The shadow of the Notre Dame de Paris (the Archcathedral of Paris) seemed to also loom over the well-maintained, yet slightly flushed round face of Archbishop Guibert Guillaume Mermet de Boissac, reddened by "holy wrath."
His grey eyes, usually expressing compassion during sermons, were now burning with scorching fury, fixated on the thick volume spread open on his desk—its cover was so plain it was almost provocative, yet within, it churned with what he called "the hellfire capable of destroying two centuries of faith's foundation": The Decadent City.
He was about to summon Father Marcel, who had reported the book to him, but suddenly remembered something.
With a hint of guilt, he glanced at his right hand, quickly took out a soft silk cloth and meticulously wiped it, then tossed it far away before calling out: "Marcel, come in for a moment."
Father Marcel, a young clergyman with a resolute face, quickly stood before Bishop Guibert's desk: "At your service!"
However, the scent of heather lingering in the air caused him to frown slightly.
"Blasphemy!
Shamelessness!
Malice unprecedented!"
Bishop Guibert's deep, wrathful voice echoed through the spacious, opulent office, like a wounded donkey.
His stubby yet fair fingers harshly jabbed at the open page, as if intending to purify the defiling words with the sanctity of his fingertips—the page depicted how Monsieur Simmons, using money and power, made a parish doctor, who should have represented the divine, an accomplice in covering up the truth of the poisoning of pastry chef Francisco Pisto.
"Look! Look how they defile the sacred white vestments!
How they trample the conscience of God's servants into the mire!
This is no mere moral decay; it is an erosion of the Church's very foundations!
More blatant, more malicious than Boccaccio's Decameron or Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris!"
He rose, walked around his desk, and approached Father Marcel, who stood stiffly to the side, hardly daring to breathe.
Suddenly, he gripped his shoulders tightly, his voice rising sharply, trembling slightly:
"Marcel, my child, have you ever considered—when the men of Paris, noble or common, become engrossed in such writings depicting the bribing of clergy, the desecration of sacraments, and the utmost lavish depravity, where will their souls fall?
And where will our authority rest?!"
Father Marcel lowered his head, his gaze falling upon the bishop's immaculately polished fine leather shoes.
He skillfully twisted away, freeing himself from the bishop's hands:
"As you say, this... this text indeed contains dangerous toxins, which is worrying."
Bishop Guibert recalled the subtle changes wrought upon him over the past few months by the jokes about clergymen in Le Chahut.
He licked his thick lips, displaying an ambiguous smile, but his voice again grew vehement:
"Worry?
No, Pierre, this is already war!"
His well-tailored purple cassock, symbolizing holiness and authority, swayed with the trembling of his body, and the golden cross on his chest gleamed in the light:
"A war against God, against the Church, against the pure souls of France!
We must fight back!
We must root out this cancer!"
Bishop Guibert's eyes sharpened.
The fleeting secular pleasure he'd derived from reading "street gossip" was a thing of ten minutes past; now he was consumed by a grander, more "sacred" ambition.
He leaned in behind Father Marcel, his breath brushing the young protégé's ear, and his tone suddenly lowered to one that was almost tender:
"Marcel, my dear child, would you be willing to make a contribution to help us win this war?"
Father Marcel hastily turned again, facing Bishop Guibert:
"At... at your service!"
Bishop Guibert gave an enigmatic smile:
"It's not difficult—this afternoon, take my letter of introduction, go to the police station, find Commissioner Gigo, and give him the letter.
And you must tell him—"
At this point, Bishop Guibert suddenly straightened up, spreading his hands, like the compassionate saint in the oil painting behind him.
"Out of profound concern for public order, good morals, and the spiritual health of France's next generation, I, on behalf of the Church, strongly hope that the Paris police department will take swift action, and with decisive measures, trace the source of such poisonous books.
The Church will continuously monitor the progress of this matter and is prepared to offer its full spiritual and moral support to him in upholding his sacred duty to preserve the pure soul of the French capital."
He then lowered his hands, staring into Father Marcel's eyes:
"Can you do this, my child!"
Father Marcel was sweating profusely, barely managing to steady himself:
"Yes... yes, I will do my best not to disappoint you, Your Excellency.
Then... may I take this book with me?
Otherwise, Commissioner Gigo might not even know what The Decadent City is."
Bishop Guibert's face showed a mocking expression:
"He doesn't know?
Believe me, Marcel, if there's only one person in Paris who has this book, it's certainly him!"
Marcel lowered his head in trepidation:
"Understood, Your Excellency."
Bishop Guibert waved his hand, signaling Marcel to leave first; he needed a good rest.
------
"...Therefore, gentlemen, the birth of The Old Guard did not stem from a grand historical proposition, at least not initially.
It originated from a... an almost physiological visual impact.
It was in the Alps, a raw and real world, utterly different from the bustling prosperity of Paris.
In a small tavern permeated with the scent of cheap gin and inexpensive pickled olives, everyone could see 'him'—the old veteran, dressed in faded, worn-out clothes, yet striving to maintain a certain demeanor.
He stood outside the counter, drinking the cheapest wine alongside workers in coarse cotton shirts.
Every wrinkle on his face was etched with the smoke of past battles and the present predicament.
He was an anachronistic phantom, a living specimen forgotten at the edge of his era."
Lionel stood in the center of the living room, speaking in a calm, steady tone.
The living room was not large; apart from sofas and some clumsy European-imagined Chinese-style furniture and porcelain, there was only a huge desk piled high with books, manuscripts, and small ornaments, though at the moment, the table was covered with a red cloth.
The room was filled with the rich smoke of cigars, the scent of leather and paper from old books.
The fireplace crackled softly, and heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn, allowing the daylight from outside to combine with the gas wall lamps inside to illuminate every corner.
On the sofas around Lionel sat several gentlemen of varying ages; gathered together, they were enough to form half of 19th-century French literature.
This was "Sunday at Flaubert's," and also Lionel Sorel's debut night at the Parisian salon feast that would go down in literary and art history.
(End of Chapter)
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