"As the ship approached the harbor, a strong desire arose in my heart.
I wanted to see Jules again, my Uncle Jules.
I wanted to get close to him, to say a few comforting words to him.
But I couldn't see him anymore—no one was eating oysters anymore, and the poor man had to return to the hold, where there was only foul, cold air.
On our way back, we changed to the Saint-Marie, to avoid encountering him again.
For a day on Jersey Island, Mother was restless, consumed by anxiety.
From then on, I never saw my father's brother again!
From now on, you will see me sometimes giving a five-franc silver coin to a vagrant, and the reason is everything I just said."
A silence fell as Lionel finished the last sentence of the story.
He looked up and saw Maupassant standing there, stunned, his eyes filled with shock, bewilderment, admiration, and many other indescribable complex emotions intertwined.
His lips trembled slightly, wanting to say something, but unable to utter a word.
Alice and Petit had long since become teary-eyed, embracing each other.
If not for fear of disturbing Lionel's storytelling mood, they might have already been sobbing uncontrollably.
Behind them, several other passengers who had been waiting in line for oysters were also standing still.
Not only did they not urge him, but they also cautiously put out their cigarettes.
One lady even threw herself into the arms of her male companion, sobbing silently.
It was truly a scene of "men silent, women weeping," nothing more.
The old sailor shucking oysters, "Jules Darmanche" — of course, fifteen minutes ago he was still called Antoine Mathieu — was trembling all over, almost unable to hold the knife in his hand.
His eyes sparkled, and his teeth chattered almost continuously.
After a long while, he finally spoke:
"Sir, are you going to give me a five-franc silver coin?"
Everyone: "..."
However, as the silent atmosphere was broken, everyone livened up, wiping tears, lighting cigarettes.
Maupassant was about to pull out a five-franc coin from his pocket and toss it to "Jules Darmanche" when Lionel, with quick eyes and hands, pulled him away.
What the disappointed old sailor didn't know was that a few months later, he would tell everyone he met that his name was "Jules Darmanche," that he lived in Le Havre, and that when he was young, he was foolish and squandered his brother's family fortune, eventually being sent to America...
And the oysters he shucked would sell for the astronomical price of five francs a dozen, with many customers giving him an additional five-franc silver coin as a tip.
The Saint-Michel, the ship he worked on, would also become the most popular ferry on the "Le Havre-Jersey Island" route, with tickets being impossible to get.
Lionel and his companions returned to the cabin.
Alice and Petit hadn't yet recovered, but Maupassant had already fallen into a strange mental state, both excited and depressed.
He first paced back and forth in the cabin, then pulled out a cigarette and tried to light it—but his hands were trembling too much, and he failed several times.
After a long while, he sat next to Lionel and extended a hand to him.
Lionel was a little bewildered and didn't react for a moment.
Suddenly, a shadow fell upon him, and then he was tightly embraced by Maupassant.
Soon, Maupassant grabbed his shoulders and shook him, his voice choked with emotion:
"A masterpiece!
A masterpiece, Leon!
You are the most unique genius I have ever seen!
How long did it take you to come up with this story just now?
One minute?
Thirty seconds?
Or did that damned Muse goddess bestow inspiration upon you in a flash of lightning?
No, inspiration alone isn't enough—
It also has a perfect structure, profound social criticism, and even warm emotions are not lacking.
And that 'I'—little Joseph.
My goodness!
The 'I' in 'The Old Guard,' and the 'I' in this story—
Leon, is there truly such a child living inside you?
Heavens, what spirituality, what talent...
I'm done for, I'm done for..."
As he spoke, tears actually streamed down his face.
Lionel did not "resist," but quietly watched Maupassant vent his emotions.
This future "King of the Short Story," although his personal life was unrestrained, his pursuit of the art of the novel was undeniable.
He and his mentor Flaubert wrote works that were called the "purest, most refined, most concise" masterpieces of French literature, which shows his dedication.
But Maupassant was almost 30 years old now.
Apart from a few controversial poems and a play that no one watched, it was not an exaggeration to describe him as "unknown."
Before Lionel appeared, he was not in a hurry.
Both his mentor Flaubert and he himself were convinced that the name "Maupassant" would one day shock the entire French literary scene, and even the entire European literary scene.
So, whether in his hometown or in Paris, he lived a life of indulgence.
During the day, he worked as an office drone in the Ministry of Navy, and at night, he frequented salons and brothels, occasionally writing "little things," but not much concerned about whether they would be published.
But now it was different.
Lionel Sorrel was like a comet, sweeping across the literary world from the distant edge of the universe.
Although its light was not yet brilliant, Maupassant had completely confirmed through today's events that this comet would undoubtedly illuminate the entire night sky.
It might even become a star forever suspended in the heavens, like Mr. Hugo, Mr. Zola, or his mentor Gustave Flaubert.
And this position, in his heart, was reserved for himself.
How could this not make him feel bewildered, pained, lost, and even despair.
Lionel patted his shoulder, his tone unusually sincere and friendly:
"Guy, don't be discouraged.
In fact, you could also write the story 'My Uncle Jules,' and it would be even more wonderful than mine.
What you need to do now is to break free from your current 'idle' state. There are stories everywhere in life—
An honest old farmer from the countryside, a sailor shucking oysters, a corpulent prostitute, a bookkeeper with a dull life, a vain woman, a handsome man...
It doesn't matter what stories they themselves have; what matters is what story we want to give them."
Maupassant, on hearing this, jumped up as if electrocuted:
"You're right, Leon! It's not what stories they have, but what story we want to give them...
You've awakened me!
Thank you, Leon!
Besides my mentor, no one has ever inspired me so greatly!
Oh, I also need to apologize to you..."
Lionel was a little puzzled.
Isn't thanking him enough?
Why apologize?
However, given Maupassant's current unstable mental state, he didn't ask further.
At this moment, the whistle of the Saint-Michel ferry let out a long, deep blast—
Jersey Island, arrived.
(End of this chapter)
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