Albert looked around, carefully counted the heads, and found that Lionel was indeed missing.
Only the skull's empty eye sockets were bottomless, and under the flickering light, it was as if countless pairs of eyes were silently staring at these uninvited guests in the darkness.
Some skulls were slightly tilted, jaws agape, forming an eternally frozen, silent scream.
Some bone surfaces were covered with a greasy, grayish-white mold, like the sweat of the dead, reflecting a chilling luster in the light.
"He... he couldn't have been taken by something, could he?"
The voice of a follower trembled.
Albert panicked at this point.
No matter how "humble" Lionel's status was in his eyes, losing a classmate in the underground catacombs – if anything happened, he would certainly be in deep trouble.
He might even be accused of "murder" – after all, his conflict with Lionel was obvious, and many had heard him propose "the old mine" to Lionel.
But soon Albert noticed something.
From the leftmost of the three tunnels, a regular, slight sound like footsteps could be heard; faint, flickering shadows of a light could also be seen on the bone wall.
He sighed in relief, pointing to the left tunnel:
"He probably went ahead...
Damn it, I haven't even explained the rules yet!"
Michel Verne asked,
"Should we follow him?"
Albert hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded:
"Go!
Let's follow him and see what trick he's playing?"
He was the backbone of the group, and since everyone had also started to get used to the eerie environment, their courage grew a little.
They all declared that they would catch up with Lionel and teach him a lesson.
Albert gritted his teeth, led the way, and quickly pursued in the direction Lionel had left.
Under their feet were slippery gravel and mud, making an unsettling "splat" sound when stepped on, each step feeling as if they were treading on something unclean.
Cold water droplets constantly seeped from the arch ceiling,
drip... drip... drip...
Falling onto skulls, shoulders, and the glass covers of their gas lanterns.
The sound was infinitely amplified in the dead silent tunnel, like a slow countdown, pounding on everyone's nerves.
The tunnel stretched endlessly forward.
At the end of where the light could reach, there were only more and deeper walls of bones, disappearing into an impenetrable darkness.
As the beam of light swept past, the eye sockets of those skulls seemed to instantly swallow the light, leaving deeper shadows, as if something flickered at the edge of the light.
Of course, the silence here was not absolute.
In the gaps between their held breaths, a faint, almost imperceptible "rustling" sound could be heard, its source difficult to pinpoint, like countless bone fragments rubbing together, or something slowly crawling in unseen corners.
"Oh God..."
Someone in the group let out a whimpering groan.
The sound stirred up a strange echo in the bone tunnel, as if awakening something dormant, drawing an even deeper silence from the distant darkness.
"Shut up!"
Albert reprimanded.
They had wandered underground for nearly 10 minutes, not only failing to catch up with Lionel but also losing even the faint footsteps and the indistinct light.
All that remained were their heavy breaths and the swaying gas lantern light.
"He... he couldn't have really run into trouble, could he?"
Michel Verne was no longer calm at this point.
His father had forced him to study in Paris.
Through connections, he had met Albert and others, quickly integrating into their circle.
Today, hearing that Albert and his friends were going to play a trick on a "hick from the Alps," he had eagerly tagged along.
He hadn't expected the situation to turn out like this; if he had known, he wouldn't have joined in the fun.
They walked for a while longer and came to a "bone hall," in the center of which stood a skull pillar made entirely of stacked skulls, reaching up to the ceiling.
Around it were several piles of skull "pyramids."
Albert gestured:
"Let's rest for a bit."
The followers sighed in relief, some even collapsing onto the ground.
Under stress, physical energy is consumed particularly quickly.
They wouldn't even have to catch their breath covering the same distance during the day on a street.
Only Albert still pretended to be calm, holding up his gas lantern.
The beam trembled as it swept forward; at the end of the light, an arched fork in the road opened like a giant maw, revealing an even deeper, more profound darkness within.
"Damn it, where on earth did Lionel go? Was that just our imagination?"
"Should we call out for him?"
"Are you an idiot? What if something else answers?"
The group fell silent again.
The air seemed to freeze, bitterly cold and stinging their lungs with every breath.
Just then, a light appeared in the tunnel ahead, a green light, as if from the depths of hell, lit by Satan himself, casting an eerie glow on their terrified faces.
Immediately, a dispassionate, deathly voice came from the darkness: "Are you looking for me?"
Following that, an extremely eerie smiling face appeared above the green light.
Because the beam illuminated it from below, the sharp contours of the face cast unusually heavy shadows, making it appear especially grim and terrifying in the darkness.
"Which of you will follow me?"
Albert de Rohan, Michel Verne, and their followers, at this moment, had even forgotten to breathe.
...
Ten-odd seconds later, two kilometers away, in another private tunnel, a group of Parisian mysticism enthusiasts were conducting a black magic experiment.
Suddenly, they heard faint but unusually clear, horrific screams coming from deep within a distant tunnel, like demons roaring from the depths of hell.
Moreover, the screams were continuous and lingering, echoing repeatedly off the narrow rock walls and bone walls of the tunnel, creating a peculiar resonance that made the surrounding white bones tremble slightly.
"It worked! It worked!"
"We successfully summoned a demon!"
"Really? Hurry, hurry, continue the ritual!"
This group of people in black robes quickly knelt before the hexagram on the ground, prostrating themselves again and again, their heads hitting the cold ground with "thudding" sounds...
————————
It was another cold Monday, but since it was already February, the weather had warmed up slightly.
At the same time, the various odors wafting through the streets and alleys of Paris had also become a bit more potent.
Although the nascent sewer system had made Paris no longer a "city of filth" like it was 100 years ago, the pace of urban development was far outstripped by the rate of Paris's population growth.
Thus, wealthy Parisians would live in their suburban vacation villas during the summer.
For example, after Zola bought the Médan villa, he would only return to Paris in winter to live; or simply go south to Italy or Spain for vacations.
Lionel, as usual, arrived at school on time by public carriage, except that this morning, there was no sight of Albert elegantly leaping from his small carriage.
Just as he reached the classroom door, he saw Mr. Dune, the Dean, standing there uncharacteristically.
Upon seeing Lionel, he greeted him with a beaming smile:
"Mr. Sorel, you don't need to attend your morning classes today. Professor Gaston Boissier wishes to see you."
Lionel paused for a moment, and recalling Professor Boissier's identity, he knew it was probably about "The Old Guard."
He nodded and followed Dune out of the teaching building to the school's academic journal editorial office.
Opening the door, he saw that the long conference table in the center of the hall was already full.
All the professors from the Faculty of Arts seemed to be present, except for those who had classes to teach.
Lionel immediately saw Professor Gaston Boissier, who had once taught him.
However, Boissier was not in the main seat at the head of the conference table, but rather in the first seat on the right.
In the main seat sat an old man, white-haired, with a thick and neatly trimmed white beard.
His face was broad, his forehead high, his eyebrows thick, and his eyes calm and steadfast.
His features, sharpened by advancing age, long-term mental stress, and a life of upheaval, were more rugged, giving him an air of majesty and strength.
This old man was no stranger to Lionel.
In his previous life, he had seen his complete works, with his photo on the cover.
In this life, his portrait hung in the corridor of the Faculty of Arts, alongside Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, Pierre Corneille, Jean Racine, Molière, La Fontaine, and others.
And he was the only one still alive.
He was "The Conscience of France," "France's Greatest Poet," "The Most Outstanding Representative of Romanticism" – Victor Marie Hugo!
(End of chapter)
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