When Jules Claretie arrived at the Le Figaro building, he found that Editor-in-Chief Armand de La Motte's office lights were still on.
He wasn't too surprised. Instead, he pushed open the Editor-in-Chief's office door with a mix of fear, frustration, and ignorance.
Seeing him, Armand de La Motte quickly tucked a manuscript he was writing into a drawer and forced a smile. "Mr. Claretie, have you thought it through?"
Jules Claretie didn't want to recount his recent experience. He just nodded heavily and asked, "I've figured out how to write it to meet General Mattimpres's requirements…
Please give me paper and a pen, and I'll write it here."
Editor-in-Chief La Motte quickly pulled out a stack of manuscript paper and handed over his ink bottle and quill.
Jules Claretie wasted no words. He took the paper and pen, sat opposite Armand de La Motte, and began writing furiously.
Editor-in-Chief La Motte didn't disturb him. Instead, he quietly watched the pale face of his star columnist, wondering what had made him suddenly so proactive.
As the Editor-in-Chief of Le Figaro, Armand de La Motte was not without his pride, but General Mattimpres's influence could clearly put a significant dent in that pride.
Le Figaro could point fingers and criticize French parliament members, ministers, and even the president, because being criticized was part of their job, and readers would applaud it.
The veteran community, however, was different. Whether conservative or republican, both sides had to, at least nominally, show them respect.
Armand de La Motte hadn't expected criticizing a young writer to provoke such a fierce backlash, and he couldn't help but feel a little regret.
As he spoke, Jules Claretie's article was finished. The handwriting was very messy, clearly showing his inner anxiety and tension.
But as a senior editor of the newspaper, Armand de La Motte easily understood the content:
"A Necessary Correction — To Mr. Lionel Sorel
If someone had told me that within a week I would mention your name three times in public newspapers, I would have considered it a rumor;
If someone had predicted that one of those times would be me personally writing words of praise, I would probably have suggested he seek treatment at a mental institution.
Yet today, I willingly take up my pen, for truth and conscience—two judges more severe than any literary theory—have compelled me to speak.
I admit that my previous article, "Double Betrayal," was too hasty in its writing, and some of its phrasing bordered on a moral tract.
I completely overlooked that you once comforted the forgotten wounded soldiers of France with "the old guard," dissected the most subtle folds of a woman's heart with "letter from an unknown woman," and awakened the first stirrings of compassion for suffering in children's eyes with "my uncle jules."
By these three works alone, you have proven your love for France, for literature, and your guardianship of moral order. Reflecting today, my criticism of you indeed had too many 'echoes' but lacked enough 'ears.'
I will not retract the questions I once posed: the questions themselves are not wrong, but the tone was. I cannot deny the entire cathedral for questioning a single brick.
Therefore, please allow me to retract those evaluations that may have obscured the reader's view, and to retain my initial, and eternally valid, respect—that which came from my emotion upon reading your first work, "the old guard."
If my words ever created a rift between you and your readers, may this short note today be the first stitch to mend that rift. This matter, for me, is now concluded.
As for the future, I hope we will still meet again on paper—whether side by side or in opposition—but please believe that it will be in the same arena, under the same light. With
Respect and apology intertwined,
Jules Claretie"
After reading the entire letter, Editor-in-Chief La Motte breathed a sigh of relief, his expression softening. The smile on his face finally became natural and sincere: "Claretie, beautifully written! I believe our readers will only hold you in higher esteem because of this."
The last sentence was, of course, a comfort, but Jules Claretie was no longer in the mood to return the compliment. Instead, he asked in a hurry, "Can it be published tomorrow?"
Editor-in-Chief La Motte nodded. "I'll give it to the typesetter shortly."
Jules Claretie then finally breathed a sigh of relief. After saluting Armand de La Motte, he left the Editor-in-Chief's office in a daze.
Once his footsteps faded in the corridor, Editor-in-Chief La Motte took out the manuscript he had just been writing from his drawer, looked at it for a moment, and continued writing:
"...I hereby openly invite submissions to Mr. Lionel Sorel and all sectors of society:
If you wish to contribute an article to the Le Figaro literary supplement, the length, style, and theme are entirely at your discretion. This newspaper will reserve the most prominent pages for the freest thoughts.
Armand de La Motte"
— — — —
When Lionel saw the latest issue of Le Figaro, he was about to give the rebuttal article he had just finished to Alice to transcribe and then send it to the La République.
For him, Jules Claretie's criticism not only posed no threat but was an opportunity to enhance his reputation and boost the popularity of "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button."
He hadn't expected the other party to back down so quickly, even with a hint of begging for mercy.
Although Jules Claretie declared, "I will not retract the questions I once posed" and "the questions themselves are not wrong, but the tone was," anyone who carefully considered it could read his eagerness to make peace.
"How boring..." Lionel muttered, putting the manuscript back in the drawer.
If the other party begged for mercy, his continued "pursuit" would make him seem lacking in grace, and public opinion would turn against him.
No matter how unwilling, Lionel could only "lay down his butcher's knife."
But his laying it down didn't mean others did—especially those manuscripts that had already been written and submitted to editorial departments. It was too late to withdraw them.
The La République, Le Petit Parisien, Le Petit Journal, Morning News... these competitors of Le Figaro, within just three days, successively published multiple articles criticizing Jules Claretie, all with quite sharp wording.
For example, Le Petit Parisien's "Echo" column published an article signed "Paul Alessic," which contained a line:
"Le Figaro habitually wears two faces: one bowing to power, one glaring at art; when their pages need sales, they open velvet arms; when their dogma is questioned, they bare bloody fangs."
This quote became widely circulated, giving Parisians a preliminary impression of the name.
An article signed "Joris-Karl Huysmans," published in the Morning News, was even more forceful:
"If Le Figaro truly believes that'sacred order' can become a literary prohibition, then it had better also prohibit steam engines, prohibit railways, prohibit all new things that make the old world tremble—
Because the nineteenth century itself is the greatest offense to'sacred order.'"
And the most brilliant satire came from Guy de Maupassant, the young man who had repeatedly submitted to Le Figaro, this time throwing his sharpest javelin at his "dream newspaper":
"Mr. Claretie and Le Figaro always invoke the name of God, as if the Creator left them a spare key in heaven...
Please remember, you are just someone who coughs loudly in the corridor and then blames the echo for being too noisy...
I want to give Mr. Claretie a small copper coin. I hear you've finally learned to bow instead of crack a whip—very good, this coin is for you to buy candy."
Jules Claretie had criticized Maupassant's famous play, "Old Stories," a few months prior, so Maupassant's words carried a degree of personal animosity.
Since its transformation in the 1870s, Le Figaro had never experienced such concentrated attacks. Its reputation and sales plummeted, and it could only silently lick its wounds in a corner.
Meanwhile, "Lionel and his friends" became a hot topic in the Parisian literary circles.
Lionel also gained a new nickname—"The Young Man Who Single-Handedly Defeated Le Figaro."