every sentence, every eternal character in his works.
He is under the moonlight of Madame Bovary, beneath the Carthaginian walls of Salammbô, in Frédéric Moreau's bewilderment, and in Bouvard and Pécuchet's seemingly futile yet incredibly sincere quest."
"As long as we continue to read, to think, and to try to understand and present this complex world through words, Monsieur Flaubert will live forever."
"May he rest in peace. May his spirit continue to guide us forward!"
Lionel's eulogy concluded, and silence fell upon the scene.
Many people shed tears silently, including Zola and Goncourt, who had previously maintained composure.
The burial ceremony was finally completed.
People slowly began to disperse, leaving behind freshly turned earth and a silent tombstone.
...
The next day, on the train back to Paris, everyone's spirits finally lifted a little.
Maupassant was no longer choked up; he even said to Émile Zola:
"Actually, for the master, this was a good death, an enviable swift blow.
I wish for this, and I wish for all those I love to die this way, like an insect pinched to death by a giant finger..."
Zola offered a smile and nodded:
"I heard he didn't suffer much..."
Turgenev suddenly said to Lionel:
"Actually, I also envy Gustave, not just because his death was swift and clean, but even more because of your eulogy.
'He was like Prometheus, not stealing ordinary fire, but the radiance that illuminates humanity'—that assessment simply makes me jealous...
If I die, what would you say at my funeral?"
Lionel felt his forehead twitching, unsure how to answer the master.
Fortunately, Turgenev didn't press the matter, but his tone grew sad:
"The tumor on my back, it's telling me my days are numbered."
Silence fell again in the carriage.
Lionel looked at Turgenev's sunken cheeks, knowing in his heart that what he said was true.
What Lionel didn't know was that in the next 20-plus years, he would send off these masters one by one.
French, Russian, British, American...
His eulogies at funerals were often regarded as the definitive assessments of the deceased by the entire era.
So much so that he earned a title even more resounding than "Father of 20th-Century Literature"—
"The Undertaker of 19th-Century Literature"!
(End of Chapter)