Chapter 48 The Heartbeat of Paris
"'the old guard'? Lionel Sorel? Second year, Faculty of Arts?"
Each word above wasn't difficult to understand, but when put together, they made these students' heads spin.
They clutched the "Sorbonne Faculty of Arts Bulletin" in their hands, occasionally glancing back at Lionel, who sat in the corner of the last row, then looking back at the name on the journal.
There was no second Faculty of Arts at Sorbonne, and no second "Lionel Sorel" in the Faculty of Arts.
The surprised looks gradually turned into envy and jealousy, and some students even complained in whispers: "Isn't Professor Boissier always the most impartial? How much sponsorship did that Marchioness actually give?"
With a loud "bang," a fist appeared in front of the student who spoke, slamming hard on the table.
Albert said arrogantly: "Lionel is my friend! He is a friend of the Rohan Family! If you insult him, you insult me, you insult the Rohan Family! I don't want to hear such remarks again!"
The other party nodded repeatedly, too scared to retort.
Albert smugly cast a "See how good I am to you?" look in Lionel's direction, then opened the "Sorbonne Faculty of Arts Bulletin" in his hand and loudly read Professor Boissier's introduction—
[…If we confine our gaze solely to the specific historical identity of "the old guard," we greatly underestimate Mr. Sorel's creative depth and narrow the universal resonance this masterpiece can evoke. The tragedy of "the old guard" does not stem from which regime he served, but from a universal human predicament…]
[Another astonishing dimension of "the old guard" lies in the high maturity and innovativeness of its narrative art. Mr. Sorel abandons the passionate embellishment common in Romanticism or the data accumulation typical of Naturalism, choosing an almost cold "observer's perspective"—that of a young waiter in a tavern.]
[Mr. Hugo, with his profound insight into the era, asserts that it "belongs to the future." To receive such a definitive evaluation from this "Conscience of France" is a great honor, both for Sorbonne and for the author himself.]
The classroom gradually quieted down. No one was listening to what Albert was saying; almost everyone's eyes were drawn to "the old guard," which occupied the entire second page, unable to move, let alone look at Albert, who was like a clown.
The more Albert read, the more alarmed he became. Although he was an unlearned fop who only gained admission through the Rohan Family's generous multi-generational patronage of Sorbonne, his aristocratic background meant he had received a rather strict education at home from a young age and had been forced to read many books.
He knew that for Lionel's "the old guard" to receive such praise from a Sorbonne professor and Hugo, it must be extraordinary.
Money might buy off Gaston Boissier, or even Dean Henri Patin; but could it buy off Victor Hugo?
So Albert hastily found the last paragraph of the introduction, quickly read it, then turned to the second page of the journal and began reading "the old guard" like the other students.
A few minutes later, Albert suddenly looked up, incredulously turning to look at Lionel in the shadows of the corner, as if seeing him for the first time.
— — — — — — — —
"Grandpa, today I read a novel that seemed to be about you, about your comrades." A clear female voice woke the drowsy Jean-Baptiste Dupont.
He was 95 years old, with not much time left, and spent his days sickly in bed, sometimes not speaking a word for days.
His youngest granddaughter, Marie, ran in cheerfully, clutching a newspaper, and sat by his bed.
"Grandpa, this novel is called 'the old guard,' and the story takes place in the Alps—did you have comrades in the Alps?"
"the old guard," "comrades," "Alps"—these words stirred Jean-Baptiste's remaining memories. He opened his cloudy eyes and looked at a corner of the room—
A red military uniform hung there, and a military drum with a yellowed drumhead was suspended beside it.
Marie began to read "the old guard" to her grandpa—
["the old guard" was the only one who drank standing up and wore a woolen coat. He was very tall; his face was pale, often with scars between the wrinkles; and he had a bushy, grizzled beard. …]
[People talked behind his back, saying that the old guard had truly followed His Majesty the Emperor as part of the old guard, distinguishing himself in battles at Austerlitz and Jena. But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII issued an order, and these elites of the Emperor were disbanded. …]
[…the old guard immediately showed a dejected and uneasy look, a gray pallor fell over his face, and he mumbled some words; this time it was all about "the great snow of Moscow," "those damned Cossacks," "that old devil Blücher," things that were incomprehensible.]
["He still kept stealing. This time, he was so foolish as to steal into the cellar of Mr. Moreau, the mayor. Could his things be stolen?" "What happened then?" "What happened? First, he was forced to put his fingerprints down to confess by the security officer, then he was beaten, beaten for half the night, and then his leg was broken." "What then?" "Then his leg was broken." "What happened after his leg was broken?" "What? …Who knows? Perhaps he died."]
[From then on, 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 next year, he again said, "the old guard still owes nineteen sous!" At Pentecost, however, nothing was said, and he was not seen again at Christmas.
I still haven't seen him to this day—perhaps the old guard really is dead.]
Marie's voice grew softer and softer, more and more choked, until she finally broke down into sobs: "Grand… Grandpa, is this 'the old guard'? …You… you all…"
Through her tear-filled eyes, she was shocked to see her grandpa, who had been on the verge of death, suddenly climb out of bed. His branch-like fingers suddenly gripped the bed frame, and his cloudy eyes struggled open, as if searching for the smoke and drumbeats deep within his memory.
"Hyenas… Bourbon hyenas… following… always following… afraid of us… afraid of the Emperor returning…" His shriveled chest heaved violently.
Marie quickly stepped forward, wanting to help the old man, but he surprisingly grabbed her hands with astonishing strength, leaving red marks on Marie's hands.
She saw her grandpa's tears flowing down his deeply furrowed cheeks: "Child… it's true… all true… Gérard… Marcel… they… just like this… died in ditches… uncared for… medals… exchanged for bread… uniforms… the last bit of dignity…"
He fumbled to reach for the military drum on the wall, and Marie quickly took it down and handed it to him.
The old man hugged the military drum tightly to his chest, like holding a child lost for many years: "Long live… the Emperor? …He… also left… everyone left… only… shame… and… cold…"
The old man's voice faded, leaving only heavy, whistling breaths. He no longer spoke, his sunken eyes staring blankly into the void, as if all life had left him.
— — — — — — — —
Banker James Rothschild and his wife were enjoying a lovely afternoon at their estate on the outskirts of Paris.
He took the newspaper his wife handed him, listening absently to his wife's introduction of a poor Sorbonne student, then his gaze fell on the introduction to "the old guard" on the front page.
A few minutes later, he finished the introduction, scoffed, and threw the newspaper aside, commenting sharply: "Hugo? An outdated poet who always loves to sing high-minded tunes of compassion. Debts? France has enough debts, national debt, reparations… must we also pay for every obsolete old soldier?"
Then he sneered again with a "hmph": "Gaston is still clever, knowing to steer the topic towards 'universal humanity' and 'artistic value'. Sorbonne's "Poetry Society" needs works that showcase the elegance and vitality of France, not this… unpleasant sore.
Tell Patin that this year's sponsorship will remain the same, but I hope next year's "Bulletin" will have more 'bright' themes. We are funding a bright future, not ghosts of the past."
Madame 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, that 'Poor Léonard'?" Zola closed the "Sorbonne Faculty of Arts Bulletin" and asked Maupassant beside him: "He doesn't seem as cynical and unruly as in your stories?
In this 'the old guard,' he displays precise brushwork, finding the hereditary disease hidden deep within the old guard, and indeed, 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 gaze to the youngest participant among them, and also the main creator of the "Legend of Poor Léonard" over the past two months—Guy de Maupassant.
Maupassant's scalp was tingling at the moment; he couldn't even remember what the content of the last episode he told was…