Although Lionel was shocked, he still removed his hat in a show of respect.
He held his hat to his chest and first bowed slightly to Gaston Boissier: "Good morning, Professor Boissier."
Then he greeted the other professors he recognized and who had taught him.
Finally, he saluted Victor Hugo, who was seated in the main chair: "Good morning, Mr. Hugo, it's an honor to meet you!"
Hugo nodded back to Lionel: "Good morning, Mr. Sorel."
Professor Gaston Boissier was actually quite displeased. He hadn't expected that Taine's words weren't just a fit of pique, but that he had truly invited Hugo.
Since delivering a speech and serving as honorary chairman at the first "International Congress of Writers and Artists" last year, Hugo had rarely appeared in public.
Even fellow literati who wished to see him mostly went to his residence on Avenue d'Eylau.
Who would have thought he would appear so early at Sorbonne today and, led by Dean Henri Patin, come directly to the journal's editorial office, requesting to see the student submissions for this year's "Poetry Society"?
At this time, Gaston Boissier had already sent Mr. Duen, the registrar, to the classroom to call Lionel, preparing to question him about the creation details of "the old guard" to rule out the suspicion of ghostwriting.
After Victor Hugo heard about it, he "gladly" offered to observe the interrogation; subsequently, several other professors from the Faculty of Arts also came to the editorial office, ostensibly to pay their respects to the great Hugo.
What was originally a small, internal inquiry had now become a major event that had alarmed the entire faculty.
Gaston Boissier could ignore Hippolyte Taine, and even Henri Patin, but he could not ignore Victor Hugo.
This nearly eighty-year-old man was not only an excellent writer but also a politically astute individual, adept at using his inflammatory speeches and romantic works to stir up storms of public opinion.
Although he was old, and everyone even thought he was about to die—who could be sure that the fire in his heart had already extinguished?
Was his presence at Sorbonne today not some kind of signal?
Everything was too coincidental. Gaston Boissier surveyed his colleagues, who served on the journal's editorial board, trying to identify the "mole," but ultimately gained nothing.
At the same time, he felt a headache from the power struggles and calculations behind this.
Hippolyte Taine's invitation to Hugo to appraise student works was certainly due to his dissatisfaction with Dean Henri Patin's desire to "fast-track" Lionel.
However, the sly old Henri Patin turned the tables, directly inviting Hugo to Lionel's interrogation, unwittingly placing immense pressure on Gaston Boissier—any slip-up during the questioning would be an embarrassment for the professors; confirming that "the old guard" was ghostwritten would naturally mean Lionel would never have a chance to succeed.
Either outcome would result in Sorbonne losing face.
The only possibility for a happy ending was if Gaston Boissier and the other professors questioned "respectfully," Lionel answered "calmly," and it was confirmed that "the old guard" was written by Lionel himself.
Gaston Boissier's mind raced, but his expression remained impassive. He said to Lionel: "It is an honor for anyone to have Mr. Hugo present to hear an author's explanation of his own work.
Your submission this year, "the old guard," is excellent, far surpassing the level of ordinary Sorbonne students, and it has piqued our curiosity. We hope to understand the circumstances under which you created this masterpiece.
Mr. Lionel Sorel, would you like to review your work again before you begin?"
Lionel finally understood why he was standing there and couldn't help but feel both annoyed and amused. If he wrote poorly, they didn't want it; if he wrote well, they suspected him. It was truly difficult to be a student at Sorbonne.
However, he showed no fear, but instead, with confidence and composure, nodded to the esteemed scholars and professors before him, as well as to the most important figure, Hugo: "'the old guard' was written by me word for word; I don't need to read it again.
Professor Boissier, I can begin immediately."
Gaston Boissier secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Regardless of whether it was ghostwritten, Lionel's attitude indicated his sufficient familiarity with "the old guard."
He gestured for Lionel to sit in an empty chair specially prepared for him and still offered a transcribed copy of "the old guard."
Who knew that Lionel would refuse the transcription: "Please give it to the professors who don't have a copy; I don't need it."
His attitude caused the professors present to murmur amongst themselves. There were plenty of arrogant young noblemen at Sorbonne; but a commoner with such calm, composure, and yet pride, had never been seen before.
Even Hugo couldn't help but show an appreciative expression, turning to exchange a whispered word with Paul Janet next to him, who then let out a soft chuckle.
When the air in the room quieted down again, Professor Gaston Boissier stood up and paced over to Lionel, looking down at him as he would question a student during a regular class: "Lionel, let's start by discussing your literary stance—you know, any writing activity is inevitably influenced by the ideas we believe in.
So, are you a 'naturalist'? Or a 'realist'? Or, will you tell us you are a 'romanticist'?"
The last question made all the professors who had read "the old guard" laugh, and even Hugo's white beard twitched twice.
"Realist literature," popular from the late 18th to the mid-19th century, advocated for "truly representing objective facts," restoring the original appearance of familiar things, and objectively describing ordinary activities and experiences in daily life as much as possible.
Stendhal's "The Red and the Black" and Balzac's "The Human Comedy" are representative works of realist literature.
And "naturalist literature" was a product that developed to its extreme on the basis of "realism," transforming from it.
It absorbed the achievements of scientific theories such as 19th-century biology and genetics, believing that physiological pathological inheritance determined all human psychology and behavior. It is a creative philosophy that pursues pure objectivity and truthfulness, understanding human actions from a physiological and genetic perspective.
After 1850, with Flaubert, Zola, and others successively appearing on the literary stage, "naturalism" became prevalent, becoming the mainstream of the French literary scene.
In the context of 1879, calling "the old guard" "naturalist" or "realist" was fine; "romanticist" was entirely a joke.
Even Hugo himself had to admit that Romanticism was basically dead in Europe.
Lionel answered without hesitation: "I refuse to define my writing by a specific ideology, but if I had to label this specific work, "the old guard," I would say it is 'realism.'"
Lionel's answer was somewhat unexpected.
One must know that in today's French literary scene, putting on the hat of a particular literary school is a shortcut to getting into the circle, especially in such a highly scrutinized environment. Stating one's ideological leanings out loud can easily spread throughout Paris.
For example, the "Charpentier Naturalist Salon," held every Tuesday evening, was a gathering of "naturalist writers" and organized by the highly influential publisher Mr. Charpentier. Ordinary writers would struggle to get in.
Lionel's answer was truly a bit "arrogant due to talent."
Professor Gaston Boissier suddenly leaned down, staring into Lionel's eyes: "You say 'the old guard' is realism—yet your narrative perspective is almost cold.
A tavern boy witnesses the decline and destruction of a former imperial hero, yet remains unmoved, even with a numb 'joy.'
This writing style is extremely rare in the current French literary scene—whether in realism or naturalism.
Mr. Zola's works also depict suffering, but the narrator is filled with anger or sympathy. May I ask, why did you choose such a 'dehumanizing' perspective?
Does this mean you lack basic compassion for the character in your writing—that poor old guard? Does this violate the humanitarian spirit that literature should possess?"