The final completion of The Café script lifted a heavy burden from Lionel and Maupassant.
A mix of satisfaction and exhaustion intertwined, and both men desperately needed a celebration to relax.
Lionel suggested inviting Huysmans, Paul Alexis, Léon Hennique, and Henri Céard to dinner at the "English Café" in Paris.
Maupassant, a gourmand, readily agreed, even reminiscing about the time he invited Lionel to eat at a public table.
"Who would have thought that the poor boy who could only gnaw on black bread at noon can now go to the 'English Café'!"
The decoration of the "English Café" was typical of the Second Empire's heyday, and although slightly outdated, it was still dazzling.
Gilded decorations, huge crystal chandeliers, crimson velvet curtains, and silent waiters in sharp uniforms created a unique sense of luxury.
This was a favored spot for wealthy merchants, foreign tourists, and successful artists.
Lionel booked a relatively quiet, semi-private booth.
In the evening, everyone arrived by carriage.
Once seated, they chatted amongst themselves, and the atmosphere was relaxed and pleasant.
Maupassant eagerly placed a thick stack of The Café manuscript on the table, attracting everyone's attention.
Lionel picked up the menu, smiled, and said,
"Gentlemen, to celebrate the completion of The Café, and to reward our hardworking Guy, tonight you don't need to hold back."
He ordered a lavish meal:
Appetizers were fresh oysters from Normandy, paired with crisp Chablis white wine;
The soup was classic onion soup, covered with thick, golden-brown grilled cheese;
The main course was the "English Café"'s signature dish – roasted Charolais steak, served with rich foie gras and a secret black pepper sauce;
Paired with a mellow red wine from the Saint-Estèphe region of Bordeaux.
After the meal, there was a selection of cheese platters and Cointreau-soaked soufflés.
Fine wine and delicious food were soon served, and the aroma filled the air.
Everyone raised their glasses, toasting the completion of The Café and their friendship.
The clinking of silver cutlery against delicate porcelain plates and the murmur of conversation gradually grew warmer.
Huysmans was the first to succumb to his curiosity, pointing to the stack of manuscripts and asking,
"Is this the masterpiece that kept you two busy for half a year?"
Lionel nodded, and Maupassant proudly handed over the manuscript.
The pages began to circulate among Huysmans, Alexis, Hennique, and Céard.
They initially had relaxed smiles, but as they delved deeper into the reading, the atmosphere in the booth gradually became quiet, with only the rustling of turning pages and the faint murmur of distant noise.
Everyone was deeply shaken!
The profound sense of historical tragedy reflected through the fates of ordinary characters in the script, and the powerful lines, struck their hearts like hammers.
Léon Hennique softly recited the lines of the owner, Pierre, his voice bitter:
"This writes all the sorrows of the little people."
Henri Céard repeated the Viscount de Saint-Cyr's lament, "I love our France, but who loves me?" his expression complex:
"This helplessness of being abandoned by the times..."
Paul Alexis also read Lefebvre's sarcasm:
"If you have money, you should eat, drink, and be merry, go with the flow, but never do anything foolish like 'revitalizing French industry'!"
He smiled bitterly and shook his head:
"This denies one's life's pursuit in the most desperate way. It's so powerful, Lion, Guy, these sentences could be carved on gravestones!"
Huysmans finally put down the manuscript and slowly exhaled a smoke ring.
He rarely expressed such direct praise:
"Magnificent. This isn't writing history; this is showcasing the soul of France!
Congratulations, Lion, Guy, once this play is staged, it might be even more sensational than The Thunderstorm—it touches something deep within us French people."
He looked at Maupassant, his tone filled with sincere envy:
"Guy, to be involved in the creation of such a work is truly enviable!
This play is destined to be remembered in literary and dramatic history."
The others also nodded in agreement, their eyes filled with similar envy towards Maupassant.
Maupassant's face glowed red, with both the joy of being recognized and the pride of being a participant.
At this moment, Lionel gave everyone a meaningful look:
"You are only focused on envying Guy's participation in the creation, have you not noticed that Guy himself is also quite different compared to before?"
This sentence made everyone pause, and their gazes instantly focused on Maupassant.
Huysmans narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him; Alexis, Hennique, and Céard also observed thoughtfully.
Indeed, the Maupassant before them was significantly different from the typical Parisian playboy they remembered.
In the past, Maupassant was flamboyant and unrestrained, his love life was wild, and his face often had an unhealthy pale blue due to excessive indulgence.
He was also notoriously known among his friends as a syphilis patient.
Frequent visits to brothels and staying out all night were his norm, and he always carried a restless, thrill-seeking aura.
But the current Maupassant's eyes were noticeably calmer, that flamboyance tempered by an inner sense of fulfillment.
Although his conversation was still witty, it had a touch more composure.
Most notably, his complexion was no longer sickly pale, but radiated a healthy rosiness.
He looked refreshed.
Maupassant felt a little embarrassed being stared at by his friends.
He subconsciously touched his face, suddenly realizing his own change.
He smiled shyly and explained,
"Now that Lion mentions it, it seems true. For The Café these past few months, I've either been at the National Library researching or discussing characters, structure, and lines with him...
My mind has been filled with the Revolution, the Empire, the Restoration, and I even thought about the fates of those characters in my sleep!"
He paused, his voice tinged with self-mockery:
"To be honest, even I'm surprised that I only went to a brothel once a week these past few months."
Everyone was somewhat astonished, then broke into teasing smiles.
Huysmans slowly exhaled a smoke ring:
"Two years ago in Vienna, someone said he could go twenty times in a row—who won that night?"
Everyone burst into laughter!
Lionel smiled as he looked at Maupassant, but his mind recalled his teacher Flaubert's dying wish—"Lionel, if possible, give Guy a hand..."
He knew that with the technological level of this era, even if he tried to connect with Dr. Pasteur and inspire him, it might be too late to cure Maupassant's syphilis.
But if he could change his lifestyle, helping him break free from that endless, self-destructive indulgence, perhaps he could live longer and be mentally more stable.
These past few months, focusing Maupassant on serious creation instead of yachting to Italy for debauchery, was undoubtedly good medicine.
Lionel took the opportunity to ask,
"Guy, speaking of which, I've always been a little curious. Why did you choose to live such a wild and unrestrained life before? That doesn't seem entirely like you."
This question made the atmosphere at the table slightly more somber.
Maupassant's smile gradually faded.
He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on nothingness.
After a long time, he said in a low tone,
"That war changed me..."
Everyone present knew he was referring to the war with the Prussians.
Maupassant had been conscripted and had personally experienced shelling and death on the battlefield.
Maupassant's voice trembled:
"Ever since I saw people fall like wheat on the battlefield and survived countless close calls in the mud and gunfire...
I became disillusioned with the value of life, because you never know which comes first, tomorrow or death.
Those lofty ideals, beautiful plans, seemed so ridiculous and naive in the face of death.
I believed life should be enjoyed in the moment, seizing all present joys, otherwise... otherwise, when I die, looking back on my life, it would be full of untried regrets.
That would be the greatest regret!"
His words instantly resonated with the others present.
Huysmans put down his wine glass, nodding darkly:
"Exactly, that damned war... I also served in the quartermaster corps and saw enough chaos and despair.
During the siege of Paris, hunger, cold, and the constant threat of incoming shells made everything meaningless.
After the war, I also felt that nothing mattered. Only sensory stimulation made me feel alive."
Léon Hennique sighed:
"Although I didn't go directly to the battlefield, I volunteered at a hospital in the rear.
Those missing limbs, those agonizing groans, were enough to destroy any beautiful imagination of the world.
For a long time after the war, I couldn't stand silence. I needed to constantly seek pleasure, numbing myself with alcohol and noise to avoid recalling those images."
Henri Céard and Paul Alexis also quietly recounted similar feelings.
The disastrous defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, the bloody suppression of the Paris Commune by the republican government...
This series of traumas profoundly affected their generation of young French people who came of age and experienced it firsthand.
Their general mental state was one of disillusionment, loss, and despair, so many sought stimulation and solace in debauchery, which became a kind of epochal malaise.
A full decade had passed, but the nightmare of war still haunted their minds, driving them to escape their inner emptiness and pain through a life of dissipation.
Lionel listened quietly to their stories, observing these talented faces shrouded in the shadow of their era.
Behind their unrestrained lifestyles lay deep-seated generational trauma and ruined spirits.
A word naturally surfaced in his mind and slipped out:
"You are a lost generation!"
This sentence was like a strange rest, instantly cutting off all narratives and emotions.
Huysmans, Maupassant, Alexis, Hennique, Céard—everyone was stunned.
They stared blankly at Lionel, their eyes filled with astonishment and bewilderment, as if hit by a bullet.
Maupassant subconsciously repeated the phrase: "A lost generation..."
The private room fell silent, with only the faint music from the distant restaurant and the aroma emanating from the dishes on the table...
Lionel nodded: "Yes, a lost generation! My next novel will be dedicated to you!"
(End of Chapter)