Claretie's heart almost stopped, his blood instantly congealed.
He wanted to retreat, to run away, but his legs felt like lead.
He wanted to shout, to dispel them, but his throat felt like it was gripped by an invisible hand.
General Mattimpres's voice still echoed in his ears; yet this scene directly shattered his mental defenses!
Then, the unusually tall, twisted man spoke in a terrifyingly calm voice: "Mr. Claretie?"
Claretie instinctively nodded, unable to make a sound.
"We are all the 'freaks' of Paris," the man continued, his voice devoid of angry accusation, only an emotion as heavy as lead: "We are all the people you and your newspaper covered with the word 'freak' in your articles.
We are not here to cause trouble either. Mr. Lionel Sorel said in his article, 'Freaks do not create ugliness, they merely expose it.'
We remember his words. So, we choose to stand here, not with ugly violence, but with our very existence.
You don't need to think about calling the police—your wife has already tried, but the police have no right to stop a group of citizens from standing on the public roads of Paris!"
At this moment, a young woman with half her face covered in red tumors took a small step forward, her voice trembling: "Mr. Claretie, you called Benjamin Button a 'freak,' saying his story was 'blasphemous' and'subversive.'
But do you know? When we read about Benjamin in Le Petit Parisien, we cried. We saw ourselves in him! We saw how we were rejected and ridiculed because of this skin!
We also saw how he longed to be understood and accepted, until Delphine saw his 'eyes, bright like a kitten's'!
We also hoped to meet a 'Delphine'—now we know, Mr. Sorel is our 'Delphine.'"
Speaking of this, her emotions became a little agitated, and she pointed to the red tumors on her face: "Do you think this is ugly? Yes, it is ugly! But beneath this ugly skin, my heart, like yours, beats and yearns for love!
You only see the superficial appearance of a 'freak' and are quick to deny its meaning, quick to label it 'blasphemous.'
But Mr. Sorel saw the struggle, loneliness, and longing for warmth beneath the 'freak's' appearance!
He is speaking out for people like us! Yet you are trying to silence him, which is to silence all hearts that might understand us!"
Jules Claretie had not expected things to develop to this point and quickly denied: "No... I didn't... I'm not..."
But his usually eloquent tongue was now unable to utter those moving words, as fear, hesitation, and confusion occupied his mind.
He suddenly thought of Lionel's recent "nickname"—"the Conscience of Sorbonne."
The last person in France to be called a "conscience" was Mr. Hugo—"the Conscience of France."
He thought of the grand return of Mr. Hugo from Guernsey to Paris, the thunderous shouts, the sea of people...
He was startled—Lionel now had not just a few publishers and writers standing behind him, but two groups of people who were hurt, shared a common plight, and were highly motivated.
Flaubert writing madame bovary would not make lonely and isolated country wives in France shout for him;
Dumas, fils writing La Dame aux Camélias would not make the pleasure-seeking courtesans of Paris march for him;
But Mr. Hugo writing Notre Dame Cathedral and les misérables truly would make gypsies and released "Jean Valjean"s do something for him.
Lionel's the old guard and the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button had a similar effect, and were even more capable of stirring people's hearts because the groups described were more precise.
General Mattimpres today and the freaks before him proved this point.
At this moment, the ghost-like white youth spoke, his voice bitter: "We were born this way, or fate played a cruel trick on us to become like this. When did we ever want to 'blaspheme' anything?
We just want to live, to live with dignity! It is you who constantly remind us that we are 'freaks,' that we'should not exist'!
Mr. Sorel used the story of Benjamin Button to tell the world that even the most 'grotesque' life has its value, and has the right to be understood and cared for!
And you, Mr. Claretie, you and your articles, are tearing our hearts apart!"
The youth's skin was almost transparently white under the streetlights. He stood quietly, his voice as soft as a sigh, yet capable of piercing the soul.
The dwarf spoke, moving his short legs, trying to stand in the bright light of the streetlight: "Mr. Sorel gave us, those 'miswritten' by fate, a little courage and hope to live on.
Yet you want to deny him, to humiliate him, and even want to send him to the defendant's dock of an ecclesiastical trial?
Are you going to take away this last bit of light from us?"
Just like General Mattimpres today, he did not roar, his voice was even ridiculously shrill—but Jules Claretie could not laugh.
He stood before the cold stone steps of the apartment building, facing these dozen pairs of eyes—some filled with grief and indignation, some with accusation, some with despair, but more with a kind of unyielding serenity.
They didn't need to act, didn't need to curse; simply standing there, displaying the "errors" fate had bestowed upon them, was enough to make Claretie feel utterly ashamed and wish to die.
This group of silent "freaks" before him, with their living, scarred existence, performed the most thorough and cruel judgment of his soul.
He felt as if he had been stripped naked, exposed in broad daylight, undergoing the most severe moral interrogation.
The tall, twisted man finally said: "Mr. Claretie, we are standing here not to gain your pity, and certainly not to intimidate you.
We just want you to see the heavy lives that the light words 'freak' in your pen carry behind them."
After speaking, he nodded slightly, no longer looking at Claretie. Then, these seven or eight "different ones" of various forms, as if well-rehearsed, at the signal of their leader, slowly and solemnly bowed deeply in Claretie's direction.
Jules Claretie knew this was not submission, nor was it begging.
It was a display of silent strength, a dignity born of suffering yet transcending suffering, presented to him in the most noble posture they could maintain.
After bowing, they said nothing more, silently turned, supported each other, some with crutches, some pushing wheelchairs, and slowly, silently disappeared into the deep twilight of the Île Saint-Louis.
Only Claretie remained in the alley, standing dazed on the cold stone steps, the evening breeze blowing, chilling him to the bone.
At this moment, the door behind him opened, and his beautiful wife rushed out, her voice as panicked as a rabbit in hunting season: "Darling, are you alright... I was so scared just now, I didn't dare come out..."
Jules Claretie then came to his senses and quickly pushed his wife away: "I need to go back to the newspaper, right now..."
Meanwhile, Maupassant, Huysmans, Paul Alexis... were holed up in Maupassant's stinking apartment, working overtime, writing furiously, preparing to push Le Figaro, which they had once admired so much, from its pedestal.