Though shocked, Lionel still took off his hat and bowed respectfully.
He held his hat to his chest and first bowed slightly to Gaston Boissier:
"Good morning, Professor Boissier."
Then he greeted the other professors he recognized who had taught him.
Finally, he saluted Victor Hugo, who was seated at the head:
"Good morning, it is an honor to meet you, Mr. Hugo!"
Hugo nodded back at Lionel:
"Good morning, Mr. Sorel."
Professor Gaston Boissier was actually quite displeased; he hadn't expected Taine's words to be anything other than a fit of pique, but he had truly invited Hugo.
Since delivering a speech and serving as honorary chairman at the first "International Congress of Writers and Artists" last year, Hugo had rarely appeared in public.
Even colleagues in the literary world who wished to see him often had to visit his residence on Avenue d'Eylau.
Who would have thought he would appear so early at the Sorbonne today, and under the guidance of Dean Henri Pâtin, come directly to the journal's editorial office, proposing to see the student works submitted for this year's "Poetry Gathering."
At this time, Gaston Boissier had already sent Mr. Duenas, the registrar, to the classroom to call Lionel, preparing to inquire about the creative details of The Old Guard to rule out suspicions of ghostwriting.
Upon hearing this, Victor Hugo "gladly" proposed to observe the inquiry; subsequently, several other professors from the Faculty of Arts also came to the editorial office, ostensibly to pay their respects to the great Hugo.
What was originally a small-scale internal inquiry had now become a major event that startled the entire faculty.
Gaston Boissier could disregard Hippolyte Taine, and even Henri Pâtin, but he could not ignore Victor Hugo.
This nearly eighty-year-old man was not only an excellent writer but also a shrewd politician, skilled at stirring up storms of public opinion with his inflammatory speeches and romantic works.
Although he was old, and everyone even thought he was about to die—who could be sure that the flame in his heart had already extinguished?
His presence at the Sorbonne today, wasn't it some kind of signal?
Everything was too coincidental.
Gaston Boissier scanned his colleagues present, who served on the journal's editorial board, trying to identify the "mole," but ultimately found nothing.
At the same time, he felt a headache from the power struggles and calculations behind this.
Hippolyte Taine inviting Hugo to appraise student works was certainly due to dissatisfaction with Dean Henri Pâtin wanting to "fast-track" Lionel.
But the old fox Henri Pâtin turned the tables, directly inviting Hugo to Lionel's inquiry, implicitly placing immense pressure on Gaston Boissier—any mistake in the inquiry would shame the professors; if The Old Guard were confirmed as a ghostwritten work, Lionel would naturally never have a chance to rise.
Regardless of the outcome, the Sorbonne would ultimately lose face.
The only mutually satisfactory possibility was for Gaston Boissier and the other professors to conduct the questioning "decently," for Lionel to answer "calmly," confirming that The Old Guard was written by Lionel himself.
Gaston Boissier's mind churned with thoughts, but his expression remained impassive as he said to Lionel:
"For anyone, it is an honor for Mr. Hugo to be present to hear an author expound on their own work.
Your submission this year, The Old Guard, is exceptionally outstanding, far surpassing the level of ordinary Sorbonne students, and it has piqued our curiosity.
We hope to understand the circumstances under which you created this masterpiece.
Mr. Lionel Sorel, do you need to review your work again before we begin?"
Lionel finally understood why he was standing there, and couldn't help but feel both annoyed and amused.
If he wrote poorly, they didn't want it; if he wrote well, they suspected him.
Being a Sorbonne student was truly difficult.
However, he showed no fear, but rather, with confidence and composure, nodded to the esteemed scholars and professors before him, and to the most significant figure, Hugo:
"The Old Guard was written by me, word for word.
I do not need to review it again.
Professor Boissier, I can begin immediately."
Gaston Boissier secretly breathed a sigh of relief at these words.
Whether or not it was ghostwritten, Lionel's attitude indicated his sufficient familiarity with The Old Guard.
He motioned for Lionel to sit in an empty chair specifically prepared for him, and still offered a transcribed copy of The Old Guard.
However, Lionel refused the transcript:
"Please give it to the professors who don't have a copy; I don't need it."
His attitude caused a stir among the professors present.
The Sorbonne had plenty of arrogant dandies; but a commoner, calm and composed yet arrogant, had never been seen before.
Even Hugo couldn't help but show a look of appreciation, turning to quietly exchange a few words with Paul Janet beside him, who chuckled softly.
When the room fell silent again, Professor Gaston Boissier stood up and paced over to Lionel, looking down at him as he would typically question a student during class:
"Lionel, let's start by discussing your literary stance—you see, any writing activity is inevitably influenced by the ideas we believe in.
So, are you a 'Naturalist'?
Or a 'Realist'?
Or, will you tell us you are a 'Romanticist'?"
The last question made the professors who had read The Old Guard laugh, and even Hugo's white beard twitched twice.
"Realist literature" was popular from the late 18th to the mid-19th century, advocating "a truthful representation of objective facts," restoring things people were familiar with to their original appearance, and objectively describing ordinary daily life activities and experiences as much as possible.
Stendhal's The Red and the Black and Balzac's The Human Comedy are representative works of Realist literature.
"Naturalist literature," on the other hand, developed to the extreme based on "Realism," transforming into its product.
It absorbed the findings of scientific theories like biology and genetics in the 19th century, believing that physiological pathological inheritance determined all human psychology and behavior.
It was a creative philosophy that pursued pure objectivity and truthfulness, understanding human actions from a physiological and genetic perspective.
After 1850, with Flaubert, Zola, and others successively appearing on the literary stage, "Naturalism" became prevalent and the mainstream of French literature.
In the context of 1879, it would be fine to call The Old Guard "Naturalist" or "Realist," but "Romanticist" would be entirely humorous.
Even Hugo himself had to admit that Romanticism was essentially dead in Europe.
Lionel answered without hesitation:
"I refuse to let any single idea define my writing, but if I had to label this specific work, The Old Guard, I would say it is 'Realism'."
Lionel's answer somewhat surprised everyone.
One must know that in today's French literary circles, donning the cap of a particular literary school is a shortcut to joining the clique, especially in such a high-profile environment.
Stating one's ideological leanings publicly could easily spread throughout Paris.
For example, the "Charpentier Naturalist Salon," held every Tuesday evening, was a gathering of "Naturalist writers," organized by the highly influential publisher Monsieur Charpentier, which ordinary writers struggled to get into.
Lionel's answer was indeed a bit "arrogant about his talent."
Professor Gaston Boissier suddenly leaned forward, staring into Lionel's eyes:
"You say The Old Guard is Realism—yet your narrative perspective is almost chillingly detached.
A young tavern assistant witnesses the decline and ruin of a former imperial hero, yet remains unmoved, even showing a numb 'gaiety.'
This style of writing is extremely rare in contemporary French literature—be it Realism or Naturalism.
Mr. Zola's works also depict suffering, but the narrator is filled with anger or sympathy.
May I ask, why did you choose such a 'dehumanized' perspective?
Does this imply a lack of basic pity for your character—the poor old guard?
Does this violate the humanistic spirit that literature should embody?"
(End of this chapter)
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