Chapter 17: Rising to Fame!

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“That old pedant, Mr. Tenardier—you all know him—gruff and stubborn as a stone soaked in medieval seminary dust, delighting in picking on commoner students. That boy was late by just a few minutes, and Tenardier grabbed him mercilessly, publicly mocking him as a ‘diligent gravedigger!’”

Maupassant rose and began an exquisite imitation. He hunched slightly, mimicking Professor Tenardier’s bearing, pushed up his nonexistent glasses, and with a deliberately affected nasal tone repeated: “‘Look who’s here! Our diligent gravedigger has finally deigned to leave his warm bed? Monsieur Sorel, please, come in, come in!’”

His exaggerated mimicry made Zola grin, while others’ lips twitched upward.

Maupassant was always like this—full of passion for vivid stories and striking characters.

“After Léonard sat down, those idle aristocrats started mocking him, saying his clothes were shabby, like Jean Valjean living in the slums—guess how he responded?” Maupassant tantalized with a pause.

“Rastignac?” Husman guessed.

“Yes, Rastignac,” Maupassant exclaimed loudly.

He suddenly turned toward a gilded human-shaped coat rack by the fireplace, as if it were the arrogant Albert, and with a clear, calm voice filled with immense power, he imitated Léonard’s expression and tone: “‘And you, Albert? Paying tribute to Rastignac?’”

“Pfft...!” Zola was the first to burst into hearty laughter, his broad shoulders shaking, “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Right on the mark!”

Husman’s furrowed brow relaxed completely, a genuine, slightly incredulous smile curving his lips: “A precise satire—‘Rastignac’… That comeback is a hundred times more biting than any crude insult!”

“But that wasn’t the best part. That old Tenardier wasn’t willing to give up; he threw two tricky questions at Léonard.” Then Maupassant once again flawlessly mimicked Léonard’s replies, prompting uproarious laughter from everyone.

After finishing, Maupassant summarized: “You should have seen the faces of those aristocrats—pale as drowned ghosts pulled from the Seine! Absolutely magnificent! For a full five minutes, the classroom was silent; even old Tenardier was so stunned he forgot to be cruel! The scene…”

He savored the memory as if tasting a fine vintage: “It was a living drama lesson! Conflict, reversal, a perfect counterattack! Filled with the most primal yet exquisite force!”

Zola picked up his cigar again, took a slow puff, his deep eyes seeming to pierce through the curling smoke to see farther: “To remain so composed under Tenardier’s oppressive gaze, to deliver such a precise and sharp riposte amid the sneers of nobles…

Such calm and quick wit cannot be taught from books or tutors. This young man carries a hardness and sharpness tempered by life itself. The Sorbonne’s greenhouse probably cannot accommodate such a wild weed.” His words bore the weight of worldly insight and a faint, barely perceptible worry.

“At a place like the Sorbonne, a poor boy from the Tenth Arrondissement would be crushed by those haughty noble sons and rigid pedants working in concert! Talent? Before the barriers of class, talent is often the first sacrificial lamb!”

Zola’s tone grew heavy and angry, as if foreseeing a tragic ending.

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Maupassant’s excitement dimmed somewhat as he returned to his armchair, his voice tinged with subtle regret and reflection: “Indeed… after lunch I wanted to talk with him more, even to invite him to some salons…

But he left quickly, very… cautiously. That caution is the instinctive wariness and calculation of the poor faced with unfamiliar kindness.”

He paused, seemingly recalling details: “His coat was threadbare, very worn. At the meal… though his manners were proper, you could tell he treated that simple public table fare with almost reverent appreciation.

I suspect it was the best meal he’d had in a long time.”

Sympathy and pity showed in Zola’s and others’ eyes. Especially Zola—his own childhood and youth were spent in poverty, with debt collectors often at his door, leaving him with unforgettable pain and torment.

He hesitated, then declared: “French universities have rotted! They breed only the parasites of society—those scheming, selfish nobles, bureaucrats, and contractors’ heirs!

This boy—Léonard, was it?—kneels to no authority, compromises with no violence, feels no inferiority because of money, and possesses a sensitive, noble, innate pride.

Édouard, you have found a raw gem! It is still dim, but it already shines with undeniable brilliance!”

Maupassant and the others had not expected Zola’s high praise for Léonard—then they realized it was Zola, through shared life experience, placing himself in Léonard’s shoes.

The group immediately launched into a vigorous critique of the contemporary French university system, their fervor rivaling the flames in the hearth!

The discussion continued until the tantalizing aromas from the dining room signaled the next meal…

Once again sated, Zola, Maupassant, and the others agreed to meet every Saturday after the beginning of summer in this villa at Meudon!

Why Saturdays?

Because Sundays were already taken by Flaubert’s family salon!

At this gathering, besides the young Édouard de Maupassant and his mentor Gustave Flaubert, were Ivan Turgenev, a Russian writing in French; Alphonse Daudet, whose novelistic skill was exquisite; the venerable Edmond de Goncourt; publisher Charpentier; Académie Française member and linguist Bodley…

And, of course, Émile Zola, whom they had only met just yesterday.

They talked and debated freely, sharing their latest insights and fresh discoveries.

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Halfway through the gathering, Maupassant cautiously asked, “Is Mr. Hippolyte Tenardier not coming today?”

Flaubert looked puzzled, wondering why his student would ask that, since Maupassant had always disliked the old pedant. Yet he answered, “Mr. Tenardier caught a cold and even took leave from the academy.”

Maupassant breathed a sigh of relief, showing a pleased expression as he stood: “This week, I met a student at the Sorbonne named Léonard Sorel, from the provinces, dirt poor, wearing a coat worn shiny at the elbows, commuting by public coach, living in what is said to be the foul Tenth Arrondissement…”

Flaubert: “Hmm?”

Zola: “That…”

Others: “Oh?…”

Two days later, at the weekly Tuesday evening ‘Naturalists’ meeting hosted by Mr. Charpentier—

Maupassant rose again: “Do you all know, at the Sorbonne there is a student named Léonard Sorel, from the provinces, dirt poor, wearing a coat shiny at the elbows, commuting by public coach, living in the foul Tenth Arrondissement…”

…

Within less than a week, the cultural circles of Paris had a vague awareness of “a provincial student named Léonard at the Sorbonne, dirt poor, wearing a coat shiny at the elbows, commuting by public coach, living in the foul Tenth Arrondissement…”

What he actually did was somewhat forgotten.

After all, each salon lasted at least four or five hours, with endless discussions of characters, works, events, and topics; people only remembered the key points.

And the “dirt poor” Léonard now bore both joy and sorrow in his heart.