Dominic, who had been resisting alone, was subsequently captured by the Prussians.
The Prussian Captain wanted him to point out the small paths in the Sauval Forest to prevent a French counterattack, but Dominic refused.
The Prussian Captain initially intended to shoot him, but after the intercession of old Master Merlier, he was imprisoned instead.
In the middle of the night, his beloved, Françoise, climbed through the window and set him free.
The next day, the Prussian Captain discovered that Dominic had killed a sentry during his escape and threatened Françoise to find Dominic in the forest, or her father would be killed.
Facing death, Dominic showed no fear and voluntarily returned to the village, exchanging his own life for that of his beloved's father.
Just as Dominic was being executed, French troops burst out of the forest, launched a counterattack, and wiped out the Prussians defending the mill.
But Dominic was already dead, and the mill owner, old Master Merlier, also died from a stray bullet; the mill was reduced to a pile of ruins by French artillery fire.
As the story concluded, Zola's voice was filled with weariness:
"The Captain was the first to rush into the courtyard. This was the only victory he had won since the start of the war. He was in high spirits, laughing loudly.
He saw at a glance, amidst the ruins of the mill, a girl sitting like a marble statue between the corpses of her husband and father.
The Captain saluted her with his saber and shouted, 'Victory! Victory!'"
This ironic ending plunged everyone present into deep thought, and Zola added an even more cruel coda to it:
"Dominic remained alone in the hall, continuing to shoot forward. The soldiers had all left, but he didn't know it.
He just kept firing, eliminating one enemy with each shot..."
Dominic died before the French attack, with twelve bullet holes in his chest—who was still shooting? Was it his soul?
A Belgian, fighting for the French, died under Prussian gunfire, and even as a soul, he never stopped shooting...
Zola's story quieted everyone; even Maupassant, who had been emotional earlier, fell silent.
Before he finished telling the attack on the mill, all five others, except Lionel, had underestimated the difficulty of constructing this story.
They thought that praising the bravery of ordinary soldiers, the resistance of the French people, or mocking the decadence and incompetence of high society would suffice.
But the complexity of the theme and the critical depth of the attack on the mill far exceeded their imagination.
Was that Captain a hero? One could say he was, because he first stubbornly blocked the enemy and then won a victory, eliminating many Prussians.
But one could also say he was not, because his recklessness and arrogance led to a good young man, who could have stayed out of it, dying under enemy gunfire.
His shouting "Victory!" at the poor girl who had lost both her father and her beloved simultaneously, not only lacked any sense of grandeur or joy but was instead filled with irony and tragedy.
Lionel had previously only seen records of les soirées de médan in literature and had oversimplified the process.
Now, participating in it himself and seeing the grave expressions on the faces of Maupassant and others, he truly understood the leadership role Zola played as the elder of the "Médan Group" among them.
After a long while, the few of them exclaimed in unison, "Émile, you've written a good story... You should write it down tonight."
At this point, the atmosphere gradually livened up, and smiles returned to everyone's faces.
Zola smiled and looked at Maupassant: "Guy, tomorrow night, it's your turn to tell a story. You're the only one among us who has been to the front lines; I believe you can tell us a good story."
The excitement on Maupassant's face instantly froze. He scratched his damp hair: "Ah? Tomorrow? So soon? Émile... I... I need to think about it carefully..."
----
On the night train back to Paris, Lionel and Maupassant sat in an empty second-class carriage.
Everyone else had stayed at Médan Villa.
Only Maupassant had to continue being a corporate drone at the "Ministry of Public Instruction and Fine Arts" the next day, and Lionel couldn't stand sleeping in the same room as a drunkard, so the two traveled back to Paris together.
Maupassant appeared restless as soon as he got on the train. Zola's story and the expectations placed upon him created immense pressure.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, pulling at his hair: "Defeat... stories after defeat... heroes? Heroic? Émile has written everything that can be written! What else can I tell?"
He looked at Lionel: "Writing about marauding defeated soldiers? Too clichéd! Spies? Too bizarre! Love? Too false in that environment!"
Several vague fragments flashed through Maupassant's mind: panicked refugees, hooligans taking advantage of the chaos, indifferent bureaucrats...
But he always felt that he lacked a core that could captivate people's hearts, a story that both fit the tone set by Zola's story and could reflect his own style.
Lionel said nothing, just smiled as he watched Maupassant mumble to himself like a trapped beast.
Maupassant suddenly grabbed Lionel's shoulder: "Leon! My brother! Save me! Émile has built a towering mountain, and I... I feel like I only have a small shovel in my hand!
I've conceived several stories, but even I find them bland, like stale bread! I have to tell one tomorrow, what should I do?"
His face was filled with distress, completely devoid of his usual ease, nonchalance, and dashing charm.
Lionel looked at the predicament of this future king of short stories, feeling both amused and emotional.
He, of course, knew what story Maupassant would eventually come up with—and he had no intention of taking away the most brilliant jewel of his friend's life.
Lionel gestured for Maupassant to calm down and patted his back: "Don't worry, Guy. Mr. Zola's story is indeed cruel and tragic, but war is made up of countless fragments; it's not only battle and bloodshed that can move people's hearts..."
Seeing Maupassant gradually calm down, Lionel continued to patiently guide him: "Think about what you are most familiar with? What kind of people are you best at observing?
During war, under the shadow of defeat, how would their destinies change dramatically?"
Maupassant paused: "What I'm most familiar with?"
He then laughed self-deprecatingly, his voice full of candor: "God knows, Leon, besides writing, what I'm most familiar with is probably taverns, racetracks, and... those lovely girls."
Lionel also laughed: "Excellent! Then start with the group you are most familiar with! Think about it, on the path of defeat and escape, in towns occupied by Prussians, in the chaotic rear...
Those girls, what would they encounter? How would they survive?"
Maupassant frowned, lost in thought: "They... their lives would certainly be harder. The occupying forces would cause trouble, the police would cause trouble...
They are the most looked-down-upon group of people... but they also have to live..."
Lionel stopped talking. He felt that if he said anything more, Maupassant might think of something else entirely.
Maupassant stood up from his seat and paced back and forth in the narrow aisle, muttering: "Prostitutes... morality... scorn... civilization... order... instinct... innocence... decency..."
Words tumbled out of his mouth, colliding and bouncing in the small 19th-century train carriage.
And image after image combined, shattered, re-combined, and re-shattered in Maupassant's mind...
When the train let out its final long whistle before entering the terminal station, a dazzling light suddenly burst forth from Maupassant's eyes.
He embraced Lionel's shoulder again: "Thank you, my good brother! I have my story!"