Upon arriving at Saint Helier Port (the capital of Jersey), Lionel politely declined Maupassant's invitation, choosing instead to stay at a hotel near the port called "Norman's Last Dream."
Maupassant didn't insist.
Instead, he gave Lionel an ambiguous "I understand" look, made an appointment to find him the next morning, and then left in a hired carriage.
Lionel booked a "family suite" for 15 francs a night, which included two bedrooms and a living room.
After settling their luggage, the three went to the hotel restaurant for dinner.
Since guests arrived at irregular times, the hotel's communal dining tables stayed open until 9 PM, but each person's dining time was limited to half an hour.
Alice and Petty didn't have much appetite.
They ate a little of the island's special English fish and chips and then returned to their room.
Lionel, however, was in good spirits.
Besides fish and chips, he also sampled fresh fish and shrimp caught by the island fishermen that day, as well as mussels the owner's daughter had gathered from the seaside rocks.
He ate for a full half hour before finally leaving at the owner's urging.
The balcony of his room faced a row of flags, buffeted and askew by the sea wind.
At night, the wind howled like waves, mingling with the coughing of travelers and the low murmurs from the nearby English pub, making it feel as if one were in a dream.
Early the next morning, Maupassant arrived at "Norman's Last Dream" as promised, bringing with him a two-horse, four-seat open carriage and a coachman.
Alice, already somewhat aware of prices outside the Alps, exclaimed,
"The rent for this carriage can't be cheap, can it?"
"It's 22 francs for a full day's charter, and it can take us anywhere on the island!"
Maupassant's voice had a hint of pride.
This "exorbitant price" left Alice and Petty speechless.
Jersey Island is about a fifth the size of Paris, but its residential areas and attractions are almost all concentrated in and around Saint Helier, making it explorable on foot.
Nevertheless, having a carriage at one's disposal at all times was naturally more pleasant.
Lionel did not refuse the kind offer, and he, Alice, and Petty got into the carriage; he and Maupassant sat in the front, while Alice and Petty sat in the back.
The first undisputed attraction to visit in Jersey was Elizabeth Castle.
This 700-year-old stone castle stands by the sea, serving as both a royal residence and a military fortress – though, of course, both functions are now obsolete, and it has become purely a tourist attraction.
As for why it must be visited in the morning?
Because the path to the castle only appears at low tide in the morning.
Entrance to the castle required no ticket, but it was almost entirely empty inside.
Every room contained rubbish left by tourists, emitting a musty odor.
Even the two girls, who had initially been excited, held their noses and urged Lionel and Maupassant to leave quickly.
Only upon climbing to the highest arrow tower, overlooking Saint Helier Port below and gazing at Guernsey Island 27 kilometers away, did one feel the trip was worthwhile.
After lunch, Maupassant suggested that the four of them first go to the beach at St. Brelade's Bay, and then visit Mr. Hugo's former residence before sunset.
Hugo decided to go into exile abroad after Napoleon III's coup (1851).
He first lived in Brussels, Belgium, for a year, then moved to these Channel Islands.
He initially lived on Jersey Island until 1855, when he moved to Guernsey Island.
He then lived on Guernsey until 1870, returning to France only after the fall of Napoleon III, and was given a heroic welcome in Paris.
Les Misérables was written during his exile.
His residences on Jersey and Guernsey islands have both become tourist attractions.
The one on Jersey Island costs 15 sous per person—according to rumor, Mr. Hugo earned at least 20,000 francs annually from the ticket sales of these two islands.
As literary juniors, Lionel and Maupassant naturally had to pay their respects upon coming to Jersey.
The mansion stood on a hillside, with two leafy elm trees in front of the door, as if they were two green flags raised for the exile.
The administrator and guide was an old gentleman who spoke French with a slight British accent.
He would lead tourists through the tightly sealed small rooms, pointing out poems handwritten by Hugo hanging on the walls, tapestries, mirrored ceilings, and the wicker chair he once reclined in.
"Here, he wrote curses against Napoleon III, and also hopes for human conscience."
This sentence was powerful, but the old administrator's voice carried a seasoned weariness.
Lionel stood before the large sea-facing window in the study.
Looking through the glass, he vaguely saw a shadow hunched over a desk, writing, behind him a vast, shifting sea.
Not the territory of any country, but the sea itself.
Maupassant walked over.
Lionel whispered to him,
"Do you think Mr. Hugo truly exiled himself, or did he use exile to escape everything?"
Maupassant was momentarily speechless, feeling a tide surging in his chest with nowhere to go.
He followed Lionel's gaze out the window to the vast, turbulent sea.
The cries of the gulls sounded particularly bleak in the wind.
After a long while, Maupassant spoke slowly, his voice low:
"Escape? Lionel, you are too sharp... or perhaps too young, not yet completely enveloped by that mountain's shadow."
Maupassant looked with complex eyes at the empty wicker chair, as if he could see the white-haired, keen-eyed giant having just risen and left:
"Mr. Hugo is too colossal, Lionel.
So colossal... like the Alps stretching before us.
We latecomers, no matter which direction we walk, look up and see those peaks covered in eternal snow.
He defined what 'greatness' is, what 'humanitarianism' is, what 'conscience' is!
One Les Misérables almost exhausted all possible sublime emotions and immense suffering of humanity—Jean Valjean's redemption, Fantine's tragedy, Cosette's love..."
Lionel understood Maupassant's feelings.
When a civilization produces an artistic giant, it's fortunate for ordinary admirers, but not necessarily for other artists—especially a long-lived artistic giant like Hugo.
He could only gently comfort him:
"Yes, sometimes, standing in this shadow, one can't breathe.
He's like a bottomless well; we draw water, but always feel our bucket is too small, and the water's surface always reflects his shadow."
Maupassant nodded like a pecking chick:
"He wrote about the suffering of Paris, what more can we write?
He wrote about human struggle and redemption, what new depths can we excavate?
He wrote about the ferocity and grandeur of the sea, what never-before-seen waves can our pens conjure?
Even... exile itself became his exclusive, tragic-heroic literary performance art.
If we were to write about exile again, it would be like imitating his path, picking up the sand he trod."
Lionel smiled:
"So Mr. Zola, Mr. Flaubert, and you chose 'Naturalism'?
Don't be so discouraged—you just said Mr. Hugo is the Alps?
Coincidentally, I come from there.
In my experience, no matter how towering and extensive a mountain range is, there are always many small paths that can cross it.
Isn't that right, Alice?"
Alice, having no interest in Hugo's residence, was bored when she suddenly heard Lionel ask her.
It took her a moment to react:
"Yes, the Alps have many big roads and small paths that can cross them—
Léon, Mr. Maupassant, are you going to Switzerland or Italy?"
Lionel and Maupassant exchanged glances, then burst into laughter under Alice and Petty's puzzled gazes.
(End of Chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon