ust as Professor Taine was angrily denouncing Lionel for spreading rumors and damaging his reputation—
"Achoo… Achoo… Achoo…" Maupassant woke up from a large, three-sided open bed, sneezing several times in a row.
He looked up and could see the mirror on the ceiling, just like the bed itself, and recalled the enchanting scenes of last night, feeling his throat go dry.
He pushed aside a white arm draped across his chest, threw off the covers, and walked naked to the fireplace.
He picked up a glass from a Chinese-style high table and gulped down a large mouthful of red wine.
At that moment, the sunlight streamed in through the blinds, combined with the gas lamp above the fireplace, allowing him, despite having vision only in his right eye, to clearly see the bronze animal statues on the mantelpiece, with a sculpture of the Goddess of Abundance in the center.
Beside the large bed were various irregularly shaped, curving lounge chairs and sofas, and in a corner against the wall, a marble-topped dressing table with exquisite crystal bottles reflecting brilliant light.
The entire room was filled with a sweet, alluring, and rich aroma, making one want to indulge in this gentle paradise and never leave.
Looking at the woman still sleeping soundly on the bed, Maupassant smacked his lips, with only one thought in his mind: "High-class prostitutes are really good!"
Of course, besides being expensive, there were no other flaws.
A whole night of entertainment, food, drinks, plus the cost of a night of passion, cost him a total of 80 francs, emptying his pockets.
However, thinking that this was his last "free day" before taking up his post at the Ministry of Education, he felt the money he spent was well worth it.
Aside from the inexplicable sneezes that forced him to wake up early, this experience was absolutely perfect, much better than those bumpkins in Normandy.
He pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his coat hanging on the rack, opened the lid, poured out a few pills, and then took a sip of wine to swallow them.
These pills contained 4 grams of mercury and 30 grams of potassium iodide, used to treat his syphilis.
However, Maupassant was not sad about this—in his heart, syphilis was a noble disease for kings and heroes like "Francis I," and he was proud to have syphilis rather than bourgeois diseases like gonorrhea or genital warts!
A while later, the lady on the bed slowly woke up.
Maupassant, already dressed, dropped a line: "I have syphilis," and then burst into laughter as he left, met with her terrified gaze.
He was attending Madame de Rambouillet's salon tonight, and if he could win her favor, he might have a chance to get her to fund the performance of his play, "The Betrayal of the Countess of Rouen," at the Paris Opera.
But what topic or story should he use to attract the Marquise's attention?
The story of the poor Sorbonne student angrily confronting the snobbish professor was already in its fourth version, and it was said to have different variations in different salons.
The Marquise had probably heard it already; it wasn't fresh…
But his recent life had been truly uninspiring, nothing but whoring, from the 10-sou "beer girls" on the street to last night's "nightingale" who cost 80 francs—he couldn't possibly tell the Marquise he was doing a report on the Parisian prostitution industry, could he?
However, the life story told by last night's "nightingale" was indeed touching: her father loved gambling and lost all their family property; her mother had tuberculosis and couldn't work; her younger brother was in school and needed tuition fees…
Although he knew the other party was making up a story, Maupassant, in his excitement, still gave her an extra 10 francs.
Wait, her younger brother was in school? In the version he had told, it seemed he hadn't mentioned the background of this poor Sorbonne student?
Inspired, Maupassant became excited again, a sickly blush spreading across his face…
— — — — — — — —
In the editorial office of the Sorbonne College journal, the atmosphere was exceptionally solemn.
After all, this was an incident involving the reputation of a Sorbonne professor, so others dared not mock Taine, but instead offered him comfort.
Editor-in-chief Professor Boissier frowned: "Are you sure Lionel spread the rumors?"
Hippolyte Taine angrily tossed his head: "Who else would be so bored besides him? Heh heh, a poor student from the Alps countryside, outstanding in scholarship, rebelling against authority—that's a good way to break into high society.
Henry wants him to participate in the "Poetry Society"; surely some noblewoman has taken a liking to him!"
Gaston Boissier remained noncommittal after hearing this.
He felt that his old friend and colleague was currently in a fit of anger and lacked reason.
He looked at the manuscript on the table with some difficulty, hesitated for a moment, and said: "If we are to reject Henry's recommendation for him, then we must at least provide sufficient reasons.
Shouldn't we still look at this manuscript? It's just a short story; it won't take long."
The others exchanged glances, thinking this was also a solution, both saving their colleague's face and not embarrassing the dean.
Gaston Boissier saw no objections, so he picked up the manuscript and quickly skimmed through it—in his mind, although students from the Faculty of Arts were not lacking in talent, most were very immature, and he could almost immediately spot the problems—
[The layout of the tavern in the Alps is different from elsewhere: there is an L-shaped bar facing the street…]
Hmm, this is a traditional short story opening, first explaining the setting where the story takes place.
This is a tradition left by Balzac, which allows readers who have not been to the Alps region to quickly construct the scene in their minds.
The technique is not novel, but to be as concise, simple, accurate, and vivid as this story, with almost no wasted words, is another matter entirely—did this child also study Flaubert?
Gaston Boissier became serious.
He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and brought the manuscript closer to read every word clearly.
His body language also aroused the curiosity of the other editorial board members, as this represented the importance the French Academy academician attached to this manuscript—could Lionel Sorel have written something quite good?
And Gaston Boissier was already completely immersed in the world of the novel.
When he read the description, ["the old guard" was the only one who drank standing up and wore a woolen coat…], he couldn't help but let out a soft sigh.
He knew that this short sentence not only precisely outlined the image of "the old guard" but also left a certain suspense for the reader; only a first-rate writer could produce such a sentence.
When he saw "the old guard" share his few olives for drinking with the children and eagerly try to teach "me" four ways to process game, Gaston Boissier was moved again.
At this moment, "the old guard" was no longer a Napoleon worshiper full of vices, arrogant, and pedantic, but a kind old man with a benevolent and warm side.
This person suddenly came alive, possessing a weighty sense of reality, as if he were one of those disheartened people one might see in a tavern.
After reading the last sentence of the novel, [I still haven't seen him—perhaps the old guard is indeed dead.], Gaston Boissier finally came back to his senses, but he did not immediately comment.
Instead, he closed his eyes, as if savoring the complex feelings the story brought him.
Opening his eyes, Gaston Boissier earnestly said to Hippolyte Taine: "How about you read this novel first, and then make a decision?"
Hippolyte Taine looked incredulously at his old friend across the conference table, then suddenly picked up his cane from beside his chair, struck it heavily on the floor, stood up, and left the office, leaving only one sentence:
"I have invited the great Victor Hugo to appraise this issue's works.
Whether Lionel is qualified to appear in the journal will be for him to decide!"