An hour later, Maupassant emerged from the foul-smelling covers, refreshed, amidst a mixture of cheap perfume, sweat, and the vomit of stale alcohol.
This place was utterly different from the high-class brothels in the Second, Third, and Fifth Arrondissements.
The low ceiling was covered with cheap, yellowed wallpaper, large patches of mold spread like ugly sores, and several damp stains were slowly expanding.
Murky light struggled to squeeze through a tiny window gap, thick with grime and almost opaque, barely outlining the room's contours.
The only furniture in the room, apart from the bed, was a rickety small table with peeling paint, piled high with empty wine glasses, cigarette butts, and stale breadcrumbs.
In the corner, an enamel basin held murky water, with suspicious impurities floating on the surface.
But Maupassant didn't care about any of this.
He put on his respectable clothes, then pulled out a few coins and tossed them to the naked woman sitting on the bed.
The woman crawled on the bed, picking up the coins one by one:
"Thank you for your generosity! May God bless you, sir!"
Just as he was about to utter his famous line and leave under her terrified gaze, something suddenly occurred to him.
He casually asked,
"Do you know if there's a Sorbonne student living on this street?
His name is Lionel Sorel!"
There shouldn't be many Sorbonne students living in this kind of neighborhood, and a brothel is one of the information hubs of the entire block, so perhaps she would know?
The woman on the bed's eyes lit up when she heard the name, but then a cunning smile appeared:
"You mean 'Young Master Sorel'?
Of course, I know him; he's quite famous around here."
Maupassant looked at her in surprise, not expecting to have asked the right person immediately:
"Oh?
Can you tell me where he lives?"
The woman stopped talking, just stacked the coins in her hand, twisting them with her fingers into the palm of her other hand.
Maupassant smiled, then pulled out 10 sous:
"10 sous, tell me where he lives?"
A look of longing appeared in the woman's eyes, and she reached out to take them.
Unexpectedly, Maupassant clenched his fist:
"These 10 sous can be yours, but only if you let me have another go, and then you can tell me where Lionel lives — I'm sure not too few people on this street know."
The woman stared, stunned, at the well-dressed, dignified gentleman before her, finally nodding helplessly:
"All right, sir — you truly are the most peculiar guest I've ever seen."
Maupassant unbuckled his belt, and his trousers slid to the floor:
"Is that so?
Then you should feel honored..."
——————
Half an hour later, Maupassant stood before Madame Martin's apartment.
Like the other buildings on this street, it was gloomy, dilapidated, and crumbling.
He sighed, stepping forward to push open the creaking, paint-peeling door.
A smell combining old stew, damp wood, cheap soap, and the living scent of numerous tenants assailed him, not much better than the street outside.
What greeted him was the apartment's entrance hall, narrow and dim, faintly illuminated by a single kerosene lamp.
The floor was covered with a badly worn, cheap carpet, its color long since unidentifiable.
A cheap Madonna image hung on the wall, with a small, nearly burnt-out candle flickering before it, wax tears accumulated.
A bulky, dark-brown painted wooden mailbox was nailed to the wall, many compartments open, revealing curled letters stuffed inside.
Madame Martin's scrawny figure soon appeared, her voice as shrill as ever:
"Look, we have a big shot in our apartment — good afternoon, sir, may God bless you — of course, if you're looking to rent here, it means God isn't available to bless you right now!
We only have one attic room for rent, every month..."
Before Madame Martin could state the price, Maupassant interrupted her:
"I'm looking for someone — does Lionel Sorel live here?
He's a Sorbonne student."
Madame Martin's face changed when she heard the name, and the words on her lips were withdrawn.
The usually noisy apartment suddenly fell silent.
Maupassant distinctly felt several pairs of eyes in the dim apartment watching him.
Maupassant thought he had indeed come to the right place; the prostitute named "Méliel" had not lied to him.
But Madame Martin's next words made him feel worse than if he had eaten a fly:
"Looking for whom?
That student, Sorel, has moved out!
Moved out long ago!
Paid all his rent!
Tsk, unlike some people..."
As she spoke, she gave a meaningful glance back, and the eyes in the dimness instantly retreated.
Maupassant had a headache:
"He lived here?
Moved out?
Where did he move to?"
Madame Martin snorted coldly:
"Who knows?
'Young Master Sorel' must have latched onto some noble patron; he's moved into a luxury apartment now.
As for where he lives, are poor people like us qualified to know?"
Upon hearing this, Maupassant's scalp tingled — not because he couldn't complete the task his teacher Flaubert had given him, but because Lionel had actually latched onto a noble lady earlier than he had!
This was more painful than having his manuscripts rejected a hundred times by Le Figaro!
But at this moment, he couldn't lose his composure.
He simply nodded nonchalantly and then asked,
"Which room did he live in before?
Can you show me?"
Madame Martin stared at him strangely, shook her head, and pointed to the stairs:
"He lived in the attic, the door's not locked, you can go in and look yourself.
But it's already empty, there's only a bed and a table..."
Maupassant looked up, seeing only impenetrable gloom, the sunlight from the skylight swirling into a chaotic mass.
——————
"So, which publisher are you willing to give The Old Guard to?"
Professor Gaston Boissier took a sip of coffee, leisurely watching Lionel.
As a Sorbonne professor and editor-in-chief of the Bulletin of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters, he was very satisfied with becoming Lionel's "discoverer."
He had called Lionel to his office today primarily to discuss the republication of The Old Guard.
The Bulletin of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters was not profit-oriented; its usual circulation was only about two thousand copies per issue.
Even with many people following "Poor Lionel's" great work last issue, it only sold an additional thousand copies at most.
But The Old Guard's reputation was already established.
Major newspapers like Le Figaro, Le Petit Parisien, and Le Gaulois had all inquired about reprinting this masterpiece.
This was the crucial step for this novel, and its author Lionel, to reach all of Paris, and even all of France.
However, in this era, choosing a newspaper also meant choosing a camp, which could potentially influence an author's creative path for a long time, or even for life.
Looking at the innocent-faced Lionel before him, Gaston Boissier felt it necessary to use his life experience to guide this student.
He cleared his throat before speaking:
"I think, although Le Figaro's sales are not as high as Le Petit Parisien, however..."
At this moment, Lionel suddenly, as if waking from a dream, interrupted the enthusiastic Professor Boissier:
"Which one offers higher manuscript fees?"
Professor Gaston Boissier: "..."
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$10 -> 300+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon