After "the decadent city" swept through Paris's underground book market with astonishing speed and momentum, greatly enriching the nightlife of Parisian gentlemen, a novel published prominently in Le Petit Parisien also caused quite a stir.
However, the title was not simply "the old guard," but was modified to—
"Sorbonne Talent Shakes the Literary World: 'the old guard—A Lament for a Forgotten Hero'"
It even had a long, poignant subtitle—
"He once fought under the Emperor's eagle banner, but now he crawls amidst the ridicule of taverns…"
For Le Petit Parisien's vast readership, primarily composed of small shopkeepers, workers, artisans, and minor civil servants, the name "Sorbonne" itself carried a sense of distance.
It was a place where gentlemen, young masters, and young ladies were gilded, another world entirely.
However, phrases like "forgotten hero," "Emperor's eagle banner," and "crawls amidst ridicule" dangled like wriggling fat earthworms on a fishhook, captivating the hearts of these "fish."
—
In a tailor's workshop in Paris, under the yellowish-white glow of gas lamps, a dozen skilled masters were toiling diligently.
Pieces of fabric were cut into various shapes and then fed into different sewing machines, where, under nimble hands, they were stitched into garments.
At the entrance of the workshop sat a middle-aged man with a scarred face and tattered clothes; the sleeve of his right arm was empty, its cuff tucked into his waistband.
He used his remaining left hand to flip through a copy of Le Petit Parisien and read aloud the contents of the newspaper in a hoarse voice:
"After All Saints' Day (November 1st), the mountain winds from the Alps grew colder by the day, signaling the approach of late autumn; I spent my days by the fireplace, needing to wear a thick overcoat.
One afternoon, with no customers, I sat with my eyes closed.
Suddenly, I heard a voice, 'A glass of wine.' Although very soft, the voice was familiar.
Looking around, there was no one.
I stood up and glanced outside; the old guard was sitting under the bar, facing the steps.
…
The boss, as usual, smiled and said to him, 'Old guard, you've stolen something again!' But this time, he didn't argue much, only saying, 'Don't mock!'
'Mock? If you didn't steal, how did you break your leg?' the old guard whispered, 'Fell, fell, fell…' His eyes seemed to plead with the boss not to bring it up again.
…
Soon after, he finished his wine and, amidst the laughter and chatter of others, slowly shuffled out the door with his hand."
The novel was not yet finished when the tailors heard the man reading the newspaper begin to sob, his tears hitting the paper with a "tap-tap" sound.
"Hey, Jacques, what's wrong? Have you finished the novel?" a tailor asked, stopping his work.
The man quickly wiped his eyes and apologized to everyone: "Sorry, everyone, I was just thinking of myself." He then glanced at his right side.
"Are you talking about the 'old guard' in the novel? Don't overthink it, Jacques, Bourbon, Republic, Empire… they're all the same, really," another tailor spoke up.
He left his sewing machine and came to Jacques, patting his shoulder: "You're very lucky, aren't you? Although you lost your hand at Sedan, at least you survived.
Think of your comrades."
Jacques nodded and, instead of reading the last paragraph of the novel, turned to another page and began reading a different news article:
"Recently, Baroness Alexeievna from Russia purchased an estate worth 700,000 francs on Montmartre Hill in Paris, including a small 18th-century castle, two farmhouses, and a small lake.
According to informed sources, Baroness Alexeievna plans to reside permanently in Paris to escape her rigid and boring husband in Moscow.
According to another informed source, the estate not only has hundreds of male and female servants attending to the Baroness's daily needs but also a handsome Parisian talent who accompanies her day and night…"
The tailors laughed; this was Paris, this was France!
—
In a noisy workers' tavern on Saint-Antoine Street, smoke filled the air, and glasses clinked.
A bearded man, puffing on a pipe, loudly read the final paragraph:
"From then on, the old guard was not seen for a long time.
By Christmas, the boss took down the blackboard and said, 'the old guard still owes nineteen sous!' By Easter the following year, he again said, 'the old guard still owes nineteen sous!' But by Pentecost, nothing was said, and by Christmas again, he was not seen.
I have not seen him since—it is likely the old guard has indeed died."
After a brief silence in the tavern, a man with a "rosy nose" slammed his glass onto the greasy wooden table: "Damn it! Isn't that old Pierre? The one on the corner!
Came back from Metz, froze to death in a ditch last winter! Exactly the same!"
Several drinking companions nearby nodded, some cursing: "Damn this world! Should people who shed blood for France end up like this?"
At this point, another person spoke: "Easy to say—would you be willing if the parliament wanted to raise taxes to give pensions to veterans?"
Everyone else fell silent for a moment.
The speaker sneered: "Patriotism is fine, but don't touch my wallet! Haha!"
Everyone laughed again, shouting in unison: "Patriotism is fine, but don't touch my wallet!"
The tavern was filled with cheerful air!
—
In the small square in front of Les Invalides (the "Parisian Home for Disabled Veterans," built in 1670 by the Sun King Louis XIV) in Paris, several old veterans, adorned with medals and missing limbs, sat in a circle.
A one-eyed veteran was reading "the old guard" from Le Petit Parisien.
Another veteran in a wheelchair, after hearing it read, unconsciously rubbed his empty trouser leg with one hand and said in a hoarse voice: "'Long live France,' 'Long live the Emperor'… How many years since I've heard anyone shout that.
We… we are not thieves."
His tone was filled with sorrow and offended dignity.
Another one-armed veteran scoffed: "Brother, you're not the Imperial Guard.
Those old geezers have long gone to meet their Emperor. The newspaper is writing nonsense!
How could the gentlemen of the Imperial Guard steal things? Weren't they the proudest?" He finished with a strange laugh.
Another blind veteran mocked himself: "Wake up! The Empire is long gone! The dynasty is finished! Look at us?
Can medals be eaten? This story… it's well written, we are all tools of the important people, tools thrown into the trash after use!"
The veteran in the wheelchair did not care about these taunts but murmured to himself: "At least someone still remembers us… even if it's in this way."
—
A neighborhood grocery store.
The proprietress, weighing sugar for a customer, chatted with a regular: "Tsk, tsk, this Sorbonne student has a hard heart!
He writes so coldly. It's wrong for that old fellow to steal, but…
Alas, given his state, who could bear to laugh at him? That young shop assistant is heartless too!"
The customer agreed: "Exactly! But it's true, though; the tavern diluting the wine, customers watching them, it's spot on!
This author is young, but his eyes are sharp!"
The boss lazily pointed to the small blackboard for credit accounts hanging in his shop: "the old guard didn't default, better than some of the defaulters now!"
A customer, feeling guilty, quickly left with his purchases, dropping a remark: "Hmph, what's the use of being strong? Didn't he end up with a broken leg?
If you ask me, when people get old, they should accept their fate and not cause trouble…"
The proprietress finally concluded: "The story is good, but it's too unlucky.
It leaves a heavy feeling in my heart."
Then she refolded the newspaper, preparing to use it to wrap fish when she went shopping for groceries later.
—
In a café named "The Debaters" in the 7th arrondissement.
Several young people waved newspapers, emotionally exclaiming: "See? This is the good work done by the Bourbon dogs!
Disbanding the army, monitoring veterans! Long live the Republic! Settle accounts with those bastards!"
However, an old gentleman disagreed, tapping his cane on the floor: "Hmph, Le Petit Parisien publishes this?
It's ill-intentioned! This is inciting hatred against the old era! Slandering His Majesty's government!"
A middle-aged man wearing a cap said coldly: "This only proves that the Republic has not done enough! A better veteran pension system must be established!"
Immediately, someone retorted: "Oh, come on! This is the debt of the previous dynasty! It's the mess Napoleon left after dragging France into the quagmire of war!
Why should the Republic pay for it?"
"This is merely the lament of Bonapartism!"
"Wrong, this exposes the Republic's indifference!"
The owner of "The Debaters" café watched all this with a smile, showing no intention of intervening.
—
For the readers of Le Petit Parisien, they did not care about the literary value of "the old guard," nor did they see the artistic path that Flaubert envisioned as the future of the novel.
What they cared about were the parts of the novel that resonated with them or disgusted them.
But they all remembered a name—"Lionel Sorel," a university student from the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts, who wrote this widely discussed masterpiece…
"Bang!" Albert Gigo, the Chief of the Paris Police, threw this issue of Le Petit Parisien onto the table, pointing his finger at the title "the old guard" and the author Lionel Sorel's name.
He angrily said to the man with a sly grin on the other side of the table, "Mr. Gabriel, why can't your The Clamor publish some works by poor, upright, and talented young people like Lionel Sorel?
'the decadent city'… My goodness, do you really want to go to court?"