Maupassant was still immersed in his own fantasy, waving his arms:
"Just imagine, Lionel! A ship of my own! The 'Belle' or the 'Julie'? The name can be decided later! Sailing along the coast, warm sunshine, the breeze of the Mediterranean, and... ah, those fiery Southern lasses!"
He winked at Lionel, with a look of unspoken understanding between men.
Lionel looked at his animated gestures, and his heart sank.
History was like an icy river, sweeping this genius towards that frantic endpoint.
The instructions Flaubert had given him when grasping his hand a year ago were still ringing in his ears; since he had promised, he had to think of a way.
Lionel set down his coffee cup and interrupted his reverie:
"Guy, congratulations on finally being able to devote yourself entirely to writing. However, if you leave now, you might miss something very interesting."
Maupassant looked at him curiously:
"Oh? Besides writing and traveling, what could possibly move me more than freedom right now?"
Lionel stated concisely:
"A play. A play that might be staged at the Comédie-Française."
Maupassant's eyes instantly lit up.
A playwright!
That title held immense attraction for any French man of letters, as it meant leaving one's name in Paris's most brilliant cultural hall!
He asked:
"Your Thunderstorm?"
Then he immediately negated it:
"No, you said Director Perrin of the Comédie-Française agreed to your renovation plan, so that won't be until spring at the earliest."
Lionel lowered his voice:
"It's not Thunderstorm—Thunderstorm is almost finished. But Director Perrin and I have another agreement: I must deliver another new script to the Comedy by October this year. A more 'traditional' comedy that is guaranteed to sell well!"
He deliberately emphasized "comedy" and "sell well," and indeed saw Maupassant swallow hard.
Maupassant pressed:
"Do you already have a concept?"
He leaned in unconsciously, his sailing plans momentarily forgotten.
Lionel spoke slowly:
"I have a bold idea. But my current energy is almost entirely taken up by Thunderstorm. Director Perrin is urging me, and I won't be able to start writing until June or July—which might be too late. So, I was thinking, perhaps I could find a like-minded friend to collaborate with."
Maupassant was not a fool; he immediately understood Lionel's intent, his breathing quickening slightly.
Collaborating with Lionel Sorel to write a play for the Comédie-Française!
This temptation was far greater than aimlessly drifting in the Mediterranean!
He grabbed Lionel's arm:
"Lionel! My dear friend! Tell me quickly, what kind of play is it?"
Lionel felt somewhat settled inside, knowing the fish had taken the bait.
He pulled his arm free, stood up, and paced twice in the drawing-room.
After a while, he turned around:
"This play, it has only one setting, a café, like the 'Café de la Régence' or the 'Procope'!"
Maupassant was taken aback:
"One setting? Is it a play following the 'Rule of Three Unities'? The 'Procope'—isn't that Jacobin territory?"
Lionel shook his head:
"Only the setting is constant throughout, but the time covered is not one day, or even one month. Through the window of this café, we will watch a long stretch of history unfold. The story begins in 1789, on the eve of the Great Revolution."
Maupassant held his breath and began to listen intently.
Lionel's voice carried a suppressed passion:
"We will see the café owner struggling to make a living amidst the turmoil. We will see how the regulars—the leisurely minor nobles, the calculating merchants, the idealistic young progressives—are manipulated by the times."
His pace was not fast, but every word sketched a new image in Maupassant's mind.
"Then, the Revolution comes. The portrait of the King on the café wall is torn down and replaced with the slogan 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.' People wear red Phrygian caps and sing La Marseillaise. New faces appear: members of the Revolutionary Committee, soldiers of the Patriotic Army..."
Lionel waved his hand in the air:
"Then comes the Napoleonic era. A portrait of the Emperor hangs up. People talk about the Sun of Austerlitz, about the Continental Blockade. Perhaps a veteran soldier comes into the café, boasting of the glory following the Emperor in battle..."
"Then, the portrait is taken down again. The Bourbon Restoration occurs. The café owner scrambles to find the dusty Fleur-de-lis emblem.
The once arrogant secret police return, persecuting Republicans from the past. Those passionate youths from before—some achieved high office, some ended up in prison, and some long turned to dust..."
Lionel paused, looking at Maupassant, who was completely captivated.
"Twenty-six full years, Guy. From the end of the Old Regime to the return of the Bourbons, the most turbulent and dramatic twenty-six years in France. We will not directly depict the battlefield, the assembly square, or the moment of the storming of the Bastille.
We will stay in this small café. All the grand history, all the glory and dreams, the bloodshed and sacrifice, the compromise and betrayal, will be reflected through the characters who enter and exit this café."
Maupassant gasped sharply, his face flushed with excitement.
He almost jumped up:
"A genius concept! Lionel! This is magnificent! Using a fixed space to hold flowing time. Reflecting the great era through the fates of ordinary people!
This... this is infinitely superior to those straightforward historical dramas! This is truly... a living, breathing historical painting of Paris!"
He paced excitedly around the living room, gesticulating continuously with both hands:
"Yes! Exactly! We don't need to write about Robespierre or Napoleon himself! We only need to write about the ordinary people who talk about them and are influenced by them!
The café is a microcosm of all of France! The owner is a witness to history! Those customers coming and going are the masses that make up history! Their joy, fear, hope, and disillusionment... My God, there is so much material to mine here!"
Lionel watched his fervent state, knowing that this fire had thoroughly ignited Maupassant's desire to create.
He spoke at the opportune moment with a hint of regret:
"This concept indeed has great potential. But this means your sailing plans will be postponed? After all, collecting materials, developing characters, researching the atmosphere of different eras, and writing it with humor and wit... this is quite a project."
Maupassant waved his hand without hesitation:
"Travel? To hell with travel! What could be more important than participating in the creation of a play like this?
Lionel! You must let me in! We'll do it together! The script can be co-authored by both of us, or only credited to you, as long as I can be involved!"
He rushed up to Lionel, his eyes burning with entreaty:
"I can buy that boat later! Italy and Spain aren't going to run away! But a creative opportunity like this might only come once in a lifetime!"
A stone fell from Lionel's heart:
"Alright, Guy, since you are so interested, then, a fruitful collaboration?"
Maupassant firmly grasped Lionel's hand and shook it vigorously:
"Fruitful collaboration! It definitely will be!"
The entire afternoon that followed was spent immersed in discussions about the creation of Café.
Lionel slowly recounted the essence of Teahouse from his memory.
Lionel pointed out:
"The key is the characters, Guy. The owner should be a shrewd but kind ordinary man; he wants to stay out of it, but history always finds its way to the door. Those regulars, we must give them believable destinies.
The decline of the nobility, the rise of the bourgeoisie, the disillusionment of the idealists, the success of the speculators... And don't forget the comedy elements; the everyday humor, satire, and absurdity are the keys to bringing this play to life."
Maupassant rapidly took notes in his shorthand book, occasionally interjecting his own ideas; the creative passion completely consumed his mind and body.
Lionel felt a slight sense of relief watching his excitement.
He didn't know how long this would keep Maupassant engaged, but at least it was a start.
The discussion continued until evening, when Petite came to ask if they should invite Mr. Maupassant to stay for dinner, and the two realized how much time had passed.
Lionel instructed:
"Of course! Tell the cook to add an extra dish, and bring out that bottle of Bordeaux we bought last time."
... Only after dinner did Maupassant put on his hat and pick up his cane, clearly reluctant to leave.
Standing at the door, his face showed no fatigue:
"Lionel, I'm going back tonight to start organizing my notes, and tomorrow I'm heading to the National Library! Just wait and see, we will definitely write a masterpiece that shocks Paris!"
Lionel clapped him on the shoulder:
"I believe you, Guy. Take care on your way."
After seeing Maupassant off, Lionel let out a long sigh.
Dealing with this energetic, highly emotional friend was no easier than revising a script.
He rubbed his temples and said to Petite and the others:
"I'm going to rest now too. If anyone else comes, just say I'm already asleep..."
Just then, the doorbell rang again.
(End of Chapter)