The so-called "public table" originally referred to a dining arrangement where all guests and the innkeeper would sit at one large table to enjoy food during meal times.
Later, it evolved into a universally accepted dining method where, as long as one paid, they could join at any time.
It was a bit more upscale than simple restaurants where the stewed beef was like leather, impossible to cut or chew; yet simpler than establishments offering private dining areas.
It was quite suitable for Maupassant and Léonard, friends who had just met, to dine together.
It was currently noon, and the food was not as lavish as in the evening, so the meal cost was cheaper.
Nevertheless, the table was laden with roasted sausages, stewed beef, and several peculiar types of fish.
Maupassant whispered,
"If we could come in the evening, we'd get to eat their famous roasted grouse—but I already have another appointment tonight."
Léonard nodded,
"This is already very substantial!"
On the side of the table were bread baskets, a whole pot of thick soup, a large bowl of salad, salt shakers, and condiment bottles containing pepper or cinnamon powder; and of course, wines from various regions, their colors enticingly red.
Whenever a large serving platter was empty, the hostess would come over, clear it away, refill it with food, and bring it back to the table.
At the "public table," there was no need for elaborate "plating"; as long as the dishes were filled to the brim, it was enough to earn diners' loud praises for the establishment's generosity.
The four sides of the table were already packed with people: old folks, youths, intellectuals, government clerks, engineers...
Most didn't know each other, but they feasted together at the same table, wine and spittle mingled, knives and forks clattered amidst boasts, creating a joyful atmosphere.
This was vastly different from the elegant, noble "French haute cuisine" Léonard remembered, which took three or four hours to eat; it felt more like attending a banquet.
Léonard watched the condiments splash onto the warm tablecloth and breadcrumbs scattered everywhere, finding it quite amusing.
He picked up his knife and silver fork and joined the feast.
He forked a piece of tender, stewed beef rump from a platter two arms away, seasoned it with salt and pepper himself, cut off a large portion with his knife, and put it into his mouth to chew.
Instantly, the rich aroma of the meat filled his mouth, even traveling up his nose to directly "assail" his brain.
His body's primal craving for quality protein, fat, and amino acids was satisfied.
Then he ladled himself a bowl of mushroom soup and gulped it down.
His body, chilled for the entire morning, finally began to warm up.
The "hunger and cold" of the past half-month seemed to be completely redeemed at this moment.
"If I could have a meal like this every day, that would be wonderful..."
The thought had just surfaced when Léonard himself suppressed it.
He had watched Maupassant pull 8 francs from his pocket and hand it to the owner of the Prince Hotel, meaning the meal cost 4 francs per person—whereas an ordinary person's daily food expenses were no more than 1 franc.
After his rebirth, he had searched through the original owner's memories and every corner of that low attic, confirming that his entire assets amounted to only 90 francs and 35 centimes, of which 90 francs had been borrowed by mortgaging the grandfather's pocket watch before Christmas.
Last year's 900 francs had long been spent, and this year's 900 francs, despite the original owner writing several letters to urge its remittance, had yet to arrive...
Maupassant was very talkative.
In just fifteen minutes, Léonard learned that he had recently received an assignment, transferring him from the Colonial Administration Department of the Ministry of Navy to the Ministry of Education.
He was to take office next month and was currently on vacation.
That's why he had so much free time to specifically "inspect" the Sorbonne University.
Halfway through the meal, he even began discussing with a retired primary school teacher next to them whether the "Empire" was better or the current "Republic" was better.
The debate was so intense that it almost made the rather elegant conservative old man jump up and swear, but in the end, he merely left with a cold remark:
"France cannot be without an emperor!"
Then he threw down his knife and fork, wiped his lips with a napkin, and huffily left the Prince Hotel.
Maupassant, however, was flushed and beaming, not feeling the slightest guilt for having provoked a stranger.
He even continued to taunt the retreating figure:
"The only thing France cannot be without is wine, not an emperor!"
Then he drained his glass of Bordeaux.
Léonard looked somewhat speechless at the overly excited Maupassant, then tried to make himself appear more subdued...
This great writer later went mad, was confined to a mental asylum, and died prematurely at 43—it seemed there were signs.
His appetite was indeed astonishing; he ate nearly three portions of food before finally putting down his knife and fork under the innkeeper's murderous gaze.
Léonard finally understood why Maupassant had brought him to such a self-service-style "public table" to eat...
Maupassant let out a very loud burp, casually wiped his lips with a napkin, and asked Léonard,
"Why have you eaten so little?"
Léonard: "..."
The two finally left the Prince Hotel before the innkeeper completely erupted in rage.
Maupassant still seemed to want more:
"The taste here is only mediocre, far inferior to Mr. Zola's weekend lunches at home..."
He immediately felt he had let something slip and quickly stopped.
Léonard's heart twitched, instinctively wanting to press for details, but he quickly suppressed the urge, pretending not to have heard anything.
But this fleeting flicker of emotion was captured by Maupassant's keen observation, further elevating his opinion of the young man.
He pulled out a golden pocket watch and glanced at it:
"It's already 1:40, you should go back to class at the Sorbonne—but I'm curious, if you're late again this afternoon, will you still perform as well as this morning?"
This was clearly a joke.
Léonard smiled shyly:
"Thank you for lunch! I really should go back to class now—and you?"
Maupassant shook his head:
"I have other things to do this afternoon."
Léonard tactfully took off his hat and bowed to Maupassant in farewell:
"Then I wish you all the best!"
With that, he turned to leave.
Maupassant was somewhat taken aback, hesitated for a moment, but ultimately said nothing, watching Léonard disappear around the street corner with hurried steps.
The afternoon lesson was tedious Latin; the professor lectured verbatim, and the students were drowsy—in this era, the original Latin works of the Homers were already outdated; only freaks and bookworms were interested.
Yet, Léonard, attending his first Latin class, listened with great interest...
All classes concluded at 5 PM.
A greatly enriched Léonard chose not to take a public carriage but walked for nearly an hour to return to his apartment on Aubercamp Street in the 11th arrondissement, managed by the widowed Madame Martin.
As soon as he entered, he was called by Madame Martin.
The ill-tempered, even worse-cooking old woman poked her white-haired head out from the ground-floor living room and said in a sharp, seemingly always sarcastic voice:
"Well, isn't it our young master Sorel? Your family sent you a letter."
With that, she tossed an envelope at Léonard's feet—she would not bother with pleasantries for this provincial man who often delayed his rent.
Léonard could only helplessly bend down to pick up the envelope.
As he climbed the stairs, he tore it open, his heart filled with joy:
"My living expenses have finally arrived..."
However, the first line of the letter left him dumbfounded:
"Dear Léon: You should just drop out..."
(End of Chapter)
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