Everyone at the school gate was stunned by Lionel's words, followed by a tsunami of laughter.
This irony, not new in the 21st century, had the effect of a bomb thrown into a crowd in the 19th century, making almost everyone who heard it laugh like mad.
Even the coachmen, disregarding their masters' decorum, couldn't help but laugh, resulting in several horses getting their hooves tangled and nearly colliding.
It wasn't until a booming voice rang out that everyone reined in their smiles:
"This is the Sorbonne! What on earth do you think you're doing!"
Because the speaker was none other than the Dean of the Sorbonne, the renowned classical literature scholar, Latin and Greek literature expert, Henri Pataille.
He was a stern old man with a high, shiny forehead and gleaming white temples, standing beside his carriage, scolding the crowd.
As Dean and scholar, his annual income exceeded 50,000 francs, not including the produce from his farm and wine cellars.
Thus, he rode in a four-seat Berlin-type carriage pulled by two horses, with a black walnut carriage body, leather seats, all the brass fittings gleaming brightly, and the bells simply gold-plated.
Everyone quickly scattered like birds and beasts, rushing into classrooms at the sound of the bell.
Lionel and Albert also wanted to leave but were stopped by Henri Pataille:
"Albert, Lionel, both of you, come to my office after class."
Henri Pataille was not only the Dean but also in charge of classical literature courses in the Faculty of Arts, so he recognized both of them.
Upon hearing this, the two could only respond sheepishly, with bowed heads:
"Yes, Mr. Dean!"
Once in the classroom, neither of them had any interest in listening to the lecture—especially Albert, who sometimes hung his head and shook it, and at other times looked at Lionel.
His face was constantly changing, sometimes fierce, sometimes dejected.
Lionel ignored Albert, but he couldn't absorb any of the content either, to the point that the professor reminded him twice not to daydream:
"Léon, you bumpkin from the Alps, you have no right to stare blankly in this sacred classroom!"
Well, in 19th-century universities, this was hardly considered "personal attack," nor would any student complain to the teacher because of it.
Over the past two days, facing Albert's bullying, Lionel had firmly fought back—not only because he couldn't stand being treated that way, but also because, after carefully sorting through the original owner's memories, he discovered a crucial point:
Albert de Rohan, although a noble scion, was strong on the outside but weak within, not as powerful as he appeared.
His father, Viscount Edmond de Rohan, was a staunch "Royalist" stalwart, once holding the important position of Deputy Minister in the Ministry of Finance under the MacMahon government.
However, with the Republican party's landslide victory in the new Senate elections last January, President MacMahon resigned, and the French Republic was fully established.
The "Royalists" subsequently fell from power.
In other words, the Rohan family had lost its political influence.
Viscount Edmond even left Paris, lying low in his estate in Burgundy to avoid being targeted by the newly powerful Republicans, who were eager for wealth.
Albert was not the eldest son of the family; he had two older brothers and two older sisters above him.
Not only did he not have a share in the titles (which were not recognized under the Republic anyway), but his inheritance would also be extremely limited.
Therefore, he could only ride a relatively cheap light carriage like a "Buggy," rather than a more luxurious and respectable carriage like a "Coupe" or "Cabriolet."
The reason he seemed so ostentatious was not only because he was used to being arrogant when his family was in power, but also, to some extent, a form of self-preservation—after all, at the Sorbonne, there were now plenty of people with stronger backgrounds and more prestige than him.
He needed to show everyone that even though his family had moved away from the center of power, they still possessed formidable strength.
This could be seen from his primary target of bullying—Lionel, the bumpkin bookworm from the Alps.
He didn't have the confidence to bully anyone else!
Moreover, the timing when he started bullying Lionel was also very interesting—it was precisely after his father was ousted from the Ministry of Finance that Albert suddenly shifted from confronting everyone he disliked to targeting Lionel and other poor students.
Clearly, he was using these "vulnerable groups" to establish his authority!
The original owner of Lionel's body had a proud, cowardly, self-pitying, overambitious but untalented personality, and was inexplicably bullied by him for over a year at the Sorbonne.
Who was Zhang Chaohua, now occupying his body?
He was a seasoned literati who had read the famous writer Zhang Chao's celebrated work "A Youth Like You" since childhood.
How could he not understand the outwardly fierce but inwardly weak nature of such bullies?
Now that even Albert's Viscount father was keeping a low profile, he didn't believe Albert could really do anything to him.
After all, although he came from a family of minor provincial civil servants, being able to study at the Sorbonne meant he had one foot in the door of France's "quasi-elite class."
If anything were to happen to Lionel, the Rohan family would likely be turned upside down by the scent-seeking Republican new money.
This was the source of Lionel's confidence.
Albert's behavior also confirmed his guess—he should be even more anxious than himself now.
Once their parents were "called in," Lionel's father was far away in the Alps, at most he would send an apology letter; Albert's father would probably cut this youngest son's expenses.
Then he might not even be able to ride a "Buggy"...
While Lionel and Albert were "each harboring their own thoughts," Lionel's submission letter had already been placed on the desk of Gabriel Marreil, the owner of Le Charivari newspaper, thanks to Paris's efficient "city postal" system.
As the newspaper owner, editor-in-chief, and primary columnist, he had, through his keen market intuition, unscrupulous writing style, and all-out marketing tactics, made Le Charivari the top among all cheap tabloids, selling 120,000 copies per issue in Paris alone.
Le Charivari was a thorn in the side of all decent gentlemen in France, and the Church had repeatedly applied for its prohibition.
According to a certain priest keen on updating his "black list," "one glance is equal to signing a contract with Satan to sell your soul!"
But thanks to Gabriel's immense connections and smooth dealings, Le Charivari always managed to turn danger into safety.
Usually, it was just "suspended for rectification" for a few days, and then quickly "back on track"!
Gabriel read hundreds of submission letters every day, most of which he only glanced at before throwing them into the wastebasket beside him.
The envelope signed "An Honest Parisian" was roughly torn open by him.
Two pages of manuscript paper were pulled out.
Gabriel first casually glanced at them, then his eyes widened as if he had discovered a great treasure.
After he finished reading the two pages, Gabriel slumped into his office chair.
After a while, he shouted,
"Pierre, you damned lazy donkey, get in here now!"
(End of Chapter)
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