As Lionel arrived at Charpentiers Bookshelf in his carriage, the Parisian twilight gently enveloped the somewhat quaint, pre-Haussmann five-story building.
Although he had received an invitation before, this was his first visit.
Salons usually didn't have a precise start time; one could begin, join, or leave at any moment.
The same was true for Charpentier's Tuesday.
It often started in the afternoon, with a bored writer chatting with Mr. Charpentier (or others), and as coffee and cigars, snacks and pastries were consumed, people kept arriving on the third floor...
Lionel told the doorman, "I am Lionel Sorel, Mr. Charpentier asked me to attend the gathering."
The doorman immediately stepped aside, clearing a path: "Mr. Sorel, Mr. Charpentier instructed that you may go directly to the third floor."
When Lionel pushed open the heavy oak door to the third-floor drawing room, the atmosphere inside immediately captivated him.
The gaslight, diffused through frosted glass shades, cast a warm glow on the dark beechwood bookshelves, thick velvet curtains, and the faces of the men seated around.
The air was a mix of rich, high-quality cigars, the fragrance of aged brandy, the musty scent of old paper, and the subtle aroma of an unknown burning spice.
Hearing the door open, everyone in discussion looked his way.
Georges Charpentier, slender and dressed in a blue suit, came forward with barely concealed excitement, muttering, "Aha, look who's here? It's our hero, Lionel!"
He then lightly embraced Lionel, patting his back and saying, "Well done, Lionel! You've worked hard!"
Immediately, everyone else in the drawing room applauded, including familiar faces like Zola, Flaubert, and Turgenev, as well as a few people he didn't recognize.
Lionel's hair stood on end; he had just experienced this script, these lines, this scene yesterday, and already had PTSD.
Could Baroness Alekseyevna have also sponsored Charpentiers Bookshelf? How much did she spend this time?
Lionel felt an invisible net closing in on him!
Thinking of the scandalous rumors about him and the Baroness from his university days, if these great literary figures also used this to tease him, he would truly jump from the third floor.
Lionel anxiously wanted to explain, frantically searching the crowd for the only "witness"—Guy de Maupassant.
But unfortunately, he was not there today.
Perhaps he had gone to Mallarmé's, or perhaps he was simply at that brothel—though he had once told Lionel on Jersey that he would "absolutely... try not to frequent prostitutes."
Fortunately, Georges Charpentier's next words relieved him: "Lionel, your letter from an unknown woman has truly surprised us!
You saved Modern Life; you are a true hero! To write such a masterpiece in such a short time, it must have taken a great deal of mental effort, didn't it?"
A short, stout, bald man also approached and shook Lionel's hand: "I am Emile Bergerat, we have corresponded. When Mr. Charpentier asked me to use color illustrations, I thought he was mad.
Now it's proven that my vision was too narrow—this issue of Modern Life, thanks to your novel and Mr. Charpentier's brilliant decision, already needs a reprint!"
It was then that Lionel noticed everyone in the drawing room held a copy of Modern Life.
Flaubert picked up his newspaper, waved it, and called out, "Come over, Mr. Sorel! If you don't come this week, we'll have to hold the salon at your apartment!"
Lionel finally relaxed, a pleasant, easy smile on his face: "Mr. Flaubert, then I'll need money to get a bigger apartment!"
Turgenev, sitting on the sofa, teased him: "With the old guard and letter from an unknown woman, a big apartment will come, and carriages will come too."
After Lionel took his seat, Flaubert eagerly spoke: "Lionel, the first sentence of this novel—'Many years later, facing the woman in his bed, the novelist L will recall that distant afternoon when he read the letter from an unknown woman.'
Under what circumstances, and with what magic, were you able to conceive such a sentence?"
Indeed, anyone sensitive to literature would be drawn in by this opening immediately.
Lionel's answer was naturally confident: "I was merely trying to capture a feeling—the feeling of time being compressed, stretched, and distorted when a great emotional impact occurs.
I forcibly bound 'L' at that moment—his past, that distant afternoon; his present, the moment of reading the letter; and his future, recalling this moment while facing the woman in his bed—using changes in tense.
Only in French, solely in French, can such entanglement be clearly presented! Gentlemen, it is not that I acquired some magic, but that French itself possesses this magic!"
Everyone present—including the Russian Turgenev—were masters of French writing, and all believed French to be the most beautiful and expressive language in the world; these words undoubtedly resonated deeply with them.
Consequently, a faint smile appeared on everyone's face, and their gaze towards Lionel grew even more appreciative.
"Magic, yes!" exclaimed Emile Bergerat, the editor-in-chief of Modern Life, his forehead shining brightly under the light.
"It makes the immediate act of 'reading the letter' instantly possess the gravity of foretelling the future and the inevitability of recalling the past.
It throws the reader into a temporal vortex from the very beginning, foreshadowing that this will be a tragedy of fate and memory. This is a novel attempt in our literature!"
Georges Charpentier elegantly swirled the brandy in his glass, his small mustache curling slightly upwards: "Émile, bold innovation is the cornerstone of Modern Life. And Lionel..."
He looked at the young man: "You not only provided innovation, but also... a topic—all the women in Paris are talking about the woman you wrote about.
My wife, and her lady friends, are all shedding tears for this woman, talking about her devotion, her decisiveness, her sacrifices... and incidentally cursing us men.
Ha, we old fellows were just talking about her too. Ivan, what did you just say about this woman? You said she was wise? How interesting..."
Lionel was momentarily speechless; he had thought these old fellows would be interested in the early stream-of-consciousness technique he used in the novel, but he didn't expect that what they cared about most was still this woman.
Turgenev put down his pipe, his grey-blue eyes showing deep thought: "George, of course it's wisdom—this woman's wisdom, and Lionel's wisdom—
That opening line, 'My son died yesterday,' is like a cold key that instantly unlocks all doubts, forcing you to believe that every word, every tear, every hopeless vigil she recounts thereafter is true.
This is the wisdom of despair, the cornerstone of tragedy."
"With all due respect, you misunderstand Lionel!" a deep, yet slightly sharp voice rang out.