Lionel's voice was laced with worry:
"Émile, Alphonse, Guy... don't you feel that France has fallen into a crisis? This method of putting a single person on a pedestal and expressing love through such a grand, unified ceremony... it makes me uneasy.
This is not celebrating literature; it's establishing a new secular faith. Does France need another form of worship? And this object of worship isn't even some 'Son of God' or an abstract concept, but a specific person."
Zola nodded:
"I understand your concern, Lionel. Sincerity and fervor are sometimes separated by only a thin line. The Republic is too young, too fragile. It is eager to find any symbol that can unite people's hearts. Mr. Hugo is undoubtedly the most suitable candidate. But..."
He looked back towards the surging crowd below the window:
"When worship becomes a state act, when reverence is organized into a performance of this scale, it is indeed cause for vigilance. I worry that this fanaticism will ultimately devour some of the very things it initially sought to defend."
Daudet also spoke up:
"Mr. Hugo... I recall when he first returned to Paris from Guernsey, he actually expected the Chamber to authorize him as a 'Dictator.' He had even prepared to accept that position. Of course, that never came to pass..."
Everyone else fell silent.
They all remembered that incident, and the air in the room grew heavy.
They stood there, gazing for a long time at the grand "canonization" ceremony outside the window, watching the surging masses...
A sense of historical destiny lingered in everyone's heart.
The ocean of cheers, songs, and footsteps outside remained turbulent, as if threatening to sweep everything away.
Lionel took one last look at the "spiritual monarch" before the opposite window, who was being worshipped by countless people, then turned away from the window.
In mid-March 1881, the weather in Paris had warmed up.
But the Comédie-Française had prematurely entered a feverish "summer."
The auditorium was no longer as solemn and splendid as it once was; it looked more like the opened abdomen of a giant.
More than half of the wooden floor of the stage had been pried up, revealing the pitch-black space beneath, where workers were replacing oak supports with cast iron ones.
They shouted work chants, using crowbars and ropes to adjust massive wooden beams and iron frames.
The sound of heavy hammering, sawing, and metal clashing was incessant.
On the walls, where magnificent frescoes once covered the surfaces, regular grooves had been chiseled out, exposing newly laid electrical wires like long nerves.
The air was filled with the smell of sawdust, paint, and insulating rubber.
Nikola Tesla, dressed in work clothes, stood on scaffolding with several engineers, intensely discussing the blueprints spread out before them.
He occasionally pointed to the location reserved for the arc lamps high above, or squatted down to observe the routing of the cables, his expression focused.
Occasionally, he could enjoy a moment of quiet to perform calculations; but most of the time, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the ceaseless construction noise in the background.
The renovation was a race against time; they had to finish before mid-April to allow enough time for full rehearsals.
In the rehearsal hall, separated by only one wall from this chaos, the windows were tightly shut and the heavy curtains drawn, filtering out some of the noise and distraction.
The air inside was somewhat stuffy.
Lionel sat on a hard-backed chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
Director Émile Perrin sat beside him, his plump fingers nervously twisting together, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
In front of them was a cleared area serving as the stage. Several actors were running a crucial scene from Thunderstorm—the unexpected reunion between "Zhou Puyuan" and "Lu Shiping" at the "Zhou Residence" after years of separation.
Only now, these two roles were named "Charles de Lavernère" and "Madeleine."
Madame Berthe, a veteran actress of the Comédie-Française known for portraying tragic female roles, was playing Madeleine.
Her performance was restrained yet full of tension.
Standing before the actor playing "Lavernère," she conveyed immense shock and inexpressible pain through mere physical movement.
[Madeleine's voice was hoarse, desperately suppressing the imminent flood of emotion: "I am a former servant who once waited upon the Master!"]
The actor playing "Charles de Lavernère" was the experienced François Gautier-Luzarche, who had successfully played "Director Lachat" in The Choir.
In Thunderstorm, he perfectly captured the image of a capitalist who considered himself respectable but was in fact cold and hypocritical.
He first showed a condescending, scrutinizing gaze, then a flicker of confusion, before being stung by someone deep in his memory, his brow furrowing slightly.
His eyes mixed astonishment, panic, and defensiveness.
[Lavernère slowly stood up, his voice trembling:
"Oh, Madeleine! How—how is it you?"]
Madeleine's tone carried a hint of sarcasm:
"Naturally, you never imagined that my appearance would one day age beyond your recognition."
Lavernère looked in disbelief:
"You—Madeleine?"
He subconsciously glanced at the photograph on the cabinet, then at the woman opposite him.
Madeleine's voice suddenly became somewhat distant:
"Charles, are you looking for Madeleine? Madeleine is right here."
Lavernère suddenly became severe:
"What are you doing here?"
Madeleine's voice also turned panicked:
"It wasn't me who came!"
Lavernère didn't believe her:
"Who sent you? Those deputies?"
Madeleine was filled with grief and indignation:
"Destiny! Unfair destiny sent me here!"
... At this moment when the tension was at its absolute peak—
"Clang!"
A loud crash of metal hitting the floor came from next door, followed by hurried shouts and a commotion of footsteps from the workers.
Everyone in the rehearsal hall flinched at the sudden noise.
The emotion carefully cultivated by the actress playing "Madeleine" was interrupted; the tears that had gathered in her eyes seemed to be momentarily forced back, and her body stiffened slightly.
The actor playing "Lavernère" subconsciously glanced toward the source of the noise, and the rhythm of the performance stalled.
Director Émile Perrin closed his eyes in pain, almost letting out a groan.
However, the two actors were professionals after all.
After a pause of only one or two seconds, "Madeleine" refocused on her scene partner, slowly voicing the grief and accusation that had been interrupted.
"Lavernère" also quickly adjusted his state, making the panic beneath his hypocrisy seem even more real.
Lionel had not moved from beginning to end, not even changing his posture significantly.
His gaze pierced through the dim light of the rehearsal hall, firmly fixed on the actors, as if the surrounding noise was merely irrelevant background sound.
Finally, this rehearsal ended.
The actors stopped moving, breathing slightly heavily, and their gazes invariably turned to Lionel and Director Perrin, awaiting judgment.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint construction noise coming from next door.
(End of Chapter)