Victor Bonaparte practically leaped from the sofa, pointing a finger at Lionel but unable to utter a single coherent sentence.
His meticulously prepared recruitment attempt had completely disintegrated under the opponent's onion-peeling analysis and sharp, yet clean, sarcasm.
He felt like a clown stripped of his finery, exposed to the cold wind.
He abruptly turned to Henri Patin, his voice shrill:
"Dean Patin!
Is this the kind of student the Sorbonne cultivates?
An arrogant, ungrateful agitator who brazenly insults the Empire and the Bonaparte family?!
You must..."
"Victor!"
Dean Henri Patin, who had been silently feigning sleep, suddenly spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.
He slowly stood up; his "potbelly" no longer seemed clumsy, but rather a symbol of "steadiness" and dignity.
He walked between the two young men, first casting a complex but implicitly approving glance at Lionel, then turning to Victor Bonaparte.
"Victor,"
Dean Henri Patin's tone became serious and distant, devoid of the previous pleasantries,
"Mr. Lionel Sorel is a formally registered student of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters.
He enjoys all the rights granted by the college, including freedom of thought and speech.
His remarks just now, though sharp, did not violate any school regulations or laws.
He was merely articulating his understanding of the essence of literature and his views on the ownership of his work.
This is the proper conduct for a scholar and a student!"
He paused, looking at Victor's face, which was twisted even further by shock and anger, and continued:
"As for the 'friendship of the Bonaparte family' that you offered on behalf of your esteemed father, the Sorbonne University, as an academic institution, has no right to interfere with a student's private choices.
Lionel has clearly expressed his wishes.
I believe this meeting can conclude here."
"Dean Patin! You...!"
Victor could hardly believe his ears!
This dean, who was always smooth and polite to those in power, was actually siding with that commoner student:
"Do you know what you're saying?
My father is a Senator!
The Bonaparte family..."
Even Lionel was somewhat surprised.
"The Bonaparte family has left a profound mark on the history of France, which no one can deny,"
Dean Henri Patin interrupted him calmly, but his eyes were sharp.
"But the history of the Sorbonne is much older than any family, any dynasty.
Our duty is to guard knowledge, truth, and the spirit of independence.
Victor, your words and actions today, if I may say so, are filled with arrogance and coercion utterly incompatible with the spirit of the Sorbonne.
This deeply disappoints me."
These words struck Victor Bonaparte's heart like a final, heavy hammer blow.
Not only had he been thoroughly humiliated by Lionel, but even Dean Patin, whom he had always thought he could rely on, had openly defected!
Panic instantly overwhelmed his anger.
He suddenly realized that it had been 10 years since France had an emperor; now, this land was a republic.
Although Dean Henri Patin was not a political figure, he was the influential Dean of the Sorbonne Faculty of Letters, a member of the Académie française, and a renowned scholar — if he were to reveal what happened today regarding his coercion and inducement of a Sorbonne student...
Cold sweat instantly soaked Victor's back, and his meticulously combed black hair seemed to lose its luster.
He looked around; Dean Henri Patin's gaze was piercing, while Lionel's had returned to calm, no longer even looking at him, but flipping through the "Gazette" on the table.
"Good... very good..."
Victor Bonaparte's voice was dry and hoarse, completely devoid of the aristocratic arrogance he had displayed earlier.
He grabbed his cane, forgetting to put on the gloves he had removed upon entering, and staggered back two steps.
"Dean Patin... Lionel Sorel... you... both are very good... Farewell!"
He even forgot to maintain basic farewell etiquette, turning sharply and practically fleeing, his cane tapping out a messy, hurried rhythm on the floor.
He pulled open the heavy oak door of the dean's office, his figure vanishing awkwardly into the corridor.
Soon, the sound of heavy carriage wheels crushing the Sorbonne flagstones echoed from the courtyard.
Silence fell over the office, broken only by the ticking wall clock.
The air still carried the lingering scent of cigar smoke and a faint, almost imperceptible trace of Victor's expensive cologne.
Dean Henri Patin exhaled, as if shedding a thousand-pound burden.
He walked to the door, gently closed it, then turned around, looking at Lionel with a complex expression, a hint of a smile playing on his lips:
"Aren't you afraid?
His father is the current head of the Bonaparte family."
Lionel returned his smile:
"Dean, do you truly believe France will once again welcome an emperor named Bonaparte?"
Henri Patin pondered:
"Although Prince Louis is still in England, many people already call him 'Napoleon IV'...
Oh, and this young 'Napoleon' just now also seems to have big ideas; his line of succession is only after Prince Louis."
Lionel stood up and walked to the window, watching the luxurious carriage adorned with imperial insignia gradually disappear downstairs.
Then he turned back to Henri Patin and asked:
"If one day – and I mean if – this young 'Napoleon' really becomes emperor and brings up today's old scores, will the Sorbonne still stand behind me?"
Henri Patin took a puff from his pipe, slowly exhaling blue smoke:
"That will be a long time from now; I will likely be a pile of decayed bones by then.
However, Lionel, don't overestimate the Sorbonne..."
Hearing this "surprisingly" honest warning, Lionel bowed to Dean Henri Patin:
"At least today, the Sorbonne's floor is clean.
Thank you for upholding my dignity, and the dignity of the Sorbonne, today.
If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave."
Henri Patin said nothing, just nodded wearily.
————————
"This is the 11th arrondissement?
This is Rue Oberkampf?
This is where Lionel lives?"
Maupassant stepped down from the carriage, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings with disbelief.
Half an hour ago, he was still smoking a cigar in Gustave Flaubert's study in the Saint-Germain district, filled with the scent of books and the quiet aroma of oriental carpets.
Now, he stood before the raw reality of a Parisian working-class district.
First, a strong, complex, almost palpable stench, like a dirty fist, slammed into him.
It was the horrific smell of rotting vegetable leaves, low-quality grease, untreated excrement, cheap alcohol vomit, cheap perfume, and stale sweat fermenting, mixing, and steaming in the not-so-warm early spring air of Paris.
The road beneath his feet was less a street than a trap paved with mud and garbage.
The flagstones were long broken, and the potholes collected blackish-green sewage, reflecting a murky, greasy light.
The buildings lining the street seemed bowed by age and poverty.
Grey walls were stained with grime and rain streaks, most windows were covered in thick grease, many panes shattered and crudely blocked with rags or cardboard.
The crowd was noisy, rough, imbued with an almost primal vitality and despair.
Men in faded blue overalls, with tired eyes, gathered in small groups, either leaning against tavern doors or squatting in corners, loudly conversing and cursing in slang and obscenities, spittle flying in the murky air.
The women, mostly sallow-faced, wrapped in worn aprons or shawls, some vigorously scrubbing clothes by sinks at their doorways; others, baskets on their arms, fiercely haggled with vendors at the grimy roadside stalls, their voices shrill and piercing.
Children, barefoot or in torn shoes, screamed, chased, and played amidst the mud and garbage, their faces and hands covered in dirt.
Maupassant could almost feel the hidden gazes – thieves weighing the contents of his pockets, beggars eyeing his potential handouts, prostitutes assessing his purse and mood.
And the stares of the numb residents, hostile or purely curious, pricked him like needles, an incongruous intruder.
"Lionel wrote 'The Old Guard' in this environment?
No wonder... this place is practically hell!"
Maupassant mused inwardly.
Every cold detail of that novel, every scar on the old guard's body, every cutting sneer in the tavern, every numb record from the young shop assistant's perspective... now had an incredibly concrete, incredibly heavy real-world counterpart in his mind!
Maupassant felt a wave of dizziness, his stomach churning, almost wanting to turn and flee this nauseating street immediately.
But soon a voice attracted him:
"Sir, fancy a shot? Only 10 sous!"
(End of Chapter)
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