As time entered June 1881, hotter than the weather in Paris was the unabating frenzy for "The Storm".
The play had been staged over fifteen times at the Comédie-Française, with every performance selling out the aisle tickets.
The box office was like the Seine overflowing its banks, and the fervent audience was wave after wave of floodwaters, surging for a whole month with no sign of decline.
The long queue in front of the ticket window on Rue de Richelieu became a permanent sight, with ticket scalpers weaving through, inflating the already hefty ticket prices to astonishing levels.
What truly made Parisians realize that "The Storm" had transcended the scope of a successful play was a peculiar phenomenon known as "Storm Sickness".
Some young students, minor clerks, or artistic youths, despite being strapped for cash, were so engrossed in the plot that they repeatedly bought tickets to watch it.
It is said that the record holder was a medical student from the Latin Quarter, who watched it no less than eleven times.
They only bought the cheapest "aisle tickets", which required standing throughout the performance.
But even stranger was their way of watching the play.
In the theater, they held their breath and focused intently, as if on a pilgrimage, until a certain critical point in the play—
Either "Madeleine" would cry out with a mix of grief and indignation,
"It is fate! It is unfair fate that has brought me here!";
Or "Madame Madeleine" would utter in a tone foretelling destruction,
"Very well, go! Beware, the storm is about to break!"
—At that moment, they would erupt in brief yet fervent applause, as if a long-awaited ritual had been completed.
Then these spectators would turn and leave contentedly, pushing through the crowd without hesitation, disappearing into the night outside the theater.
They left the thunder and lightning, death, and madness of the second half behind.
This peculiar behavior of waiting only for a momentary emotional outburst became the freshest topic of conversation in Parisian salons.
Some said it was a new form of aesthetic appreciation, others said it was merely a pauper's pretentious eccentricity.
But regardless, the slightly mocking term "Storm Sickness" spread rapidly, becoming yet another clear proof of "The Storm"'s phenomenal influence.
Meanwhile, the clamor at the Comédie-Française had long since transcended national borders.
Gentlemen from London, scholars from Berlin, artists from Vienna, nobles from Saint Petersburg, innovators from Barcelona, art enthusiasts from Rome…
They poured into Paris like a tide, speaking in various accents.
On their itineraries, even more important than visiting the Louvre was to watch a performance of "The Storm" at the Comédie-Française.
Hotel owners and coachmen smiled broadly; they might not understand the play, but they recognized francs and centimes.
Facing this unprecedented demand, the Comédie-Française pioneered a new approach in European theatrical performances
—dividing the cast of "The Storm" into three groups, with core actors such as Sarah Bernhardt and François Got-Luzarche starring in the evening shows;
The other two groups of experienced actors took turns performing the matinee shows and weekend extra performances.
This rotation barely met the demand of theater enthusiasts across Europe and also allowed the Comédie-Française's box office revenue to reach an unprecedented figure.
Director Émile Perrin looked at the account books, his smile so bright it could almost melt the Arctic glaciers.
The storm stirred up by "The Storm" not only impacted ordinary audiences but also triggered an earthquake-like effect among peers in the theater industry.
Great playwrights whose names alone represented the theatrical achievements of an era also flocked to Paris from across Europe.
They sat in the Salle Richelieu, filled with curiosity, scrutiny, jealousy... a myriad of complex emotions.
Alexandre Dumas fils rushed back from Florence specifically, and after watching the performance, remained silent in his private box for a long time.
Upon returning, he tore up the script for "The Princess of Baghdad" that he had just finished writing.
Henrik Ibsen from Norway, originally visiting Munich, came to Paris specifically at the strong recommendation of his German friends and watched two consecutive performances of "The Storm".
This theatrical revolutionary, who had shaken Europe with "A Doll's House", did not cheer wildly like other spectators after the performance.
He simply sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the glow of the electric lights on stage, silent for a long time.
Back at the hotel, he told his friend:
"...Compared to 'The Storm', 'A Doll's House' seems like an 18th-century work."
In addition, there were Paul Heyse from Germany, Alexander Ostrovsky from Russia...
These theatrical giants from their respective countries had surprisingly consistent reactions after watching "The Storm":
They felt deeply shaken, and at the same time, sensed a creative obsolescence and crisis!
Ostrovsky stated directly in a telegram to the manager of the Moscow theater:
"...Immediately arrange to acquire the performing rights for 'The Storm'! At all costs!
Many of our past creative concepts need to be thoroughly re-evaluated."
Almost in unison, these masters, through their respective channels, sent requests for meetings to the Comédie-Française and even to Lionel himself.
They all wanted to personally meet this young man who had pushed the art of drama to new heights.
For playwrights, what restricted their creation was not imagination, but the development of objective stage technology.
Traditional drama had to adhere to the "three unities" (within a single day, a single location, and a single plotline), partly to allow conflicts to erupt more concentratedly;
and partly due to the limitations of stage technology, which could not portray longer, richer environmental changes.
Lionel's "The Storm" was equivalent to setting an example for playwrights across Europe and even the world, telling them—
that in the future, the stage space of drama would not only be horizontal but also vertical;
and that stirring audience emotions would not only rely on plot and music but could also utilize subtle lighting changes.
This was equivalent to Sergei Eisenstein demonstrating the "montage" technique to the world for the first time in cinema, after which film production entered a completely new era.
Audiences who had seen "montage" would find films without it stiff and tedious;
audiences who had seen "The Storm" would find traditional theater productions dark and the performances distorted.
For playwrights, keeping up with this revolution was an opportunity for further advancement; failing to do so meant facing the fate of being eliminated.
The apartment at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, after the premiere of "The Storm", had originally experienced wave after wave of visitor peaks.
Lionel was exhausted from coping and had to arrange many meetings in cafes or other public places.
Then, one afternoon in mid-June, Émile Zola hosted another small salon at his villa in Médan.
At this salon, not only were the "Seven of Médan" present, but Zola also stated that "a few friends are eager to meet you."
When Lionel arrived, Zola's villa living room was already filled with smoke and laughter.
Zola warmly greeted them and introduced:
"Lion, this is Henrik Ibsen, the author of 'A Doll's House', this is Paul Heyse, the author of 'The Goddess of Reason', this is Alexander Ostrovsky, this is August Strindberg..."
After Lionel had met each of them, everyone eagerly focused the conversation on "The Storm".
Lionel was also prepared; he smiled and distributed a sketch of the Comédie-Française stage renovation to the playwrights present.
Then, standing in the center of the living room, he spoke in a seductive tone, like a devil's whisper:
"Gentlemen, regarding 'stage electrification renovation', I believe European countries should unify standards, so that new plays created by everyone in the future can be performed smoothly in all medium and large theaters; And those who should lead this revolution are us, the playwrights..."
Ibsen, Paul Heyse, Ostrovsky, Strindberg... all looked up, their gazes fixed intently on Lionel!
(End of Chapter)