Paris mornings were usually awakened by the rattling wheels of milk delivery carts and the sharp cries of newsboys.
But on this morning in August 1881, an unusual commotion spread through the streets.
Newsboys waved copies of "Le Petit Parisien" in their hands, their voices higher pitched than on any previous day:
"Extra! Extra! Exclusive photos from Le Petit Parisien! The tragic state of Sorel Villa revealed for the first time!"
"See the real atrocities! Unprecedented clarity! Photos printed directly on the newspaper!"
Curious pedestrians stopped one after another, pulling out a sou to buy a newspaper.
Then, they almost simultaneously gasped, their eyes firmly caught by the enormous "illustration" on the front page.
It was a photograph of the living room of Lionel's villa in Villeneuve.
The image had no color, composed only of black, white, and grey, but it was so real it was heart-wrenching!
Occupying the center of the photo was the overturned enormous desk, its legs pointing towards the ceiling, like some kind of dead animal.
Around the desk, books and manuscripts, like fallen leaves swept by a storm, covered the entire floor, extending all the way to the edge of the photo.
In the foreground, fragments of a shattered vase were clearly visible, next to which lay a hardcover book torn in half;
Further away, the sofa had been slashed open by a sharp blade, revealing its greyish-white stuffing, like an ugly wound.
On the wall where paintings had once hung, only a lonely nail remained, and on the floor below, there was an irregular dark stain, like blood.
The clarity of the photograph was unprecedented.
Every scratch on the wooden floor, every crease on the book pages, even the blurry but faintly discernible handwriting on the scattered manuscripts, was revealed in minute detail.
This undeniable sense of reality instantly broke through the psychological defenses of all readers.
It was completely different from previous woodcut illustrations—woodcut illustrations could exaggerate, omit, beautify, or uglify.
But photographs, they coldly and objectively recorded everything, brutally laying out the most raw details of the atrocities before everyone.
"Le Petit Parisien" used no fancy borders or decorations, simply accompanying the photo with a concise yet ironic black title:
"Behold France Today!"
Below the title, there was also a line of small text:
[Photographed by our reporter at Mr. Sorel's residence in Villeneuve.]
This was the first time a French newspaper had published a "photograph," using halftone printing technology, which the American "Daily Graphic" had used last year at a terrifyingly high cost.
But "Le Petit Parisien" still sold for only 1 sou, definitely a losing business.
Paul Pigott, however, gritted his teeth and did it; he wanted to use this method to express his support for Lionel.
Immediately following, the newspaper's second page, the editor boldly used an entire spread to publish more photos taken from different angles:
The garden trampled into a muddy swamp, the slashed mattress in the bedroom, the sea of overturned bookshelves in the study, the chaotic fragments in the kitchen…
Every photograph was like a heavy punch, striking hard at the readers' chests.
Throughout Paris, from cafes to salons, from the stock exchange to workers' taverns, people were circulating and discussing this newspaper.
Although other newspapers had previously described the "atrocities" in Villeneuve with text and woodcut illustrations, it was merely scratching the surface.
The impact brought by these photographs at this moment completely immersed readers.
Sympathy, anger, shock, shame… a torrent of emotions surged and festered in the hearts of Parisian citizens.
A professor in a cafe cried out in surprise:
"My God, this is simply a massacre! A massacre of civilization!"
A young student forcefully slapped the table:
"Look at those books! Those manuscripts! What they destroyed is not just a house, but ideas! Talent!"
A decently dressed lady covered her mouth with a handkerchief:
"I always thought the 'Youth Guard' were just mischievous children… but this, this is pure thuggery!"
This immense sympathy brought by the visual evidence quickly transformed into action.
That afternoon, young people, in twos and threes, either by carriage or on foot, came to Villeneuve.
There was even a procession of cyclists riding "Sorel Type 1" bicycles, ringing their bells as they arrived.
They held fresh lilies and roses in their hands, silently placing them before the tightly closed gate of the damaged villa.
The white and red petals, at the muddy, foot-printed entrance to the courtyard, appeared particularly dazzling and mournful.
As time passed, more and more people came to offer flowers.
The bouquets gradually piled up, forming a small, silent monument.
Some also brought cards with "Support Sorel," "Long live freedom of thought," and "Condemn atrocities" written on them, carefully pinning them to the bouquets.
Some people, seeing the dilapidated scene, couldn't bear it and spontaneously wanted to go in and help clear the rubble, to restore the house to its former tranquility.
But their good intentions were stopped by Maupassant, who had been left there to guard the place.
The writer, usually full of jest and banter, had no trace of a joke on his face at this moment.
He stood at the doorway, blocking the path of the kind-hearted people:
"Thank you, sirs and ladies. But please, stop."
He stretched out his hand, pointing at the mess behind him:
"This place should remain as it is. Let everyone who comes see it with their own eyes and experience it for themselves."
"Some wounds cannot be easily stitched up. They need to be seen, they need to be remembered. Concealing them is the beginning of forgetting; forgetting is another injury."
People fell silent, looking at Maupassant's firm gaze, then at the villa that resembled ruins, finally nodding slowly and leaving.
They understood that this dilapidated house was no longer merely private property; it had become a symbol, an accusation.
The flowers piled higher and higher at the doorway, while the devastation inside the house, under the summer sun, remained shocking.
------
On the very same day that the photographs in "Le Petit Parisien" shocked Paris, in London, in the editor-in-chief's office of "Good Words" magazine.
Norman MacLeod, a cigar in his mouth, was anxiously awaiting the typesetters to deliver the proofs for the latest issue of the magazine.
Just then, his secretary walked in with some mail.
"Sir, you have urgent mail. It's from Mr. Lionel Sorel."
Norman MacLeod's eyes instantly lit up, like a cat spotting its prey.
He practically snatched the mail and quickly tore it open.
Inside was a stack of neatly typed manuscripts, the title on the top page was: "The Happy Prince"
"The Happy Prince?"
Norman MacLeod muttered aloud, a relaxed smile appearing on his face.
"Ha! It seems he rested well in London and finally has the mood to write something light and pleasant. A fairy tale! Just right to give readers a change of pace."
He happily thought that this must be a heartwarming story full of beautiful fantasies, perhaps even boosting the magazine's sales among children and family readers.
He adjusted his posture, sinking more comfortably into the armchair, and began to read with great interest.
The manuscript pages turned one by one in his hands.
At first, his face still held that pleasant smile, ready to enjoy a sweet story.
But soon, the smile on his face gradually froze, and his brow furrowed more and more deeply.
By the end, Norman MacLeod couldn't help but sigh:
"Lionel, what exactly are you trying to do?"
(End of chapter)