Walking through Rue Oberkampf in the 11th arrondissement in the morning fog was not a pleasant experience.
With no sewers, the residents here cleared the accumulated overnight waste in a manner not dissimilar to the Middle Ages.
Lionel had to constantly watch his head and feet to avoid his only wool coat and leather shoes being ruined by uncouth neighbors.
Fortunately, it was January, and the cold weather prevented the spread of odors, so at least he didn't have to deliberately hold his breath.
He tried to walk in the middle of the road, clumsily dodging carriages that occasionally came hurtling towards him.
Amidst the coachmen's angry shouts, he hurried to the public carriage stop at the intersection with Market Street.
Seeing the other passengers also waiting there, Lionel knew he hadn't missed the carriage, and he let out a sigh of relief.
Just then, the bells of Sainte-Marguerite Church chimed in the distance, and he then knew the time more accurately: 8:30 AM.
Although he had been reborn for over two weeks, Zhang Chaohua—now Lionel Sorel—still wasn't accustomed to telling the approximate time by observing the sun's altitude and the direction of street shadows.
It was only because the original owner of this body had pawned his only pocket watch before Lionel's rebirth, getting 90 francs in return, which he now relied on for survival.
Soon after, the dense sound of hooves approached from afar—first the crisp clatter on stones, then the dull thud on mud—and then a large four-wheeled carriage pulled by two draft horses appeared from around the corner.
Lionel immediately saw the jostling heads inside the carriage, so before the coach had even come to a complete stop, he swung his long leg onto the door's running board, then reached out to grip a rafter at the edge of the window, arching his body sideways to make space for the conductor to open the door.
"You son of a whore!"
"You bag of shit, get down from there!"
"Sewer rat!"
The curses from the other passengers didn't make Lionel's grip loosen in the slightest; as long as he was "part of" the carriage, no one would dare physically pull him down.
Once the door opened, he nimbly swung himself, darting into the carriage like a monkey, and tossed a copper coin worth 5 sous to the conductor.
"Good morning, Mr. Martin!"
"Good morning, Mr. Sorel!"
After a brief exchange of greetings, Lionel found the last empty seat at the rear of the carriage and sat down.
This small space was already packed with people; the hard wooden seats were just big enough to fit a medium-sized posterior, and arms had to be squeezed together with the person next to them.
The conductor, Martin, closed the door and shook the bell hanging on it twice.
Hearing the signal, the coachman gave a flick of his reins, and the two draft horses resumed their heavy pace, pulling the huge carriage, laden with 24 people, forward along Boulevard de la République.
Lionel looked out the window.
The scenery along the way quickly transitioned from the Gothic-style Saint-Ambroise Church to the bustling and exceptionally noisy Place de la République;
Then, along Boulevard Saint-Martin, through the Porte Saint-Martin, the silhouette of the city hall, currently under reconstruction, became visible…
Even though he had been reborn into this body for two weeks and had inherited most of the original owner's memories, he still couldn't help but marvel at this 19th-century European capital.
In 1879, its elegance, solemnity, and splendor… seemed almost unreal for a city—though, of course, it was better not to think of the 11th arrondissement where he lived at that moment.
After the Panthéon flashed past his gaze, the iconic Baroque dome and cross of the Sorbonne University soon appeared before his eyes.
Lionel's destination had arrived—five minutes later than usual.
Today was January 7th, the first day of term after the Christmas holidays.
The giant clock beneath the dome showed two minutes until 9 o'clock.
Lionel dared not delay; after jumping off the carriage, he strode with long legs towards the Faculty of Letters.
Lionel's boots clattered crisply, yet with a hint of haste, on the smooth flagstones.
He had no time to admire the bas-reliefs of scholars from various eras embedded in the walls; he had only one thought in mind:
To try and make it to the nine o'clock lecture on "The Origins and Development of French Literature."
The professor lecturing this course, Hippolyte Taine, an academician of the Académie française, was known for his rigorous and rigid nature, and his strong dislike for tardiness.
It was said that last year, two unfortunate students were mocked by him for an entire semester for being late on the first day of term.
As he rushed up the last few steps, Lionel could already hear Professor Taine's characteristic nasal and modulated voice emanating from behind the heavy oak door of the lecture hall.
"Damn it, has class started early?"
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the panting from his frantic run, and gently pushed the door open.
The door hinge let out a slight creak, which sounded particularly grating in the pause of the professor's speech.
All eyes in the classroom turned to Lionel.
Among those gazes were curiosity, indifference, but more so, a condescending scrutiny and undisguised disdain.
Professor Taine, wearing a black robe and with graying hair, pushed his exquisite crystal spectacles up his nose.
"Aha! Look who it is? Our diligent gravedigger has finally deigned to leave his warm bed? Mr. Sorel, please, come in, come in!"
A suppressed ripple of laughter broke out in the classroom, especially among the well-dressed, elegant students.
Most of them came from wealthy Parisian families, or were the sons of provincial aristocrats and rich merchants, exuding a faint scent of cologne, their new coats crisp, their leather shoes gleaming.
Lionel bowed to Professor Taine.
"My apologies, Professor, the public carriage was delayed."
Professor Taine's lips curled slightly.
"A public carriage? What a mode of transport rich in 'common wisdom'! It seems Mr. Sorel is well-versed in Parisian street life?
Now, don't stand like a pillar at the doorway, find a seat.
I hope you haven't missed too much of the discourse on the noble origins of French literature, though that might not be 'common' enough for you."
Lionel lowered his gaze, trying hard to control his emotions—he had to constantly remind himself that this was the Sorbonne in 1879, not Yenching University in 2025.
In this era, the chasm of class was as clear as the division between the banks of the Seine.
From students to professors, no one deliberately concealed their disdain.
The back rows were already full; only the front area near the rostrum had a few scattered empty seats—these were the "firing line" positions that wealthy students deliberately avoided, too close to the professor, with too high a risk of being questioned.
Lionel had no choice but to bite the bullet and, under the scrutiny of countless eyes, quickly walk towards the front row.
As soon as he sat in an empty seat, a deliberately suppressed snicker came from the person next to him.
It was a tall, handsome young man with arrogant eyes, wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue velvet coat, with delicate lace trim peeking out from the cuffs, and a vibrant red carnation tucked into his breast pocket.
He nonchalantly flicked away non-existent dust from his coat with his fingers, leaning slightly to the other side, as if Lionel carried some sort of plague.
"Albert de Rohan."
The name immediately surfaced in Lionel's mind.
The original owner's memories told him that this was a notorious troublemaker in the Faculty of Letters, a scion from an ancient aristocratic family, who reveled in being harsh and ostracizing commoner students.
"Look at that outfit,"
Albert said in a low voice, audible only to those nearby, with the lazy drawl typical of aristocrats.
"Is that the new fashion trend from Rue Oberkampf? Or is it a tribute to the wretched Jean Valjean from Mr. Hugo's pen?"
Lionel didn't even glance at Albert, his eyes fixed on Professor Taine who was lecturing, but his mouth quietly delivered his retort:
"And you, Albert? Is that a tribute to Rastignac?"
Rastignac is one of the characters in Balzac's novels Le Père Goriot and La Comédie humaine.
Born into a declining aristocratic family, he abandons all morality and conscience, becoming devoid of humanity in his pursuit of success.
Albert was stunned, his pale cheeks immediately flushing.
He couldn't understand why Lionel, who was usually so timid, dared to retort.
But it was now the Republic, and he didn't have the courage to cause a scene in an academician's class.
He could only glare at Lionel:
"You just wait…"
"…Thus, we can see that the classical rules established by Corneille and Racine are the unshakeable cornerstones of the edifice of French literature.
These so-called 'new trends' are nothing but grandstanding foam…"
Professor Taine gestured with his arm, his voice impassioned.
For Lionel, who in his previous life had been a young lecturer in the Chinese Department at Yenching University, this content was old-fashioned and one-sided, full of almost fanatical reverence for classicism and implicit disparagement of Symbolist pioneers like Baudelaire.
Just then, Professor Taine's gaze swept over the front row again, seemingly looking for a 'typical' example to support his point, or perhaps just wanting to continue chastising the late commoner student.
His eyes finally settled on Lionel.
"Mr. Sorel!"
Professor Taine's voice carried an unrefusable tone.
"Since you 'love' our literary history so much, please explain your understanding of the principle of the 'Three Unities' as proposed by Boileau in L'Art poétique, and specifically how it is embodied in Racine's tragedy Phèdre?
Specifically, how does the unity of time serve the dramatic conflict?"
The entire classroom fell silent instantly, all eyes once again focusing on Lionel.
Albert de Rohan and his friends in the front row wore smug, schadenfreude-filled smiles, clearly anticipating a spectacle.
The 'Three Unities' refer to the principle that a play's plot, time, and place must remain consistent: meaning the play's plot should have only one storyline, the action takes place in a single location, and the events unfold within one day.
Phèdre is a classicist tragedy written by French playwright Jean Racine, adapted from an ancient Greek mythological story.
In the play, Phèdre, wife of Theseus, King of Athens, falls into a forbidden love for her stepson, Hippolytus.
When Theseus is rumored to be dead, Phèdre confesses her love to Hippolytus, but is rejected.
Theseus unexpectedly returns, and Phèdre falsely claims that Hippolytus attempted to seduce her.
Theseus furiously curses his son, leading to Hippolytus's death by a sea monster.
Finally, Phèdre, learning the truth, commits suicide in despair.
In the end, Theseus discovers Phèdre's true repentance and is overwhelmed with grief.
This question wasn't particularly tricky, but for someone on the first day of term, having just been humiliated, and having missed part of the explanation due to being late, being suddenly called upon to elaborate in detail was undoubtedly a form of deliberate provocation.
In the last row of the classroom, a young man, slightly older than the other students, raised his head and looked at Lionel with interest.
(End of Chapter)
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