"Taine, that old pedant, you know him—bitter and stubborn as a stone pickled in a seminary since the Middle Ages—he loves to pick on these commoner students.
That kid was a few minutes late, and Taine wouldn't let it go, publicly ridiculing him as a 'diligent gravedigger'!"
Maupassant stood up and began to perform with vivid accuracy.
He slightly hunched his back, mimicking Professor Taine's demeanor, pushed up his non-existent glasses, and in a deliberately affected, nasally voice, recounted: "'Look who it is?
Our diligent gravedigger has finally deigned to leave his warm bed?
Mr. Sorel, do come in, do come in!'"
His exaggerated imitation made Zola crack a smile, and the corners of everyone else's mouths twitched upwards.
Maupassant was always like this, full of passion for exciting stories and vivid characters.
"After Lionel sat down, those ignorant fops started to mock him, saying he was shabbily dressed, like Jean Valjean living in a slum—guess how he retorted?" Maupassant paused for effect here.
"Rastignac?" Huysmans guessed.
Maupassant immediately interjected loudly: "Yes, Rastignac."
He suddenly turned, facing a gilded human-shaped stand by the fireplace that served as a coat rack, as if it were the arrogant Albert, and in a clear, calm, yet immensely powerful tone, mimicked Lionel's expression and words at the time: "'And you, Albert?
Are you paying homage to Rastignac?'"
"Pfft…!" Zola was the first to burst into a hearty laugh, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Right to the point!"
Huysmans' tightly knit brows completely relaxed, and a genuine, slightly incredulous smile curved on his lips: "Precise sarcasm—'Rastignac'… to retort with that is a hundred times more vicious than any crude insult!"
"That's not even the best part.
Taine, that old fellow, wasn't satisfied and asked Lionel two tricky questions." Maupassant then gave a vivid imitation of Lionel's answers, making everyone burst into laughter.
After his performance, Maupassant concluded: "You didn't see the faces of those fops—they were as white as drowned men just pulled from the Seine River!
Absolutely brilliant! For a full five minutes, the entire classroom was silent, even Taine, that old fellow, was too stunned to continue his harsh remarks! The scene…"
He savored the memory, as if tasting a fine vintage: "It was practically a live drama class!
Conflict, reversal, a perfect counterattack! Full of the most primal and most exquisite power!"
Zola picked up his cigar again, took a slow puff, his deep gaze seemingly piercing through the swirling smoke to see further: "To maintain such composure under Taine's pressure, to deliver such precise and sharp retorts amidst the mockery of surrounding aristocrats…
This kind of self-possession and quick wit isn't cultivated by books and tutors.
There's a hardness and sharpness in this young man, tempered by life itself.
The hothouse of Sorbonne probably can't accommodate such a wild plant." His words carried the weariness of one who had seen much of the world, and a hint of subtle worry.
"In a place like Sorbonne, a poor boy from the Eleventh District will be crushed by those snobbish noble scions and rigid academics!
Talent? Before the barrier of class, talent is often the first sacrifice!"
Zola's tone became somewhat heavy and angry, as if he had already foreseen some tragic outcome.
The excitement on Maupassant's face also faded a bit.
He walked back to his armchair and sat down, his voice carrying a hint of subtle emotion and regret: "Indeed… after lunch, I wanted to talk to him more, even invite him to some salons…
But he left very quickly, very… cautiously.
That caution is the instinctive wariness and assessment of the poor in the face of unfamiliar kindness."
He paused, seemingly recalling the details of the moment: "His coat was terribly old, and during the meal… although his manners were proper, it was clear that he regarded that ordinary communal table food with a… nearly reverent cherish.
I guess that was the best meal he'd had in a long time."
Zola and the others all showed sympathy and pity in their eyes.
Especially Zola, whose childhood and youth were spent in destitution, with creditors often knocking on his door, bringing him indelible pain and torment.
He hesitated, then declared: "The universities of France are already corrupt!
They only cultivate the parasites of society, the successors of those scheming, selfish nobles, bureaucrats, and contractors!
This child—his name is 'Lionel,' isn't it?—doesn't bow to authority, doesn't compromise with violence, isn't self-conscious because of money, and possesses a sensitive, noble, inherent self-respect.
Guy, you have found an unpolished gem!
It is still dim now, but it already has a brilliance that cannot be ignored!"
Maupassant and the others hadn't expected Zola's evaluation of Lionel to be so high—then they realized that Zola, with similar life experiences, had put himself in Lionel's shoes.
The group then seized on this topic, vehemently criticizing France's current university system, with an intensity comparable to the flames in the fireplace!
The discussion continued until the alluring aroma of food wafted from the dining room again…
Once again, well-fed and satisfied, Zola, Maupassant, and the others agreed that every Saturday after the start of summer, the six of them would gather at this villa in Médan!
Why Saturday?
Because Sunday was already taken by Flaubert's salon!
At this gathering, besides the young Guy de Maupassant and his teacher Gustave Flaubert, there were also Ivan Turgenev, who was from Russia but wrote in French, Alphonse Daudet, whose novel techniques were exquisitely subtle, the highly respected Edmond de Goncourt, the publisher Charpentier, and Baudry, an academician of the Académie Française and a linguist…
Of course, Émile Zola, whom they had just met yesterday, was also present.
Everyone was also engaged in lively discussion, sharing their latest insights and fresh observations.
A little over halfway through the gathering, Maupassant cautiously asked: "Is Hippolyte Taine not coming today?"
Flaubert was a little surprised why his student would ask this, as he usually disliked the rigid Taine.
But he still replied: "Mr. Taine caught a cold and has even taken leave from the academy."
Maupassant sighed with relief, a happy expression on his face, and stood up: "This week, at Sorbonne, I met a student named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, as poor as a church mouse, wearing a coat with shiny elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the Eleventh arrondissement, which is said to reek…"
Flaubert: "Hmm?"
Zola: "This…"
The others: "Oh?…"
Two days later, at the "Naturalists" gathering held every Tuesday evening, presided over by Mr. Charpentier—
Maupassant stood up again: "Do you know, at Sorbonne, there's a student named Lionel Sorel, from the provinces, as poor as a church mouse, wearing a coat with shiny elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the Eleventh arrondissement, which is said to reek…"
…
In less than a week, the cultural circles of Paris vaguely knew that "at Sorbonne, there's a provincial student named Lionel, as poor as a church mouse, wearing a coat with shiny elbows, commuting by public carriage, and living in the reeking Eleventh arrondissement…"
As for what he did, they couldn't quite remember.
After all, each salon lasted at least four or five hours, with countless people, works, events, and topics discussed… everyone could only remember the key points.
And Lionel, "as poor as a church mouse," now faced both joy and sorrow.