5 seconds, 10 seconds, 20 seconds...
The mechanical wall clock in the dean's office ticked, but the air here seemed to have solidified.
Dean Henri Patin clasped his hands over his ample belly, his eyelids lowered, looking as if he might fall asleep at any moment.
Lionel leaned comfortably against the back of the sofa, meeting Victor Bonaparte's gaze without evasion, his expression neither fearful nor provocative.
Just as Victor Bonaparte's face turned livid and he was about to erupt, Lionel finally spoke:
"Is the friendship of the Bonaparte family so cheap now?"
Hearing this, Victor Bonaparte's expression, though still unpleasant, visibly relaxed.
He took a step back, also sat on the sofa, and resumed that cold, detached, arrogant look peculiar to aristocrats:
"Mr. Sorel, I suggest you choose your words carefully.
The weight of the Bonaparte family's friendship, I'm afraid, far exceeds the few pages your little story occupies in The Gazette."
He slightly lifted his chin, attempting to regain control of the situation,
"However, I am very interested to hear, in your opinion, what truly deserves 'not cheap' friendship?"
He was convinced that Lionel Sorel, like all the "country bumpkins" he knew, feigned aloofness merely to sell himself for a better price.
Victor Bonaparte added:
"Banks, foundations, and newspapers belonging to the Bonaparte family... are spread throughout France.
My father—Prince Napoleon, Prince of Montfort, Count of Meudon, Count of Moncalieri—is the most steadfast defender of imperial glory and the most loyal patron of all veterans who served the Empire and their families."
He paused, speaking with an undeniable pride when mentioning his father's titles, before continuing:
"He is very generous to artists, especially those who form friendships with the Bonaparte family."
He caught Lionel staring blankly with a serious expression, thinking he was moved by his words, and a barely perceptible look of disdain appeared on his face.
What Victor Bonaparte didn't know was that Lionel was, at this moment, struggling to find a concise and scathing French equivalent for the Chinese "You truly are as rich as a country itself" (您真是父可敌国), forcing him to swallow the sarcasm that was already at the tip of his tongue, which explained his serious demeanor.
A moment later, Lionel met Victor's arrogant gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile even playing on his lips.
"Mr. Bonaparte."
Lionel began, his voice steady, with a coolness bordering on academic discussion,
"You mentioned 'reverberations,' 'forgotten groups,' and 'hitting a nerve.'
Then, allow me to ask a question—Have you, or your esteemed father, and those banks and foundations still under Bonaparte family control, ever paid even four sous for a single drink at the 'Edelweiss Tavern,' or for any real 'Old Guard' in any other corner of France?"
A flicker of annoyance and panic crossed Victor Bonaparte's eyes, but he quickly responded calmly:
"The work of banks and foundations is systematic.
How can charity for veterans be equated with sporadic handouts in a tavern?
Our goal is within ten years..."
Lionel gently raised a hand, politely but firmly interrupting:
"A grand and admirable goal, ten years...
Hmm, I can't wait to see the touching scene of 'Old Guards' over a hundred years old praising you and your fathers—Prince Napoleon, Prince of Montfort, Count of Meudon, Count of Moncalieri—for your generosity."
Victor Bonaparte, after all, had not heard of Deyun Club, so he didn't immediately grasp Lionel's "plural form" fathers.
But he understood "Old Guards over a hundred years old," and his face darkened as he prepared to speak.
Lionel didn't give him a chance, quickly continuing:
"But please allow me, an ordinary student from the Alps, to understand your 'friendship' from a more... humble perspective."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shiny bee-shaped brooch on Victor's chest:
"You see, Mr. Bonaparte.
A bee diligently gathers nectar for the survival of the entire hive.
It doesn't just hover around one specific flower, unless that flower can provide the pollen it urgently needs right now—and it knows that this flower's blooming period is short, so it must seize the moment."
Victor Bonaparte lowered his head and glanced at the gleaming golden emblem on his chest, a symbol of the family's enduring vitality.
Lionel leaned slightly forward, his eyes sharp and clear, yet his words maintained an irritating politeness:
"The 'friendship' you bring today, in my opinion, is like a bee that has specifically flown in during my blooming period—apologies, during the blooming period when The Old Guard garnered a little attention.
You value the 'reverberations' this flower can attract, which can bring urgently needed 'pollen' to your and your esteemed father's hive.
This is pragmatic, and there's nothing wrong with it."
Victor's face began to flush, and his hands on his lap clenched.
Lionel's analogy was too precise, too humiliating!
It likened his and his father's carefully planned political investment to a bee gathering nectar, and even implied they were opportunistic!
"Presumptuous!"
Victor Bonaparte growled, but restrained himself from completely losing face due to Patin's presence,
"How dare you so misinterpret our good intentions!
This is blasphemy against the glory of the Empire!"
"Imperial glory?"
Lionel seemed not to hear his anger, continuing along his train of thought, his tone even carrying a hint of innocent confusion,
"This is another point I don't understand.
Mr. Bonaparte, you just said that my story touched a nerve with 'imperial veterans.'
So, in your opinion, what is the deepest pain of that old guard in the story?
Is it nostalgia for the sun of Austerlitz?
Is it regret for not having died in the final struggle at Waterloo?
Or..."
Lionel's gaze deepened, and he articulated each word clearly:
"Or is it that his worn uniform can no longer resist the bitter cold in the chilling winds of the Alps?
Is it that the few coins he scrapes together with his remaining dignity can't even buy a bowl of cheap wine?
Is it that those neighbors who once shouted 'Long live the Emperor!' alongside him now look at him with contempt, like a thief and a beggar?"
Victor Bonaparte slammed his hand on the table:
"Absurd!
Shameless slander!
You ungrateful commoner!
What do you know of loyalty?
What of sacrifice?
That pathetic old soldier in your writing, at least he knew for whom he fought, for whom he held fast!
And you, you only toy with cheap emotions and dangerous ideas in your words!"
Lionel showed no fear, looking directly into Victor's flickering eyes:
"Mr. Bonaparte, if you and your fathers truly cared about 'imperial glory,' then you should seek out those old generals who are still alive and willing to recount glorious battles in salons.
Not me, a poor boy, a bumpkin from the Alps.
My pen has no intention of becoming a tool for gathering nectar for any political hive, especially one that attempts to extract sweet juice from the dregs of historical suffering.
Therefore, please forgive me for being unable to accept this friendship based on 'blooming periods' and 'pollen'!
Allow me to offer you two lines from a Chinese poet, a thousand years ago—
[Having gathered from a hundred blossoms and brewed sweet nectar,
For whom is this toil willingly borne?
And to whom is this sweetness given?]"
(End of chapter)
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