Lionel only returned home after settling Chekhov in the "Spanish Hotel" for 5 francs a night; it was almost 2 AM.
Petty was already asleep, but Alice was still waiting for him in the living room.
Seeing him return, Alice asked with concern, "What's wrong with that young man?"
Lionel rubbed his face wearily: "An overly enthusiastic young Russian, full of fantasies, who came all the way from Moscow to see me and hasn't had a decent meal in two days."
Alice was still a bit worried: "How did he find this place?"
Lionel shrugged: "He probably went to Le Petit Parisien, used a little trick… my address isn't a secret there."
Alice frowned: "What are you going to do with him?"
Just mentioning it made Lionel's temples throb, and he waved his hand: "Let him stay at the 'Spanish Hotel' for now. Let's go to bed; we'll discuss the rest tomorrow."
Although this was the first time Lionel had encountered such a situation, it didn't particularly surprise him, as it was commonplace in the nineteenth century—the only surprise was that the visitor was Chekhov, who had just graduated from middle school.
At that time in European literary circles, it was not only normal but even an obligation for famous writers to be surrounded by fervent admirers, devout followers, and even eccentric "parasites."
This was not mere vanity but a byproduct of literary prestige.
Young souls yearned for guidance, the disheartened sought solace, and opportunists coveted connections.
Writers, especially those who took it upon themselves to focus on society and human nature, often found it difficult to rudely turn away these figures.
Warmly entertaining, answering questions, and offering guidance to those who sought them out were all part of a famous writer's daily life.
Many literary favors and grudges were quietly forged in these complex relationships, which were part teacher, part friend, and part host, part guest.
When Balzac was hiding from creditors, he often fled to the home of his good friend Mérimée, where he would mash sardines with cheese for bread to fill his stomach, then fall asleep; upon waking, he would furiously curse Mérimée for delaying his "grand schemes," then leave in a huff; a few days later, he would return in disarray… This cycle repeated for several years, yet Mérimée remained tolerant, and their friendship never wavered.
There were also phenomena like Alexandre Dumas's "Château de Monte Cristo," where festivities lasted all night, year-round, and Zola's "Médan Villa," where friends were always welcome—all products of this literary atmosphere.
Of course, Lionel wouldn't actually take Chekhov in as his protégé, but how to send him back to Moscow without hurting his feelings was a delicate art.
——
At nine o'clock the next morning, in the coffee-scented living room at 64 Lafitte Street, the young Russian, refreshed after a night's rest, looked radiant; having shaved off his scraggly beard at the hotel, he revealed a rather handsome face.
Chekhov passionately expounded on his literary ambitions—
He wanted to use his pen as a sword, just as Lionel exposed the ills of French society, to expose the chronic diseases of Russia—the brutality of serfdom, the corruption of officials, the apathy of the Petty bourgeoisie!
He wanted to awaken the entire nation!
Speaking with emotion, Chekhov waved his hands: "Mr. Sorel, the satire of apathy in 'the old guard,' the depiction of money twisting family affection in 'Uncle Jules,' are everywhere in Russia!
I want to be the 'conscience' of Russia, just like you!"
Lionel listened patiently, but his brow furrowed slightly.
Chekhov's enthusiasm was genuine, but he was immersed in the grand narrative of the "national soul," his feet seemingly suspended in the clouds, oblivious to the weight of reality.
The "Russian disease" he saw seemed more like an abstract concept derived from books and indignation, rather than roots personally dug from the mud of life.
Lionel put down his coffee cup: "Anton, a mountaineer needs to see the path beneath his feet first; passion for the peak alone will only lead to a fall into the abyss."
Seeing Chekhov's confused gaze, Lionel decided to try a different approach: "Come, Anton. Paris itself is an open book. Today, we won't have a literature lesson, but a life lesson."
For the next half-day, Lionel led Chekhov through the lights and shadows of Paris.
They strolled along the Champs-Élysées, admiring the grand splendor after Baron Haussmann's renovation; in the exquisite cafes along the tree-lined avenues, well-dressed men and women chatted and laughed; luxury goods from around the world were displayed on shop shelves.
Chekhov was deeply impressed by the prosperity, his eyes filled with longing.
"This is Paris, Anton, the showcase of the world," Lionel said calmly.
For lunch, Lionel took him to a well-known restaurant in the Latin Quarter.
Tender roasted lamb chops, drizzled with rich sauce, served with seasonal white asparagus and truffles, accompanied by a red wine from Bordeaux's Left Bank.
Chekhov had never tasted such delicious food; each bite made him feel dizzy with happiness.
"This is also Paris, Anton, a feast for the arts, a treat for the senses," Lionel said, cutting his lamb chop, his tone still calm.
However, the afternoon's itinerary took a sharp turn. Lionel led Chekhov across the Seine River and into the Saint-Antoine suburb.
Narrow, dirty streets were lined with crowded, dilapidated houses, and the air was a mix of the sour stench of garbage, cheap alcohol, and sweat.
Sewage flowed in the gutters along the roadside, and sallow-faced workers, dragging their weary bodies, walked by with vacant eyes.
Ragged children chased and played in the mud, their faces bearing a weariness beyond their years.
Chekhov's smile froze on his face; the filter of prosperous Paris shattered instantly. The scene before him was so similar to the slums of his hometown, Taganrog, and perhaps even more shocking.
"Is this… also Paris?" Chekhov's voice was a little dry.
"Yes, Anton, this is the larger foundation of Paris, or more precisely, the foundation of this world."
Lionel stood beside a foul-smelling pile of garbage, his gaze still calm: "Beneath the gleaming shop windows and exquisite restaurants are countless silent lives, struggling for survival.
What you call the 'Russian disease'—apathy, poverty, injustice—also flows through the city's veins here.
Literature, to heal the soul, must first truly see, understand, and respect these souls struggling in the mud, rather than merely treating them as symbols of some 'disease.'
The grand slogan of saving the nation cannot feed a hungry child."
Chekhov fell silent. For the first time, he so clearly felt the bottomless chasm between ideals and reality.
His impassioned discussions about the "national soul" seemed so pale and empty in the face of the real suffering before him.
In the evening, Lionel took a pensive Chekhov by train to Médan Villa.
Everyone found it amusing that he had brought a "young friend."
He explained Chekhov's background to them—a young admirer from Russia, full of literary ideals.
Zola and the others laughed, warmly welcoming the foreign youth.
Maupassant even joked: "Ha! Another lost lamb drawn by Lionel's 'conscience'? Welcome to 'les soirées de médan,' Mr. Chekhov!"
With a mix of trepidation and excitement, Chekhov looked at Émile Zola before him, and Lionel Sorel beside him. He felt like a speck of dust drifting into a brilliant galaxy.