Upon arriving at Saint Helier Port (the capital of Jersey), Lionel politely declined Maupassant's invitation and chose to stay at a hotel near the port called "Norman's Lost Dream."
Maupassant did not insist. Instead, he gave Lionel an ambiguous look that seemed to say, "I understand," and after agreeing to meet him the next morning, he left in a hired carriage.
Lionel booked a "family suite" for 15 francs a night, which included two bedrooms and a living room.
After putting away their luggage, the three went to the hotel's restaurant for dinner. Since guests arrived at various times, the hotel's communal dining table remained open until 9 PM, but each person's dining time was limited to half an hour.
Alice and Petty didn't have much of an appetite. After eating a little of the island's specialty English fish and chips, they returned to their rooms.
Lionel, however, was in good spirits. Besides fish and chips, he also sampled fresh fish and shrimp caught by the island's fishermen that day, as well as mussels the owner's daughter had gathered from the coastal rocks. He ate for a full half-hour before leaving at the owner's urging.
The balcony of his room faced a row of flags, battered and askew by the sea wind. At night, the wind roared like waves, mixed with the coughing of travelers and the low murmurs from the nearby English pub, making one feel as if in a dream.
Early the next morning, Maupassant arrived at "Norman's Lost Dream" as promised, bringing with him a double-harnessed open carriage with two rows of four seats, and a coachman.
Alice, who had already learned about prices outside the Alps, exclaimed, "This carriage rental can't be cheap, can it?"
"It's 22 francs for a full day, and it can take us anywhere on the island!" Maupassant's voice held a hint of pride.
This "exorbitant price" made both Alice and Petty gasp.
Jersey is roughly one-fifth the size of Paris, but its residential areas and attractions are almost all concentrated in and around Saint Helier, making it walkable. However, having a carriage on standby was certainly more pleasant.
Lionel did not refuse this kind offer. He took Alice and Petty into the carriage; he and Maupassant sat in the front, while Alice and Petty sat in the back.
The first attraction to visit in Jersey was, without a doubt, Elizabeth Castle.
This 700-year-old stone castle, situated by the sea, served as both a palace and a military fortress. Of course, both functions have now been lost, and it has become purely a tourist attraction.
As for why one must go in the morning? Because the path to the castle only appears at low tide in the morning. (Suddenly reminded of "28 Days Later" which I just watched yesterday…)
Entry to the castle did not require a ticket, but it was almost entirely empty inside. Every room had trash left by tourists, emitting a musty smell.
Even the two girls, who had initially been excited, pinched their noses and urged Lionel and Maupassant to leave quickly.
Only by climbing to the highest arrow tower, looking down at Saint Helier Port below and gazing out at Guernsey 27 kilometers away, did one feel the trip was worthwhile.
After lunch, Maupassant suggested that the four of them first go to the beach at St. Brelade's Bay, and then visit Mr. Hugo's former residence before sunset.
Hugo decided to go into exile after Napoleon III's coup d'état (1851). He first lived in Brussels, Belgium, for a year, and then moved to these Channel Islands.
Initially, he lived in Jersey, until 1855 when he moved to Guernsey. He then lived in Guernsey until 1870, returning to France only after Napoleon III's downfall, and was welcomed as a hero in Paris.
les misérables was written during his exile. His residences on both Jersey and Guernsey have become tourist attractions. The one on Jersey charges 15 sous per person. According to rumor, Mr. Hugo earns at least 20,000 francs annually from the ticket sales of these two islands.
As literary juniors, Lionel and Maupassant naturally had to pay their respects when they came to Jersey.
The residence stood on a hillside, with two leafy elm trees growing in front of the door, as if two green flags raised for the exile.
The administrator and guide was an old gentleman who spoke French with a slight British accent.
He would lead tourists through small, airless rooms, describing the poems written by Hugo himself hanging on the walls, tapestries, mirrored ceilings, and the wicker chair he once reclined in.
"Here, he wrote curses against Napoleon III, and also hopes for human conscience." This sentence was powerful, but the administrator's voice carried a seasoned weariness.
Lionel stood by the large study window facing the sea, looking out through the glass, vaguely seeing a shadow hunched over a desk writing, with a vast, moving sea behind him.
Not the territory of any country, but the sea itself.
Maupassant walked over, and Lionel quietly asked him, "Do you think Mr. Hugo truly exiled himself, or did he use exile to escape everything?"
Maupassant was momentarily speechless, feeling a tide surging in his chest with nowhere to go.
He followed Lionel's gaze to the vast, turbulent sea outside the window. The cries of seagulls sounded particularly desolate in the wind.
After a long while, Maupassant slowly spoke, his voice low: "Escape? Lionel, you are too sharp… or perhaps, you are too young, not yet fully enveloped by that mountain's shadow."
Maupassant looked at the empty wicker chair with complex eyes, as if he could see the white-haired, sharp-eyed giant having just risen and left: "Mr. Hugo is too immense, Lionel.
So immense… like the Alps stretching before us. We, the latecomers, no matter which direction we walk, will always see the perpetually snow-capped peaks when we look up.
He defined what 'greatness' is, what 'humanitarianism' is, what 'conscience' is!
One les misérables almost exhausted all possible noble emotions and immense sufferings of humanity—Jean Valjean's redemption, Fantine's tragedy, Cosette's love…"
Lionel understood Maupassant's feelings.
The emergence of an artistic master in a civilization is fortunate for ordinary admirers, but not necessarily for other artists—especially a long-lived artistic master like Hugo.
He could only comfort him softly: "Yes, sometimes, standing in this shadow can be suffocating.
He is like a bottomless well; we draw water, but always feel our bucket is too small, and the water's surface always reflects his shadow."
Maupassant nodded like a pecking chick: "He wrote about the suffering of Paris, what else can we write? He wrote about the struggles and redemption of human nature, what new depths can we uncover? He wrote about the wildness and grandeur of the sea, what never-before-seen waves can we churn out with our pens?"
Even… exile became his exclusive, tragically glorious literary act of art. If we were to write about exile again, it would be like imitating the path he walked, picking up the sand he trod on."
Lionel smiled: "Is that why Mr. Zola, Mr. Flaubert, and you chose 'naturalism'?
Don't be so dejected. You just said Mr. Hugo is the Alps? Coincidentally, I come from there.
In my experience, even the highest, most sprawling mountain ranges have many small paths that can pass through them. Isn't that right, Alice?"
Alice had no interest in Hugo's former residence and was feeling bored. When she suddenly heard Lionel ask her, it took her a moment to respond: "Yes, the Alps have many large and small paths that can pass through them—
Lionel, Mr. Maupassant, are you going to Switzerland or Italy?"
Lionel and Maupassant exchanged glances, then burst into laughter under the confused gazes of Alice and Petty.