After "The Decadent City" swept through Paris's underground book market with astonishing speed and momentum, greatly enriching the Parisian gentlemen's nightlife, a novel published in a respectable manner in Le Petit Parisien also caused quite a stir.
However, the title wasn't simply "The Old Guard" but was modified to—
"Sorbonne Genius Shakes the Literary World: The Old Guard – A Lament for a Forgotten Hero"
It even had a long, heart-wrenching subtitle—
"He once fought under the Emperor's eagle banner, but now crawls amidst the mockery of taverns…"
For Le Petit Parisien's vast readership, primarily composed of small shopkeepers, workers, artisans, and junior civil servants, the name "Sorbonne" itself carried a sense of distance.
It was a place where gentlemen, young masters, and young ladies gilded themselves; it was another world.
However, phrases like "forgotten hero," "Emperor's eagle banner," and "crawls amidst mockery" tugged at the hearts of these "fish," like wriggling fat earthworms on a fishhook.
————
In a tailor's workshop in Paris, under the yellowish-white glow of gas lamps, a dozen skilled master tailors were toiling diligently.
Pieces of fabric were cut into various shapes and then fed into different sewing machines, where, under nimble hands, they were sewn into garments.
At the workshop's entrance sat a middle-aged man with a scarred face and tattered clothes.
The sleeve of his right arm was empty, its cuff tucked into his waistband.
He used his remaining left hand to turn the pages of a copy of Le Petit Parisien and read its contents in a hoarse voice:
[After All Saints' Day (November 1st), the Alpine winds grew colder by the day, signaling the approaching deep autumn; I, leaning by the fireplace all day, also needed to wear a thick coat.
One afternoon, with no customers, I sat with my eyes closed.
Suddenly, I heard a voice,
"A glass of wine."
Though extremely low, the voice was familiar.
When I looked, there was no one.
Standing up and peering out, I saw the old guard sitting on the steps below the bar.
…
The owner, as usual, laughed and said to him,
"Old guard, you've stolen something again!"
But this time, he didn't argue much, merely saying,
"Don't mock!"
"Mock?
If you didn't steal, how would your leg have been broken?"
The old guard whispered,
"Fell, fell, fell…"
His eyes pleaded with the owner not to mention it again.
…
Soon, he finished his wine, and amidst the laughter and chatter of others, he slowly shuffled out the door, moving with his hands while sitting.]
The novel wasn't finished, but the tailors only heard the man reading the newspaper begin to sob, his tears hitting the paper with a "tap-tap" sound.
"Hey, Jacques, what's wrong?
Is the story finished?"
A tailor stopped his work to ask.
The man quickly wiped his eyes and then apologized to everyone:
"I'm sorry, everyone, I just thought of myself."
As he spoke, he glanced at his right side.
"Are you talking about the 'old guard' in the story?
Don't overthink it, Jacques, Bourbon, Republic, Empire… they're all the same, really," another tailor spoke up.
He left his sewing machine, walked over to Jacques, and patted his shoulder:
"You're lucky, aren't you?
Although you lost your hand at Sedan, at least you survived.
Think of your comrades."
Jacques nodded, didn't read the last paragraph of the novel, but instead turned to another section and began reading another news article:
[Recently, Baroness Alexeyevna from Russia purchased an estate worth 700,000 francs in Montmartre, Paris, comprising an 18th-century small castle, two farmhouses, and a small lake.
According to informed sources, Baroness Alexeyevna intends to reside permanently in Paris to escape her rigid and boring husband in Moscow.
According to another informed source, the estate not only has hundreds of male and female servants attending to the Baroness's daily needs but also a handsome Parisian talent who keeps her company all day long…]
The tailors laughed; this was Paris, this was France!
————
In a noisy working-class tavern on Rue Saint-Antoine, filled with smoke and clinking glasses, a bearded man with a pipe loudly finished reading the last paragraph:
[From then on, the old guard was not seen for a long time.
At Christmas, the owner took down the blackboard and said,
"The old guard still owes nineteen sous!"
At Easter the following year, he again said,
"The old guard still owes nineteen sous!"
But at Pentecost, he did not mention it, nor was he seen at the next Christmas.
To this day, I have not seen him again—the old guard must indeed be dead.]
After a brief silence in the tavern, a man with a "rosacea nose" slammed his glass heavily on the greasy wooden table:
"Damn it!
Isn't that old Pierre?
The one on the corner!
Came back from Metz, froze to death in a ditch last winter!
Exactly the same!"
Several drinking buddies nearby nodded, some cursing:
"Damn this world!
Is this how men who bled for France should end up?"
Then another person spoke:
"Easy to say – if Parliament wanted to raise taxes to pay pensions to old soldiers, would you be happy?"
Everyone else immediately fell silent.
The speaker scoffed:
"Patriotism is fine, but not touching my wallet! Haha!"
Everyone laughed again, shouting in unison:
"Patriotism is fine, but not touching my wallet!"
The tavern was filled with cheerful air!
————
In the small square in front of Les Invalides in Paris (the "Paris Home for Disabled Veterans," built in 1670 by King Louis XIV), several old soldiers, adorned with medals and missing limbs, sat in a circle.
A one-eyed old soldier was reading "The Old Guard" from Le Petit Parisien.
Another old soldier in a wheelchair, after hearing it read, unconsciously rubbed his empty trouser leg with one hand and said hoarsely:
"'Long live France,' 'Long live the Emperor'…
How many years since anyone shouted that.
We… we are not thieves."
His tone was full of sorrow and offended dignity.
Another one-armed veteran scoffed:
"Brother, you're not the Imperial Guard.
Those old immortals have long gone to meet their Emperor.
The newspaper writes nonsense!
How could the gentlemen of the Imperial Guard steal?
Weren't they the proudest?"
He finished with a strange laugh.
Yet another blind veteran self-deprecatingly said:
"Wake up!
The Empire is long gone!
The dynasty is finished!
Look at us?
Can medals be eaten?
This story… it's well written, we are all tools for the big figures, tools thrown into the trash after use!"
The veteran in the wheelchair didn't care about the mockery but murmured:
"At least someone still remembers us… even if it's in this way."
————
A community grocery store.
The proprietress weighed sugar for a customer while discussing with a regular:
"Tsk, tsk, this Sorbonne student has a hard heart!
So coldly written.
It's wrong for that old fellow to steal, but…
Sigh, in such a state, who could bear to laugh at him?
That young shop assistant is heartless too!"
The customer echoed:
"Exactly!
But it's true to life, the tavern watering down wine, customers watching closely, perfectly accurate!
This author is young, but his eyes are sharp!"
The owner lazily pointed to the small blackboard hanging in his shop for credit accounts:
"The old guard didn't owe money, better than some of the defaulters now!"
A customer, feeling guilty, quickly left with his goods, muttering:
"Hmph, what's the use of being strong?
Didn't he still end up with a broken leg?
If you ask me, when people get old, they should accept their fate, don't stir up trouble…"
The proprietress finally concluded:
"The story is good, but too unlucky.
It leaves a lump in your throat after reading."
Then she refolded the newspaper, planning to use it to wrap fish when she went shopping for groceries later.
————
In a café named "The Debater" in the 7th arrondissement.
Several young people waved newspapers, their emotions running high:
"See?
This is what those Bourbon pups are good for!
Disbanding the army, monitoring veterans!
Long live the Republic!
Let's settle accounts with those scoundrels!"
But an old gentleman disagreed, tapping his cane on the floor:
"Hmph, Le Petit Parisien publishing this?
Malicious intent!
This is inciting hatred against the old era!
Slandering His Majesty's government!"
A middle-aged man in a cap coldly said:
"This only shows that the Republic hasn't done enough!
We need to establish a better veteran pension system!"
Someone immediately retorted:
"Oh, come on!
This is a debt from the previous regime!
It's the mess Napoleon left behind when he dragged France into the quagmire of war!
Why should the Republic pay for it?"
"This is merely the lament of Bonapartism!"
"Wrong, this exposes the Republic's indifference!"
The owner of "The Debater" café smiled, watching it all, without any intention of intervening.
————
For the readers of Le Petit Parisien, they did not care about the literary value of "The Old Guard," nor did they see the artistic path that Flaubert envisioned as the future of the novel.
They cared about the parts of the novel that resonated with them or disgusted them.
But they all remembered a name—Lionel Sorel, a university student from the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts, who wrote this widely discussed masterpiece…
"Bang!"
Albert Gigot, the Chief of the Paris Police, threw this issue of Le Petit Parisien onto the table, pointing his finger at the title of "The Old Guard" and the author's name, Lionel Sorel.
He huffily said to the man with a sly smile across the table,
"Gab, why can't your Le Tumulte publish works by poor, upright, and talented young men like Lionel Sorel?
The Decadent City… My God, do you really want to go to court?"
The scene of disabled veterans reading newspapers in the tailor's shop is from the book "19th Century French Readers and Society: Workers, Women, and Peasants."
(End of Chapter)
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