Ernest Renan stood up angrily, pointing at Lionel, his voice trembling:
"You sewer rat, you Alpine bumpkin...
how dare you...
how dare you..."
Gaston Boissier, seeing that he was about to say something that would disgrace the Sorbonne in front of Hugo, quickly interrupted:
"Professor Renan, mind your manners!
Let Lionel finish first."
Then he turned to Lionel:
"Mr. Sorel, please do not forget politeness!"
He also had a splitting headache.
For a hundred years, France had wavered many times between monarchy and republic, and many ideas could not be eliminated in a short time.
Ernest Renan was absolutely a first-rate Middle Eastern linguist, positivist philosopher, and an excellent writer, but also a stubborn old man who wished for the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.
Perhaps only when this generation has died out, and even their next generation has died out, will this ideology be eradicated from the land of France.
Lionel nodded slightly to Gaston Boissier:
"Very well, Professor Boissier. I will now tell Professor Renan the answer to this question—"
As Lionel spoke, he left the area where his chair was placed and walked to the center of the room, directly facing the conference table, and began his reply in an even colder tone:
"Professor Renan, you asked about observation.
Yes, I was indeed a 'bookworm' holed up in my study in the Alps.
But I came to Paris, and then lived in the 11th arrondissement, that 11th arrondissement which you may never set foot in.
Those cheap taverns, workers' cafes in the 11th arrondissement, aren't they my 'Edelweiss Tavern'?
I used to eat in cheaper, noisier small eateries during my spare time after class to save money.
I observe those workers, apprentices, struggling artists.
I watch how they buy wine with their few meager coppers, how they meticulously watch the owner pour the wine, how they argue over a plate of cheap side dishes.
Their caution, their destitution, their defense of the smallest rights—in this regard, there is no difference whether in Paris or in the Alps—of course, you will never set foot in these small taverns."
Two consecutive "you will never set foot in" made Ernest Renan flush crimson, yet he couldn't refute them.
He came from a privileged background; although not an aristocratic family, his father had once served as a court official for Louis XVIII, and he had lived in an independent house in the 1st arrondissement of Paris all his life.
Naturally, he would not frequent the cheap taverns and cafes Lionel spoke of.
Lionel's statement had not ended, but grew increasingly severe:
"As for the Old Guard... in these past decades, on the streets of Paris, have there been few old men in faded old military uniforms, with the 'Saint Helena Medal' pinned to their chests, selling matches or trinkets in the cold wind?
If, in the past years, you had deigned to move your esteemed footsteps to the Luxembourg Gardens, you would have seen an old man lying on a peeling park bench, muttering about the cannons of Jena.
From Paris to the Alps, such old men were once ubiquitous; they were the seeds of the 'Old Guard' in my heart.
The truth of literature, Professor, is not measured by merely walking every inch of land! It lies more in the insight of the soul!
The details of those 'Short Jacket Gangs', I can take you to see right now; but the soul of the Old Guard has already groaned and withered away in corners you will never observe."
Lionel's gaze was piercing, stinging Ernest Renan, who dared not meet his eyes.
Lionel concluded:
"Imagination?
It is responsible for forging these observations of mine into a living, breathing whole—the Old Guard! Borrowing?
No, Professor, this is a gift life has given me, plus the eyes and heart a writer should possess."
Ernest Renan fell silent upon hearing this; what Lionel said was indeed an area he had never ventured into.
He could not deny the existence of what Lionel spoke of, but he likewise could not tolerate such insolence from a humble commoner.
Ernest Renan quickly found a "flaw" in Lionel's words and sneered:
"Well said, Mr. Sorel.
But the 'honor of the Imperial Guard' and the slogan 'Long live the Emperor' that your Old Guard repeatedly emphasizes, as well as the tattered military uniform he insists on wearing.
Don't forget, France is now a Republic!
You write such a character, immersed in past glory, out of sync with reality, making him the protagonist of a tragedy—oh, my goodness, you are a Bonapartist sympathizer?
Or, are you dissatisfied with the current state of the Republic?"
The moment this question was uttered, the professors immediately fell into an uproar, and Paul Janet even stood up directly:
"This is outside the scope of today's inquiry, Lionel, you don't have to answer."
Even Hugo frowned.
Today, with the Republic basically stable, political stances actually had little impact on those who had achieved success—just as Ernest Renan was an open supporter of the Bourbon monarchy, yet he could still hold his ground in academia due to his scholarship.
But for a budding young man, it was a major issue concerning his future.
In an era where everyone had clear labels, once you attached the wrong one, it meant being ostracized by the mainstream.
Gaston Boissier also said:
"Political stance is irrelevant to the theme of this inquiry, Lionel, you can choose not to answer."
Ernest Renan sat down with a "hehe"—he actually didn't care whether Lionel answered the question or not; in a sense, it was better if Lionel didn't answer.
That way, he could plant a seed in everyone's minds:
"Lionel Sorel is a Bonapartist who opposes the Republic."
Unexpectedly, Lionel calmly refused the kindness of Paul Janet and Gaston Boissier:
"Thank you both, but I can answer this question."
He looked around at the Sorbonne professors present and Victor Hugo, then spoke:
"Professor Boissier, Mr. Hugo, professors.
What the Old Guard clings to is not a specific political system—be it Empire or Kingdom.
What he clings to is a 'promised honor' and a 'betrayed loyalty'.
He represents all individual lives exploited, consumed by grand historical narratives, and then ruthlessly abandoned."
Lionel's tone deepened, carrying a tragic fervor, as if he had become the "Old Guard" himself, moving everyone:
"After Waterloo, the Bourbon monarchy abandoned him; the farce of the Imperial Restoration had nothing to do with him; what could he expect from the current Republic?
His uniform is his only remaining proof of self-identity; his slogans are the faint candlelight that keeps his spirit from complete collapse.
I write about his stubbornness, his disconnect from the times, his tragedy, certainly not to evoke nostalgia for the old regime, but to pose a question—
When a regime, a movement, an era comes to an end, what is the dignity of those ordinary people who burned their lives for it, gave their loyalty?
What is their ultimate fate?
Does society have a responsibility to remember them, rather than merely mocking or forgetting them?
This is not about Bonapartism or Republicanism, Professor Renan; this is about human dignity, about historical debt, about the sacrifice and oblivion of insignificant individuals that can occur in any era, under any system.
The tragedy of the Old Guard is my lament for the 'disposable' fates of all individuals.
This lament is an echo I hear from the spirit of 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity' of our great French Republic.
Esteemed Professor Ernest Renan, haven't you heard this echo?"
Ernest Renan was speechless, interrogated into silence.
He abruptly stood up from his seat, grabbed his cane, and left the editorial office without a word.
As the "bang" of the closing door dissipated into the air, the Sorbonne's journal editorial office fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood in the fireplace as it was torn apart by the flames.
Lionel did not sit down, but remained standing tall.
For two months, the depression and anger brought by financial hardship, family upheavals, and class disparities... finally, at this moment, through this inquiry, through Ernest Renan's vicious questions, were completely vented.
In the suffocating silence, someone suddenly began to clap slowly, one clap, then another, then another.
Everyone's gaze turned to the owner of the applause, none other than Victor Hugo, seated at the head of the conference table.
His deep grey eyes subtly shimmered with moisture, and his old, wrinkled hands clapped slowly and powerfully, the applause muffled, but resounding through the vaulted ceiling.
"...Debt.
Historical debt.
Mr. Sorel, you used that word.
Yes, society owes a debt.
It owes a debt to those forgotten, crushed, and voiceless people."
Hugo stood up, his sturdy but already stooping frame casting a huge shadow that enveloped the entire table in front of him.
(End of chapter)
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