Chapter 52: Hell Scene (asking for vote)
Victor Bonaparte practically leaped from the sofa, pointing at Lionel with a finger, unable to utter a complete sentence.
His carefully prepared invitation to recruit was utterly defeated by Lionel's onion-peeling analysis and sharp, yet clean, sarcasm.
He felt like a clown stripped of his finery, exposed to the cold wind. He spun around to Henri Patin, his voice shrill: "Dean Patin! Is this the kind of student Sorbonne produces?
An arrogant, ungrateful agitator who brazenly insults the Empire and the Bonaparte family?! You must..."
"Victor!" Dean Henri Patin, who had been silently feigning sleep, suddenly spoke. His voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.
He slowly rose to his feet; his 'potbelly' was no longer cumbersome but a symbol of 'steadiness' and dignity.
He walked between the two young men, first casting a complex but implicitly approving glance at Lionel, then turning to Victor Bonaparte.
"Victor," Dean Henri Patin's tone became serious and distant, devoid of the previous pleasantries, "Mr. Lionel Sorel is a formally registered student of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts. He enjoys all the rights granted by the Faculty, including freedom of thought and speech.
His recent remarks, though sharp, did not violate any school regulations or laws. He was merely expounding his understanding of the essence of literature and his views on the ownership of his own work.
This is the proper conduct of scholars and students!"
He paused, looking at Victor's face, which was even more distorted by shock and anger, and continued: "As for the 'friendship of the Bonaparte family' that you presented on behalf of your esteemed father, Sorbonne University, as an academic institution, has no right to interfere with a student's private choices.
Lionel has already clearly expressed his wishes. I think today's meeting can conclude here."
"Dean Patin! You...!" Victor could hardly believe his ears! This dean, who was always smooth and quite polite to those in power, was actually siding with that commoner student: "Do you know what you're saying? My father is a senator! The Bonaparte family..."
Even Lionel was somewhat surprised.
"The Bonaparte family has left a deep mark on the history of France, which no one can deny," Dean Henri Patin interrupted him calmly, but his eyes were sharp, "but the history of Sorbonne is far older than any family, any dynasty.
Our duty is to guard knowledge, truth, and the spirit of independence. Victor, your words and actions today, if I may be frank, are full of arrogance and coercion that are utterly incompatible with the spirit of Sorbonne. This greatly disappoints me."
These words were like a final heavy hammer, striking Victor Bonaparte's heart. Not only had he been thoroughly humiliated by Lionel, but even Dean Patin, whom he had always relied on, had openly defected!
Panic instantly overwhelmed his anger. He suddenly realized that it had been 10 years since France had an emperor; now, this land was a republic.
Although Dean Henri Patin was not a politician, he was the influential Dean of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts, an academician of the French Academy, and a renowned scholar—if he were to expose what happened today, his coercion and enticement of a Sorbonne student...
Cold sweat instantly drenched Victor's back, and his carefully groomed black hair seemed to lose its luster. He looked around; Dean Henri Patin's gaze was piercing, while Lionel's had returned to calm, not even looking at him anymore, but flipping through the 'Bulletin' on the table.
"Good... very good..." Victor Bonaparte's voice was dry and hoarse, completely devoid of the aristocratic arrogance he had displayed earlier.
He grabbed his cane, forgetting to put on the gloves he had taken off upon entering, and stumbled back two steps, "Dean Patin... Lionel Sorel... you... both are very good... Farewell!"
He even forgot to maintain basic farewell etiquette, turning abruptly and practically fleeing, his cane tapping a chaotic and hurried rhythm on the floor.
He pulled open the heavy oak door of the dean's office, his figure disappearing awkwardly down the corridor, and soon the heavy wheels of a luxurious carriage could be heard crushing the Sorbonne's flagstones in the courtyard.
Silence fell within the office, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock. The lingering scent of cigar smoke hung in the air, along with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of the high-quality cologne from Victor.
Dean Henri Patin sighed as if a heavy burden had been lifted. He walked to the door, gently closed it, then turned around, looking at Lionel with a complex expression, a slight smile on his face: "Aren't you afraid? His father is the current leader of the Bonaparte family."
Lionel returned the smile: "Mr. Dean, do you really think France will once again welcome an emperor named Bonaparte?"
Henri Patin thought for a moment: "Although Prince Louis is still in England, many people are already calling him 'Napoleon IV'... Oh, this young 'Napoleon' just now also seems to have many ideas; his order of succession is second only to Prince Louis."
Lionel stood up and walked to the window, watching the carriage adorned with the imperial emblem gradually disappear below.
Only then did he turn back to Henri Patin and ask: "If one day—and I mean if—this young 'Napoleon' really becomes emperor, and then brings up today's old scores, will Sorbonne still stand behind me?"
Henri Patin took a puff from his pipe, slowly exhaling blue smoke: "That will be a long time from now; I will probably be a pile of decaying bones by then.
However, Lionel, do not overestimate Sorbonne..."
Hearing this 'astonishingly' honest warning, Lionel bowed to Dean Henri Patin: "At least today, Sorbonne's floor is clean.
Thank you for upholding my dignity and Sorbonne's today. If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave."
Henri Patin said nothing, merely nodding wearily.
— — — — — — — —
"This is the Eleventh District? This is Oberkampf Street? This is where Lionel lives?"
Maupassant stepped down from the carriage, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings with disbelief.
Half an hour ago, he was still smoking a cigar in Mr. Flaubert's study in the Saint-Germain district, filled with the scent of books and the serene aroma of Oriental carpets; now, he stood before the most authentic Parisian working-class district.
First, a strong, complex, almost palpable stench hit him like a foul punch. It was the dreadful odor of rotting vegetable leaves, low-quality grease, untreated excrement, cheap alcohol vomit, cheap perfume, and stale sweat, fermenting, mixing, and evaporating in the not-so-warm early spring air of Paris.
The path beneath his feet was less a street and more a trap paved with mud and garbage. The flagstones were long broken, and the potholes were filled with black-green sewage, reflecting a murky, greasy light.
The buildings on either side of the street seemed to be bowed by age and poverty. The drab walls were covered in stains and streaks from rain, the windows mostly obscured by thick grime, many with broken glass crudely patched with rags or cardboard.
The crowds were noisy, coarse, with a raw vitality and despair.
Men in faded blue work clothes, with tired eyes, gathered in small groups, leaning against tavern doors or squatting in corners, talking and cursing loudly in slang and obscenities, their spittle flying in the murky air.
Most women had sallow complexions, wrapped in worn aprons or shaw; some were vigorously scrubbing clothes at the sink by their doors, while others, with baskets, fiercely haggled with vendors at the filthy roadside stalls, their voices shrill and piercing.
Children, barefoot or in tattered shoes, shrieked and chased each other through the mud and garbage, their faces and hands covered in dirt.
Maupassant could almost feel the eyes hidden in the shadows—thieves weighing the contents of his pockets, beggars eyeing his potential alms, prostitutes assessing his wallet and interest.
And then there were the stares of the numb residents, hostile or merely curious, pricking him like needles, an incongruous intruder.
"Lionel wrote 'the old guard' in this environment? No wonder... This is hell!" Maupassant mused to himself.
Every cold detail of that novel, every scar on the old guard, every biting taunt in the tavern, every numb record from the perspective of the young shop assistant... now had an incredibly concrete, incredibly heavy real-world parallel in his mind!
Maupassant felt a wave of dizziness, his stomach churning, almost wanting to turn and flee this nauseating street immediately.
But soon a voice attracted his attention: "Sir, want a shot? Only 10 sous!"