For Lionel, the mid-June written exam was more like a routine ceremony.
He sat upright in the ancient and solemn prayer hall of Sorbonne, the rustle of his quill pen across the paper like silkworms munching on mulberry leaves—though he wondered if French people had ever heard that sound.
The written exam covered Latin grammar, French literary history, philosophical propositions, and an argumentative essay.
Thanks to the excellent foundation laid by the original body and his own profound understanding of 19th-century literary trends—almost a form of "cheating"—he wrote with ease and clarity.
When the last period dropped, Lionel already had a good idea of his results.
Days later, when the results were posted, his name was prominently listed among the top of the successful candidates.
But the real challenge lay in the oral examination at the end of June.
After a week of intense preparation, the day of the oral exam arrived.
The atmosphere in the tiered classroom of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts, used for advanced degree assessments, was unusually heavy.
At the front, behind a long table covered in dark green felt, sat the three examiners who would decide Lionel's fate:
Professor Gustave Durand, a doyen of literary history, was the chief examiner; Professor Henri Moreau, an expert in classical languages, was responsible for the Latin section; and Professor Philippe Leclerc, an authority on philosophy and rhetoric.
However, what truly made this oral examination as lively as a marketplace were the auditors packed into the back and side aisles of the classroom.
Besides the supervisors and a small number of junior student representatives required to attend, there were more senior students who had rushed there upon hearing the news, young lecturers from other departments, and even a few well-known journalists and literary critics in Paris!
They whispered like people waiting for a good play to begin, their gazes intently focused on the solitary hardwood chair placed in the center of the classroom.
Clearly, the oral examination for the "Conscience of Sorbonne" had an appeal no less than the premiere of a new play.
Lionel, with a composed demeanor, bowed to the professors and then sat down on the hardwood chair.
He could feel the weight of a hundred gazes behind him, but he forced himself to calm down and focus his attention on the examiners.
The oral examination officially began.
The first round was Latin interpretation and commentary.
Professor Moreau, with an expressionless face, handed him a yellowed page containing an excerpt from Cicero's oration: "Read, translate, analyze its rhetorical structure, and explain its purpose in the speech."
Lionel took the paper and pondered for a moment. He adjusted his breathing and began to read in clear, rhythmic Latin.
His pronunciation was largely accurate, and his emphasis was distinct, but it lacked the intonation and cadence to convey Cicero's eloquent power.
After reading, he paused almost imperceptibly—thanks to his solid foundation in rote memorization—and quickly translated the Latin into fluent French, with key terms mostly accurately rendered.
Then, he pointed to several places in the original text: "Here, Cicero uses strong parallelism and repetition… His purpose is to accumulate anger, directly targeting Catiline;
...
Here, he employs sharp rhetorical questions, not seeking an answer, but to strengthen the accusation against Catiline;
...
And this series of metaphors, comparing Catiline's conspiracy to a 'lurking plague' and 'burning flames,' vividly depicts its harmfulness, aiming to ignite fear and vigilance in the Senate.
...
The core rhetorical purpose of the entire passage is to portray Catiline as the public enemy of the Roman Republic through progressively layered emotions and imagery, laying the moral foundation for subsequent severe sanctions."
Lionel spoke more and more smoothly, almost feeling like he was back in a Chinese college entrance exam. Setting aside the language barrier, 19th-century problems seemed too simple in the 21st century.
Professor Moreau listened, his face still expressionless, but he nodded slightly—Lionel knew he had this in the bag.
The second round of the exam was literary comparison and intellectual history.
Professor Leclerc's voice carried a sharp edge: "Mr. Sorel, let us now turn our attention to the Age of Enlightenment—Rousseau's concept of 'natural man' education proposed in Émile, while Voltaire, in Philosophical Letters, advocated for reason and civil progress.
What is the fundamental divergence in their core positions? How is this divergence reflected in their styles?"
A slight gasp came from the back of the audience, clearly startled by the difficulty of the question.
Lionel requested a moment to think and received the professor's approval.
He closed his eyes in concentration for nearly 3 minutes before opening them, his gaze clear: "Professor, the divergence between Rousseau and Voltaire essentially lies in their fundamental judgment of the value of 'civilization.' Rousseau viewed society as shackles, the root of private property, inequality, and moral decay.
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His 'natural man,' like Émile, needed to be far from social pollution, in the embrace of nature, to preserve his innate goodness and freedom. Therefore, Rousseau's writing style is full of surging emotion…
Lionel paused briefly before continuing, his speaking pace still steady: "Voltaire, on the other hand, firmly believed that civilization, science, and reason were the only torches to illuminate ignorance and propel human progress.
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Although he also criticized the darkness of society, for example, Candide satirizes absurd wars, his criticism stemmed from a desire for specific reforms, rather than a negation of civilization as a whole.
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Thus, he championed England's constitutional monarchy and religious tolerance, seeing them as the fruits of reason. This also led to his sharp, clear, and ironic style, with short, powerful sentences full of aphorisms, aimed at enlightening the mind.
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In short, Rousseau was a romantic who sought salvation within himself and nature, his style like a torrent; Voltaire was a standard-bearer who enlightened minds with reason, his style like lightning."
Lionel's answer was clearly structured, appropriately cited, and his views were in line with academic perspectives, balanced and impartial.
Lionel's heart was calm; during those three minutes of preparation, he was mainly recalling the content from the 'History of Foreign Literature' he taught in his previous life.
Professor Leclerc also nodded approvingly, while Professor Durand quickly jotted something down in his notebook. In the audience, several young lecturers let out sighs of admiration.
For a second-year student to have such a profound and comprehensive understanding of both Rousseau and Voltaire was truly eye-opening for them.
The third round of the oral examination was a deep analysis of French literature.
Professor Durand pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses: "Mr. Sorel, let us focus on a more recent era. What essential differences exist between Victor Hugo and Honoré de Balzac in 'presenting social reality'?
Does this difference stem from their differing understandings of the function of the 'novel'?"
This question directly addressed a core debate in 19th-century realist literature. The entire classroom fell silent, even Professor Moreau looked up.
Lionel remained unperturbed, his voice steady and powerful: "Professor, Hugo's les misérables is a humanitarian epic, and also a moral allegory.
His ultimate goal in presenting social darkness is to call for compassion, justice, and divine redemption.
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His characters often carry symbolic meaning, and the plot is full of dramatic coincidences and a torrent of emotions, because he believes the power of the novel lies in inspiring hearts, awakening conscience, and even transforming the world…
Lionel slightly adjusted his sitting posture; the hard wooden chair was hurting his tailbone: "Mr. Balzac, on the other hand, is more inclined to dissect and display. He called himself the 'secretary of French society,' aiming to construct a comprehensive social replica with The Human Comedy.
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He presents reality to reveal the logic of money, power, and human nature, pursuing objectivity in plot development and truthfulness in detail.
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His narration is calmer, more restrained; characters act under the pressure of their environment and the drive of their own desires, with the author's voice hidden behind character dialogue.
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He believes the primary function of the novel is to understand society and human nature.
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Therefore, Mr. Hugo writes sacred declarations in the form of novels, while Mr. Balzac writes social investigation reports in the form of novels."
As Lionel's words fell, a round of applause and hushed cheers erupted from the back of the classroom. His own heart remained calm; what he had just explained were conclusions from another volume of 'History of Foreign Literature,' which he had marked as crucial exam points countless times for his students.
But to others, his analysis was incisive and sharply contrasted, not only accurately grasping the characteristics of the two masters but also elevating it to the level of literary function.
Under Professor Durand's white beard, the corners of his mouth curved upwards uncontrollably, and he uncharacteristically praised loudly: "Excellent! Mr. Sorel!"
The atmosphere seemed to reach its climax, and the three examiners exchanged satisfied glances, ready to announce the results directly.
However, just at this moment—
"Excellent? With all due respect, professors, this so-called 'excellence' is merely a repetition of some clichés!"
A crisp, pleasant, yet distinctly foreign-accented and unashamedly arrogant female voice abruptly rang out from the doorway at the back of the tiered classroom, like an ice pick breaking through the warm air.
Everyone's gaze was instantly drawn to her. Standing at the doorway was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, tall and slender, like a proud white birch.
She had dazzling, thick golden hair that shone like molten gold; her face was strikingly beautiful, almost flamboyant, and she wore a dark blue travel suit, impeccably tailored and made of luxurious material, with expensive sable fur trimming the collar and cuffs.
She stood there like a dazzling star that had suddenly fallen to earth, or a young queen come to survey her domain: "I am Sofia Ivanovna Durova-Shcherbatova, daughter of Baroness Alekseyevna.
On behalf of my mother, who is also one of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts' most important donors this year, I formally question the depth and rigor of this oral examination!"
Lionel looked at her in surprise, noticing that Dean Henri Patin was also standing beside her.
The venerable Dean's expression was awkward, but Lionel still understood the meaning: "I'm sorry, Lionel, she gave too much…"