"'The Old Guard'?
Lionel Sorel?
Second year, Faculty of Letters?"
Each word above was easy enough to understand, but strung together, they made the students' heads spin.
They clutched the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin in their hands, occasionally glancing back at Lionel, who sat in the corner of the last row, then looking back at the name in the journal.
The Sorbonne had no second Faculty of Letters, nor did the Faculty of Letters have a second "Lionel Sorel."
Looks of surprise gradually turned into envy and jealousy, and some students even grumbled softly,
"Hadn't Professor Boissier always been fair?
How much sponsorship did that Marchioness really give?"
With a loud "bang," a fist appeared in front of the student who had spoken, slamming heavily on the desk.
Albert said arrogantly,
"Léon is my friend! He is a friend of the Rohan family!
To insult him is to insult me, to insult the Rohan family!
I don't want to hear such remarks again!"
The other student nodded repeatedly, terrified, not daring to retort.
Albert smugly threw a "see how good I am to you" look in Lionel's direction, then opened his own Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin and loudly recited Professor Boissier's introduction—
[...If we confine our gaze solely to the specific historical identity of the "Old Guard," we would 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 discards the passionate embellishment common in Romanticism or the data-stacking typical of Naturalism, opting for an almost detached "bystander's perspective"—that of a young waiter in a tavern.]
[Mr. Hugo, with his profound insight that penetrates the era, asserts that it "belongs to the future."
To receive such a definitive judgment from this "Conscience of France" is a great honor, both for the Sorbonne and for the author himself.]
The classroom gradually quieted down; no one was listening to Albert anymore.
Almost everyone's eyes were fixed on "The Old Guard," which occupied the entire second page, unable to move, let alone look at the clown-like Albert.
The more Albert read, the more he was alarmed.
Although he was an unlearned, dissolute young man who gained admission through generations of generous Rohan family sponsorship to the Sorbonne, his aristocratic upbringing meant he had received a rather strict education at home from a young age and had been forced to read many books.
He knew deeply that to receive such praise from a Sorbonne professor and Hugo, this piece "The Old Guard" written by Lionel must be extraordinary.
Money might buy off Gaston Boissier, or even Dean Henri Patin; but could it buy off Victor Hugo?
So Albert quickly found and skimmed the last paragraph of the introduction, then turned to the second page of the journal and, like the other students, began to read "The Old Guard."
A few minutes later, Albert suddenly looked up, incredulously turning to gaze at Lionel in the shadows of the corner, as if seeing him for the first time.
————————
"Grandpa, today I saw a novel that seems to be about you, about your comrades."
A clear female voice awoke the drowsy Jean-Baptiste Dupont.
He was 95 years old, with not much time left, sickly lying in bed all day, 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—do you have comrades in the Alps?"
"The Old Guard," "comrades," "Alps"—these words stirred Jean-Baptiste's fading memories.
He opened his clouded eyes and looked at a corner of the room—
There hung a set of red military uniform, and a military drum with a yellowed drumhead.
Marie began to read "The Old Guard" to her grandpa—
["The Old Guard" was the only one who drank standing and wore a woolen coat.
He was very tall; his face was pale, often marked with scars among his wrinkles; a tangled, grizzled beard... ]
[Listening to people discuss in private, "The Old Guard" was indeed an old guardsman who followed His Majesty the Emperor, having distinguished himself at Austerlitz and Jena.
But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII gave the order, and these elites of the Emperor were disbanded... ]
[...The Old Guard immediately looked dejected and uneasy, his face covered with a grey pallor, muttering words; this time it was all "the great snows of Moscow," "those damned Cossacks," "old Blücher," things no one understood.]
["He always kept stealing. This time, in a fit of madness, he even stole from Mr. Moreau, the mayor's cellar. How could his things be stolen?"
"What happened then?"
"What happened? First, the sheriff forced him to confess by pressing his fingerprints, then he was beaten, beaten for most of the night, then his leg was broken."
"And then?"
"Then his leg was broken."
"What happened after it 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!"
By Easter of the next year, he said again, "The Old Guard still owes nineteen sous!"
But at Pentecost, he didn't say it, nor was he seen at the next Christmas.
I still haven't seen him to this day—it seems the Old Guard truly died.]
Marie's voice grew softer and softer, more and more choked, until she finally broke into sobs:
"Grand... Grandpa, is this 'the Old Guard'? ...You... you all..."
Through tear-filled eyes, she was shocked to see her grandpa, who had been on the verge of death, suddenly climb out of bed.
His twig-like fingers suddenly gripped the edge of the bed, his clouded eyes struggling to open, as if searching for the smoke and drumbeats deep within his memory.
"Hyenas... the Bourbons' hyenas... following... always following... afraid of us... afraid of the Emperor returning..."
His shriveled chest heaved violently.
Marie quickly stepped forward to help the old man, but he unexpectedly grabbed her hands with astonishing strength, leaving red marks.
She saw tears streaming down her grandpa's deeply furrowed cheeks:
"Child... it's true... all true... Gérard... Marcel... they... just like that... died in ditches... nobody cared... medals... exchanged for bread... uniforms... the last bit of dignity..."
He fumbled for the military drum on the wall; Marie quickly took it down and handed it to him.
The old man hugged the military drum tightly to his chest, like a long-lost child:
"Long live the Emperor?
...He... he's gone too... everyone's gone... 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 space, as if all life had left him.
————————
Banker James Rothschild and his wife were enjoying a beautiful afternoon at their estate outside Paris.
He took the newspaper his wife handed him and listened absently to her introduction of a poor student at the Sorbonne, 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 tossed the newspaper aside, commenting acerbically:
"Hugo?
An outdated poet, always spouting high-minded sentiments of compassion for humanity.
Debts?
France has enough debts already—national debt, reparations... must we also pay for every obsolete old soldier?"
Then he contemptuously "hmph"-ed:
"Gaston is rather clever, knowing to steer the topic towards 'universal humanity' and 'artistic value.'
What the Sorbonne's 'Poetry Society' needs are works that showcase the elegance and vitality of France, not this... unpleasant sore.
Tell Patin that this year's sponsorship remains the same, but I hope next year's Bulletin will feature more 'bright' themes.
We are funding a bright future, not ghosts of the past."
Madame Rothschild nodded silently, 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 Lionel'?"
Zola closed the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters Bulletin and asked Maupassant beside him:
"He doesn't seem as cynical and unbridled as in your stories, does he?
In this 'Old Guard,' he demonstrates precise prose, finding the hereditary illness 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 Lionel" over the past two months—Guy de Maupassant.
Maupassant's scalp was tingling at this moment; he couldn't even remember what his last story was about...
(End of Chapter)
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