Chapter 32: The Source of Maupassant’s Inspiration

Just as Professor Taine was furiously denouncing Lionel for spreading rumors that damaged his reputation—

"Achoo... achoo... achoo..." Maupassant awoke on a bed open on three sides, sneezing repeatedly.

He lifted his head to see the mirror on the canopy, identical to the bed below, and was immediately reminded of the night’s debauchery, his mouth turning dry.

He pushed aside a pale, fair arm draped over his chest, threw back 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.

Sunlight streamed in through the shutters, mingling with the gaslight above the mantelpiece. Even with sight in only his right eye, he could clearly see the bronze animal figurines on the ledge, including a statue of the goddess of the harvest in the center.

Beside the massive bed stood various irregularly shaped, undulating chaise longues and sofas. In the corner against the wall was a marble-topped vanity, where exquisite crystal bottles refracted brilliant light.

The room was saturated with a sweet, seductive, and heavy fragrance that made one want to drown in this lap of luxury and never leave.

Watching the woman still in a deep slumber on the bed, Maupassant smacked his lips, a single thought crossing his mind: "The pleasures of a high-class courtesan are truly something else!"

Of course, they had no faults other than being expensive.

The entire night of revelry, food, drink, and the night of passion had cost him a full 80 francs, emptying his pockets completely.

However, considering this was his last "day of freedom" before taking up his post at the Ministry of Education, he felt the money was well spent.

Aside from the inexplicable sneezing fit that forced him to wake up early, the experience was perfection—far better than those bumpkins back in Normandy.

He reached into the pocket of his coat hanging on a rack, pulled out a small bottle, opened the cap, poured out a few pills, and swallowed them with a gulp of wine.

These pills contained four grams of mercury and thirty grams of potassium iodide, used to treat his syphilis.

Yet, Maupassant felt no sorrow over this. In his heart, syphilis was a noble disease, one contracted by kings and heroes like Francis I; he felt proud to have contracted it rather than some bourgeois ailment like gonorrhea or genital warts.

A while later, the lady on the bed stirred awake. Maupassant, already dressed, dropped the line, "I have syphilis," and walked out laughing heartily at the look of horror on her face.

He was attending the Marquise de Rambouillet's salon that evening. If he could win her favor, perhaps he could secure funding for his play, *The Betrayal of the Countess of Rouen*, to be staged at the Paris Opera.

***

But what topic or story could he use to catch the Marquise’s attention?

The story of the poor Sorbonne student who stood up to a snobbish professor had already reached its fourth version, and it was rumored to have different variations in various salons. The Marquise had likely already heard it; it was no longer fresh.

Yet, his own recent life was utterly unremarkable, consisting of nothing but whoring—from the "beer girls" on the street for ten sous to last night’s "nightingale" that cost 80 francs. He certainly couldn't tell the Marquise he was conducting a survey on the Parisian sex trade.

However, the life story the "nightingale" told last night was indeed moving: a father addicted to gambling who lost the family fortune, a mother dying of tuberculosis, a younger brother in school needing tuition...

Though he knew she was spinning a tale, Maupassant, caught in the moment, had given her an extra 10 francs.

Wait, a younger brother in school? In the versions he had told, he hadn't mentioned the background of that poor Sorbonne student, had he?

Inspired, Maupassant grew excited, a sickly flush spreading across his face...

***

In the editorial office of the Sorbonne journal, the atmosphere was exceptionally heavy.

After all, this was an incident involving the reputation of a Sorbonne professor; no one dared to mock Taine, opting instead to offer him words of comfort.

The editor-in-chief, Professor Gaston Boissier, frowned. "Are you certain it was Lionel who spread these rumors?"

Hippolyte Taine tossed his head indignantly. "Who else would be so bored? Ha! A poor student from the Alps, academically gifted, rebelling against authority—a fine way to squeeze into high society. Henri wanting him to attend the 'Poetry Club'—I imagine some noblewoman has taken a fancy to him!"

Gaston Boissier listened without committing, feeling that his old friend and colleague was too incensed to be rational.

He looked at the manuscript on the desk with some difficulty, hesitated, and said, "If we are to reject Henri’s recommendation, we must at least provide sufficient reasons. Shall we look at this manuscript? It’s just a short story; it won't take long."

The others looked at one another, thinking this was a solution that saved face for their colleague without embarrassing the Dean.

***

Seeing no objections, Gaston Boissier picked up the manuscript and began to browse through it quickly. In his estimation, while students of the Faculty of Letters were not without talent, most were quite green. He could usually spot the problems at a glance—

[The layout of the tavern in the Alps is different from those elsewhere: there is always an L-shaped bar facing the street...]

Hmm, a traditional short-story opening, establishing the environment of the narrative. It was a tradition left behind by Balzac, allowing readers who had never been to the Alps to quickly construct the scene in their minds.

The technique wasn't novel, but to be as refined, concise, and accurate as this, without losing vividness—hardly a wasted word—was quite another matter. Had this boy been studying Flaubert?

Gaston Boissier became serious. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and brought the manuscript closer to see every word clearly.

His body language piqued the curiosity of the other editors, as it signaled that this member of the Académie Française placed great importance on the manuscript. Could Lionel Sorrel actually write well?

Gaston Boissier was already completely immersed in the world of the story. When he read the line, ["The 'Old Guard' was the only one wearing a woolen coat while standing to drink..."], he could not help but let out a soft sigh.

He knew that this brief sentence not only precisely sketched the image of the "Old Guard" but also left the reader with a sense of suspense. One could not write such a sentence without being a first-rate writer.

By the time he saw the "Old Guard" sharing his meager bar snacks with the children and eagerly trying to teach "me" four ways to dress game, Gaston Boissier was moved once again.

The "Old Guard" was no longer just a Napoleon worshiper full of bad habits, arrogance, and pedantry; he was a kind, elderly man with a gentle and warm side.

This person suddenly came alive, possessing a heavy sense of reality, as if he were one of those defeated souls one might see in any tavern.

Upon reading the final sentence of the story—[I have not seen him since—it is likely the Old Guard is indeed dead.]—Gaston Boissier finally returned to his senses. He did not comment immediately, but closed his eyes, as if savoring the complex emotions the story had stirred within him.

After opening his eyes, Gaston Boissier said earnestly to Hippolyte Taine, "Why don't you read this story yourself before making a decision?"

Hippolyte Taine looked at his old friend across the conference table in disbelief. Suddenly, he grabbed his cane from beside the chair, struck it heavily against the floor, stood up, and turned to leave the office, leaving only these words behind:

"I have already invited the great Monsieur Victor Hugo to judge the works for this issue. Let him decide whether Lionel is qualified to appear in the journal!"