As the weekend drew near, Paris was also preparing for the last social event before Easter—the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts' "Poetry Society."
This tradition, inherited from ancient Greece, would attract hundreds of nobles, wealthy merchants, ladies, and socialites... The Sorbonne campus would become a joyous celebration.
Within a month after each "Poetry Society," the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts would receive donations ranging from hundreds of thousands to even millions of francs.
The entire faculty's research project funding and professors' allowances for the year depended on the success of the Poetry Society!
At the same time, the Sorbonne's Poetry Society was generally considered a signal for the start of Paris's "social season."
Before the height of summer in July, when everyone would go to seaside or forest villas to escape the heat, Paris would have a full three months of social revelry—balls, poetry societies, salons, plays... enough to make the Seine River boil.
However, when Lionel first heard this, his mind was filled only with the deep, magnetic voice of teacher Zhao Zhongxiang: "Spring has arrived, everything is recovering, and it's mating season for animals again..."
Originally, he was supposed to be the "flower queen"... ah, bah... the "center of attention" at this year's "Poetry Society."
Lionel himself was not averse to this—it was a tradition that foreign universities had followed for hundreds of years. He had participated in such events when he went to America for academic exchanges in his previous life.
Writers and artists of this era, in addition to having solid works, also relied heavily on "art patrons," which was also a tradition from the Renaissance.
Lorenzo de' Medici's patronage of Da Vinci; Paul Durand-Ruel's patronage of Monet; Madame Hanska and Evelina Rzewuska's patronage of Balzac...
Although he now had some fame with "the old guard," to make a lot of money, he had to publish a full-length novel or have a play staged. Very few booksellers and theaters were willing to take a risk on a newcomer.
Even the generous Charpentier was the same—dedicating a dozen pages in his magazine to an admired writer was completely different from spending thousands or tens of thousands of francs to publish that person's book.
So, if there was a suitable patron at the "Poetry Society," Lionel wouldn't mind saying some nice things to him or her.
However, Louis-Alphonse's "commodity theory" on the day of Chen Jitong's speech blocked this path—
For others, perhaps it could be dismissed; but for Lionel, a collapsed "persona" would make it difficult to get by in the literary circle, especially since he wasn't famous enough to disregard public opinion.
So, when Dean Duen approached Lionel to convey the President's wishes, he still firmly refused and returned the Ancient Greek robe the Faculty had custom-made for him.
However, Duen quickly relayed a new "oral message" from President Henri Patin—telling him to meet an esteemed guest in the school's small reception room on Thursday afternoon.
French universities typically do not schedule regular classes on Thursday afternoons, only electives and lectures, allowing students time to participate in religious doctrine classes or prepare for Sunday.
However, most students would choose to go shopping, or simply seek pleasure in the brothels around the school.
Lionel thought of President Henri Patin's previous support for him and nodded in agreement.
The small reception room was originally the small chapel of the Sorbonne Theological Seminary, mainly used for private prayer. It was not large, less than 30 square meters. Except for replacing the long benches and altar with sofas and bookshelves, everything else retained its original appearance.
This time, President Henri Patin personally brought Lionel to the small reception room. After entering, he made a brief introduction and then withdrew: "Eleanor, this is Lionel, the author of 'the old guard';
Lionel, this is Madame Rothschild, Eleanor Adélaïde de Rothschild. She has read your novel and admires it greatly..."
As the door of the small reception room gently closed, Lionel finally had the opportunity to carefully observe the noble lady whose name he had heard months ago.
At this moment, Madame Rothschild stood with her back to him, in front of a stained-glass window depicting stories of saints. Her slender figure was enveloped in a brilliant halo, like a religious painting come to life.
She wore an exquisitely tailored dark green velvet gown, with a neckline and cuffs adorned with understated yet valuable lace, outlining her graceful neck and wrists. She did not turn immediately, only slightly tilted her head, revealing a small part of an impeccably delicate profile and a strand of sun-kissed blonde hair.
Having waited for Lionel to speak for a while, Madame Rothschild finally couldn't help but speak first: "Good afternoon, Mr. Sorel, please forgive me for taking up your precious rest time. The President... seems to have some faculty matters to attend to temporarily."
Her voice carried a lazy yet clear accent, peculiar to Parisian high society, like silk gliding over velvet.
Lionel thought for a moment and decided to reply politely: "It is my honor to meet you..."
Hearing this, Madame Rothschild finally turned around slowly, allowing Lionel to see her full appearance.
She was indeed very young, looking no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with blonde hair, blue eyes, skin as white as snow, and features as perfect as a classical sculpture, with a faint smile playing on her lips.
Lionel bowed slightly: "Good afternoon, Madam!" His gaze met hers calmly, neither avoiding nor overly scrutinizing.
Madame Rothschild gracefully walked over and sat opposite Lionel: "Oh? An honor? I thought your feelings at this moment might be more... unwilling?—Please sit down! Don't be so stiff, I won't eat you!
And of course, I won't treat you as, well, 'commodity'!"
She was clearly well-informed about everything that happened at Sorbonne, with a hint of sly playfulness in her smile.
Lionel was not surprised and returned a smile: "Madam, you must know that dignity is one of the few decent coats a poor student possesses."
Madame Rothschild scrutinized Lionel: "Louis-Alphonse is a foolish boy without a brain. I originally wanted to meet you at the 'Poetry Society,' which might have been more natural... but, this is also good.
Speaking of coats, you seem a bit different from the rumors..."
She didn't dwell on that question but instead talked about his work: "Your piece, 'the old guard,' I read it many times. That old soldier abandoned by his era, his stubbornness, his disillusionment...
So I really wanted to meet you, to see what kind of young Sorbonne man could write such a masterpiece."
Lionel took a deep breath inwardly and said lightly: "Madam, you ate an egg and found it good, why bother knowing the hen that laid it?"
Madame Rothschild was stunned for a moment, then actually chuckled softly, and then laughed louder and louder until she almost lost control before reining it in.
"Lionel, you truly are the most eloquent young man I have ever met..."
She leaned slightly forward, and the scent of an expensive perfume wafted over: "With all due respect, Lionel, although you wrote about 'the old guard,' what I read was the fate of women."
Lionel: "Hmm?"
Madame Rothschild stood up: "Praised, seduced, used, sacrificed, abandoned, despised, destroyed... in the end, only able to cling to a shred of old memories, tragically living out the rest of her life.
Isn't this a woman? This is a woman!"
Lionel was dumbfounded, never expecting "the old guard" could be interpreted this way, but now he could only politely reply: "Your appreciation flatters me.
Madam, your interpretation of 'the old guard' is refreshing; it's an angle I hadn't even considered!"
Madame Rothschild's eyes lit up, full of surprise: "Really? You think my interpretation is correct? Oh my, I've told others before, but they all said it was just my idle fantasy!
Even my husband couldn't understand me, thinking I was babbling. So, Lionel, does my interpretation really make sense?"
Lionel: "..." He hadn't expected his casual compliment to elicit such a strong reaction from her, even changing her address for him.
But words spoken couldn't be taken back, so Lionel could only steel himself and continue to elaborate: "'the old guard' itself is a symbol of the capriciousness of fate. It can be said that most people, more or less, have a bit of his shadow..."
The more Lionel spoke, the brighter Madame Rothschild's eyes became, and her expression grew softer. When Lionel uttered the last sentence: "...Therefore, anyone can be the old guard, and the old guard can be anyone," she almost pressed herself against Lionel.
It wasn't until Lionel cleared his throat that she seemed to awaken from a dream, returned to her seat, and resumed that proud, languid, and charming expression.
Madame Rothschild no longer wanted to beat around the bush and went straight to the point: "Lionel, you are the most outstanding 'Sorbonne man' I have ever met, and I would not wish to see true talent buried due to some... unnecessary concerns and the remarks of certain fools.
Art needs soil, Lionel. Even a genius needs bread and a quiet room to create. I am never stingy in providing this soil to artists I admire.
And you don't have to worry, I am not the kind of... vulgar woman who stands behind an artist with a paintbrush, pointing and gesturing."
Madame Rothschild leaned forward in front of Lionel, looking directly into his eyes, her gaze as burning as fire, almost scorching a hole in his heart.