When Lionel arrived at "Charpentier's Bookshelf" by carriage, the Parisian dusk was gently enveloping the slightly archaic, pre-Haussmann five-story building.
Although he had received an invitation before, this was his first time visiting.
Salons usually didn't have a precise start time; one could start at any time, join at any time, and leave at any time.
"Charpentier's Tuesday" was no exception.
It often began in the afternoon, with some bored writer chatting with Monsieur Charpentier (or others), and as coffee and cigars, snacks and refreshments were consumed, people would continuously walk into the third floor...
Lionel said to the doorman:
"I am Lionel Sorel. Mr. Charpentier asked me to attend the gathering."
The doorman immediately stepped aside, clearing a path:
"Monsieur Sorel, Mr. Charpentier instructed that you may go directly to the third floor."
When Lionel pushed open the heavy oak door of the third-floor drawing room, the atmosphere inside immediately captivated him.
The gaslight filtered through frosted glass lampshades, casting a warm glow on the dark beechwood bookshelves, heavy velvet curtains, and the faces of the men seated around.
The air was a mix of the mellow aroma of fine cigars, the fragrance of aged brandy, the old scent of paper, and the light fragrance of unknown spices burning.
Hearing the door open, everyone deep in discussion looked towards him.
Georges Charpentier, slender and dressed in blue evening attire, greeted him, barely concealing his excitement, muttering:
"Aha, look who's here? It's our hero, Lionel!"
He then lightly embraced Lionel, patting his back and saying:
"Well done, Léon! You've worked hard!"
Immediately, everyone else in the drawing room applauded, including Zola, Flaubert, Turgenev, whom he knew... and several unfamiliar faces.
Lionel's hair stood on end; he had just experienced this script, these lines, this scene yesterday, and already had PTSD.
Had Baroness Alexeyevna also sponsored "Charpentier's Bookshelf"?
How much had she spent this time?
Lionel felt an invisible net cast over him!
Thinking of the scandalous rumors about him and the Baroness at the university, if these great literary figures were also to use this occasion to tease him, he would truly jump from the third floor.
Lionel anxiously wanted to explain, frantically searching among the crowd for the only "witness" – Guy de Maupassant.
Unfortunately, he wasn't there today.
Perhaps he had gone to Mallarmé's, or simply to that brothel – though he had once told Lionel on Jersey Island that he would "absolutely... try not to frequent prostitutes."
Fortunately, Georges Charpentier's next words made him sigh in relief:
"Léon, your 'Letter from an Unknown Woman' truly surprised us!
You saved 'Modern Life'! You are a true hero! To write such a masterpiece in such a short time, you must have expended a lot of mental energy, right?"
A short, stout, bald man also walked over and shook Lionel's hand:
"I am Émile Bergerat.
We have corresponded.
When Mr. Charpentier asked me to use color illustrations, I thought he was mad.
Now it proves my vision was too narrow-minded – this issue of 'Modern Life,' thanks to your novel and Mr. Charpentier's wise decision, already needs to be reprinted!"
Only then did Lionel realize that everyone in the drawing room held a copy of "Modern Life."
Flaubert picked up the newspaper, waved it slightly, and called out:
"Come quickly, Monsieur Sorel!
If you hadn't come this week, we would have held the salon at your apartment!"
Only then did Lionel relax, a cheerful, relaxed smile appearing on his face:
"Monsieur Flaubert, then I'd need money to get a bigger apartment!"
Turgenev, sitting on the sofa, teased him:
"With 'The Old Guard' and 'Letter from an Unknown Woman,' you'll have a big apartment, and a carriage too."
After Lionel took his seat, Flaubert impatiently began:
"Léon, the first sentence of this novel – 'Years later, facing the woman in bed, the novelist L would recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from an unknown woman.'
Under what circumstances, what magic, were you able to conceive such a sentence?"
Indeed, anyone sensitive to literature would be immediately captivated by this opening.
Lionel's reply was naturally confident:
"I merely tried to capture a feeling – the feeling of time being compressed, stretched, and distorted when a tremendous emotional impact strikes.
I forcibly bound 'L' in that moment – his past, that distant afternoon; his present, the instant of reading the letter; and his future, recalling this moment while facing the woman in bed – by varying the tenses.
Only in French, and exclusively in French, can this entanglement be clearly presented! Gentlemen, it's not that I acquired some magic; it's that French itself possesses this magic!"
Everyone present – including the Russian, Turgenev – were masters of French writing, believing French to be the most beautiful and expressive language in the world, and these words undoubtedly resonated deeply with them.
A faint smile appeared on everyone's face, and their gaze towards Lionel also grew more appreciative.
"Magic, yes!"
Émile Bergerat, editor-in-chief of "Modern Life," excitedly interjected.
His forehead shone dazzlingly under the light:
"It made the current act of 'reading the letter' instantly possess the weight of foretelling the future and the inevitability of recalling the past.
It throws the reader into a temporal vortex from the very beginning, foreshadowing a tragedy of fate and memory.
This is a brand new attempt in our literature!"
Georges Charpentier elegantly swirled the brandy in his glass, his mustache slightly curled upwards:
"Émile, bold innovation is the cornerstone of 'Modern Life.' And Lionel..."
He looked at the young man:
"You not only provided innovation, but also... a topic – all the women in Paris are talking about the woman in your story.
My wife, and her lady friends, are all shedding tears for this woman, talking about her infatuation, her unwavering resolve, her sacrifices... and cursing us men in passing.
Haha, us old fellows were just talking about her too.
Ivan, what did you just say about this woman?
You said she was intelligent?
How interesting..."
Lionel was momentarily speechless.
He had originally thought these old gentlemen would be interested in the early stream-of-consciousness technique he used in this novel, but he didn't expect them to be most concerned about the woman.
Turgenev put down his pipe, his grayish-blue eyes showing deep thought:
"Georges, of course, it's wisdom – this woman's wisdom is also Lionel's wisdom –
The opening line, 'My son died yesterday,' is like a cold key, instantly unlocking all doubts, forcing you to believe that every word, every tear, every hopeless vigil she recounts thereafter is true.
This is the wisdom of despair, the cornerstone of tragedy."
"With all due respect, you've misunderstood Lionel!" a rich, yet slightly sharp voice rang out.
(End of Chapter)
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