Chapter 42 This is the debt owed by the whole of France!(Please give me a vote and power stone please!)
Ernest Renan stood up in a rage, pointing at Lionel, his voice trembling: "You sewer rat, you bumpkin from the Alps... how dare you... how dare you..."
Gaston Boissier, seeing that he was about to say something that would disgrace Sorbonne in front of Victor Hugo, quickly interrupted: "Professor Renan, mind your manners! Let Lionel finish what he has to say first."
Then he turned to Lionel: "Mr. Sorel, please do not forget your manners!"
He also had a massive headache. For a hundred years, France had wavered between monarchy and republic multiple times, and many ideas could not be eradicated in a short time.
Ernest Renan was undoubtedly a first-rate Middle Eastern linguist, a positivist philosopher, and an excellent writer, but also a stubborn individual who hoped for the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.
Perhaps only when this generation, and even their next generation, had all passed away, would such thoughts be rooted out from the land of France.
Lionel nodded slightly to Gaston Boissier: "Very well, Professor Boissier. I will now give Professor Renan the answer to that question—"
As Lionel spoke, he left the area where his chair was placed and moved to the center of the room, directly facing the conference table, and began his answer in an even colder tone:
"Professor Renan, you asked about observation. Yes, I was indeed a 'bookworm' holed up in my study in the Alps. But I came to Paris, and then I lived in the Eleventh District, that Eleventh District you might never set foot in.
Those cheap taverns and workers' cafes in the Eleventh District, aren't they my 'Edelweiss Tavern'? During my free time from studies, to save money, I also ate in even cheaper and noisier small eateries.
I observed those workers, apprentices, and down-and-out artists. I watched how they bought wine with their few copper coins, how they carefully watched the boss pour the wine, and how they argued over a plate of cheap side dishes.
Their caution, their destitution, their defense of the smallest rights—in this regard, there was no difference whether in Paris or in the Alps—of course, you will never set foot in these small taverns either."
Two consecutive "you will never set foot in" made Ernest Renan's face flush red, but he could not refute it.
He came from a privileged background; although not an aristocratic family, his father had served as a court official for Louis XVIII and he had lived his entire life in a detached house in the First District of Paris, so he naturally would not visit the cheap taverns and cafes Lionel spoke of.
Lionel's statement was not over; instead, it grew increasingly stern: "As for the old guard... over these past few decades, have there not been countless old men on the streets of Paris, wearing faded old military uniforms, with 'St. Helena Medals' pinned to their chests, selling matches or trinkets in the cold wind?
If, in the past years, you had condescended to move your noble steps to the Luxembourg Gardens, you would have seen an old man lying on a peeling bench, muttering about the cannons of Jena.
From Paris to the Alps, such old men were once everywhere; they were the seeds of the 'old guard' in my heart. Literary truth, Professor, is not merely measured by treading every inch of land with one's feet! It lies more in the insight of the soul!
The details of those 'short-jacket wearers,' I can take you all to see right now; but the soul of the old guard is already groaning and withering away in corners you will never notice."
Lionel's gaze was piercing, making Ernest Renan afraid to meet his eyes.
Lionel concluded: "Imagination? It is responsible for forging these observations of mine into a living, breathing whole—the old guard! Borrowing? No, Professor, this is a gift life has bestowed upon me, coupled with the eyes and heart a writer should possess."
Ernest Renan fell silent upon hearing this; what Lionel spoke of was indeed an area he had never ventured into.
He could not deny the existence of what Lionel said, but he equally could not tolerate a humble commoner daring to offend him in such a way.
Ernest Renan quickly found a "flaw" in Lionel's words and sneered: "That sounds good, Mr. Sorel. But the 'honor of the Imperial Guard' and the 'Long Live the Emperor' slogans that the old guard in your writing repeatedly emphasizes, as well as the tattered military uniform he insists on wearing.
Don't forget, the current France is a Republic! You write such a character, immersed in past glory, out of step with reality, and make him the protagonist of a tragedy—oh, my goodness, are you a 'Bonapartist' sympathizer? Or, are you dissatisfied with the current state of the Republic?"
As soon as this question was posed, the professors immediately fell into an uproar, and Paul Janet even stood up directly: "This is not within the scope of today's inquiry, Lionel, you don't have to answer."
Even Victor Hugo frowned.
In today's era, with the Republic largely stable, political stance actually had little impact on those who had achieved success—just as Ernest Renan was an open supporter of the Bourbon monarchy, yet could still maintain his standing in academia through his scholarship.
But for a fledgling young man, it was a matter of great importance for his future. In an era where everyone had clear labels, if you put on the wrong one, it meant being ostracized by the mainstream.
Gaston Boissier also said: "Political stance is irrelevant to the subject of this inquiry, Lionel, you may choose not to answer."
Ernest Renan chuckled and sat down—he didn't actually care whether Lionel answered the question or not; in a sense, it was better if Lionel didn't answer.
This way, he could plant a seed in everyone's minds: "Lionel Sorel is a 'Bonapartist' and 'opposes the Republic.'"
Unexpectedly, Lionel calmly declined the kind intentions of Paul Janet and Gaston Boissier: "Thank you both, but I can answer this question."
He scanned the Sorbonne professors and Victor Hugo present, then began: "Professor Boissier, Mr. Victor Hugo, professors. What the old guard upholds is not a specific political system—be it an empire or a kingdom.
What he upholds is a 'promised honor' and a 'betrayed loyalty.' He represents all individual lives exploited, consumed, and ultimately ruthlessly abandoned by grand historical narratives."
Lionel's tone became deep, imbued with a tragic fervor, as if he had transformed into that "old guard," moving everyone present: "After Waterloo, the Bourbon monarchy abandoned him; the farce of the Empire's restoration had nothing to do with him; what can he expect from the current Republic?
His military uniform is his only remaining proof of self-identity; his slogans are the faint candlelight that keeps his spirit from completely collapsing.
I write of his stubbornness, his disconnect from the times, his tragedy, not to evoke nostalgia for the old regime, but to pose a question—
When a regime, a movement, an era ends, what of the dignity of the ordinary people who once burned their lives and offered their loyalty for it? What is their ultimate fate? Does society have a responsibility to remember them, rather than merely mock or forget them?
This is not about Bonapartism or Republicanism, Professor Renan, this is about human dignity, about historical debt, about the sacrifice and forgetting of small individuals that can happen in any era, under any system.
The tragedy of the old guard is my lament for all 'used and discarded' individual fates. This lament is an echo I hear from the spirit of 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity' of our great Republic of France.
Esteemed Professor Ernest Renan, have you not heard this echo?"
Ernest Renan was speechless, abruptly stood up from his seat, grabbed his cane, and left the editorial office without a word.
As the 'bang' of the closing door dissipated into the air, the Sorbonne's journal editorial office fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood in the fireplace, torn apart by the fierce flames.
Lionel also did not sit down, but remained standing tall.
For two months, the suppression and anger caused by financial hardship, family changes, and class disparity... finally, at this moment, through this inquiry, and through Ernest Renan's malicious questions, were completely unleashed.
In the suffocating silence, someone suddenly began to clap slowly, one clap, then another, then another.
Everyone's gaze turned to the source of the applause, which was Victor Hugo, sitting at the head of the conference table. His deep gray eyes shimmered with a hint of moisture, and his old, wrinkled hands clapped slowly and forcefully, the applause muffled but echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
"...Debt. Historical debt. Mr. Sorel, you used that word. Yes, society owes a debt. A debt to those who are forgotten, crushed, and deprived of their voices."
Victor Hugo stood up, his burly but already stooping frame casting a huge shadow that enveloped the entire table in front of him.