There was no applause, no cheering, not even discussion.
The audience seemed to have been drained of all energy by the final gunshot and the ensuing death and madness.
Everyone was immersed in a state of profound tragic shock, unable to break free.
The air was thick with tremendous trembling and sorrow.
Nearly half a minute passed after the heavy curtain of The Thunderstorm fell before the deathly silence in the Richelieu Hall was broken by the first, belated applause.
"Bravo!"
"Brava!"
The calls were initially sporadic, accompanied by sobs, but then, like a sweeping wildfire, they thundered through the entire theater.
The applause became deafening, so dense there was not a single gap, interspersed with ecstatic cheers.
It was as if the audience needed to vent all the emotions suppressed during the play—shock, fear, pity, and reverence for this great tragedy—
All of it poured out through this frenzied clapping and shouting!
The grand curtain slowly rose again amid the overwhelming sound.
First to appear on stage were the actors playing servants and minor roles.
They stood in a neat row and bowed to the audience.
Next, the actors portraying "Guillaume" and "Lavergne" came out.
Although their characters were detestable, they, too, earned enthusiastic applause at this moment.
Both bowed deeply, their faces showing the humility of actors stepping out of character.
Then, the actor playing "Marcel."
His image, full of the spirit of resistance, especially his passionate indignation during the confrontation with Lavergne, won applause and cheers from many young audience members and progressive thinkers.
The true first climax occurred when the young actor playing "Antoine" stepped out.
His innocent, kind, yet ultimately ruthlessly destroyed character brought tears to countless spectators' eyes.
At this moment, ladies vigorously clapped while wiping the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs, shouting, "Bravo! Poor Antoine!"
It was as if they were mourning a life that had truly been lost.
The atmosphere grew even warmer with the appearance of the actresses playing "Fanny" and "Madeleine."
Their faces still showed traces of unshed tears.
Their tragic figures, sucked into a terrifying vortex of fate in their blissful ignorance, elicited widespread sympathy.
The cheers and applause nearly lifted the ceiling of the Comédie-Française.
The applause reached a new peak when the actor playing "Édouard" walked to the front of the stage.
He had perfectly embodied Édouard's complex character, struggling with lust, ethics, and despair before finally choosing destruction.
The audience expressed their highest affirmation of his acting with continuous, deafening "Bravo!"s.
He even had to step forward three times individually to bow to the audience in different directions.
Next, the entire hall instantly held its breath—Sarah Bernhardt, the legend who played "Madame Madeleine," appeared on stage.
She was still wearing the dark costume, her face pale, her eyes seemingly retaining the embers of madness.
She merely stood there, nodding slightly—
"Brava! Bernhardt!"
"Sarah! Hurrah!"
A tsunami of frenzied cheers and applause erupted, threatening to drown her.
The entire audience rose to its feet.
Gentlemen and ladies in the boxes abandoned their decorum, leaning out and clapping forcefully.
Flowers began to rain onto the stage from all directions.
Beautiful bouquets of roses, lilies, and irises fell like raindrops at her feet.
Soon, the front edge of the stage was covered with bouquets, forming a virtual wall of flowers that nearly reached her ankles.
This was not just praise for her performance tonight, but a tribute to the supreme status of this Queen of the Stage.
However, the night's glory did not stop with the actors.
Just as the applause subsided, a clear voice rang out from the orchestra section, which was immediately joined by countless others into a torrent:
"Author!"
"Author!"
The shouts were unified and filled with undeniable enthusiasm.
This was the highest tribute to the soul of the drama—the playwright.
Backstage, Lionel, standing with the excitedly incoherent Director Émile Perrin, was taken aback by the call that echoed through the theater.
He had quietly come backstage to offer comfort to the actors right after the curtain fell and was now preparing to leave.
Before Lionel could react, Émile Perrin pushed him toward the front:
"Go, Lionel! They are calling for you! This is your moment!"
In an instant, Lionel was exposed to the bright stage lights, focused upon by nearly two thousand fervent pairs of eyes.
He stood slightly awkwardly at the center of the brightly lit stage, in front of the assembled actors, facing that ocean composed of flowers and applause—
The most passionate scene of the night unfolded in the Richelieu Hall!
The entire audience, without exception, stood up again!
The applause and cheers reached an unprecedented zenith.
"Long live Sorel!"
"Bravo! Genius!"
"Long live The Thunderstorm!"
Hats were tossed into the air, canes were raised and waved, and handkerchiefs fluttered like white butterflies between the boxes.
Several young literary enthusiasts even climbed the railings, ignoring the pleas of the management, and loudly recited impromptu poems directed at Lionel.
They praised The Thunderstorm as a "masterpiece that rips the soul apart."
One elegantly dressed lady fiercely pulled a golden bracelet off her wrist and threw it onto the stage.
Lionel stood on stage, the lights slightly dazzling, facing a boiling sea of people and a deafening wave of sound.
On the stage, the actors also came forward, enthusiastically embracing him and kissing his cheeks.
Sarah Bernhardt tightly grasped his hand, tears glistening in her eyes: "Lionel, you have created a miracle! This is your night!"
François Gauthier-Luzarches patted him hard on the back, praising him loudly.
He could only continually, deeply bow.
Each time he straightened up, it triggered a new, more enthusiastic round of cheering.
The actors stood behind him, smiling and applauding, fully dedicating this honor to him.
It was only then that Émile Perrin walked onto the stage, embracing Lionel excitedly, and then one by one embracing the principal actors, jointly receiving the audience's tribute.
This curtain call lasted for almost fifteen minutes.
Each time the curtain fell, it immediately rose again due to persistent shouts of "Rappel (Call back)!"
This repeated no less than five or six times, and each time the curtain was drawn open, it ignited a new wave of applause.
Even after the actors and the author took their final bow and the curtain finally closed completely, many spectators lingered for a long time, unwilling to leave.
They gathered within the theater, discussing and savoring the moment with excitement, as if they had just undergone a spiritual baptism.
And outside the stage door and the actors' dressing rooms, crowds had already gathered, hoping to express their admiration in person—
There were high-society figures, critics, as well as fervent literary youths and drama enthusiasts.
They waited, hoping for a close glimpse of the young author and the actors who had just delivered such a magnificent performance.
Tonight, the Comédie-Française was no longer just a theater; it had become the center of Paris's artistic sanctuary.
When Lionel finally finished the socializing and was preparing to leave with Sophie, Alice, and Patty in a carriage, he was astonished by the sight before him.
Along the streets on both sides of the theater's side entrance, hundreds of people had spontaneously gathered.
They held candles, the dancing flames flickering in the Parisian night air, illuminating faces that were young and excited.
When someone shouted, "Monsieur Sorel is coming out!" a cheer erupted from the crowd.
"For Lionel Sorel!"
"The Thunderstorm has cleansed our souls!"
"The Thunderstorm allowed us to witness the true face of fate!"
This spontaneously formed procession pushed the splendor of the night to its final climax.
The carriage slowly set off under the cheers and gaze of the crowd, driving away from the still-bustling Rue de Richelieu.
Lionel leaned back in his seat, letting out a long sigh, a mix of exhaustion and excitement.
He knew that tonight was only the beginning.
Tomorrow, all the newspapers in Paris would be dominated by The Thunderstorm and his name.
(End of Chapter)