The next afternoon, Lionel, as agreed, followed Maupassant to Pigalle Square, to a cafe named "The Dead Rat".
It was nestled among old buildings, its facade very inconspicuous.
The wooden sign, weathered by wind and rain, had a rat pattern that was almost unrecognizably faded.
Pushing open the door, a mixed aroma of old coffee grounds, aged wood, wax, and a faint hint of mold wafted out.
The cafe was already full of people, filled with smoke and boisterous noise.
Maupassant led him to a round table further inside, and waved over a waiter.
Lionel looked around and noticed that the layout here was indeed very different from the spacious and bright "Procope" or "Flore".
"The Dead Rat Cafe" was small and low-ceilinged, with light mainly coming from a few gas lamps on the walls, making it quite dim even during the day.
The wooden floor was polished smooth from years of foot traffic, with some uneven edges.
The furniture mostly consisted of old-looking round tables and low-backed chairs, arranged very compactly, seemingly to encourage customers to gather closely for conversation and debate.
A simply dressed waiter, wearing an old apron, slowly approached.
Maupassant, with familiarity, ordered two coffees, specifically instructing:
"The usual way."
When the coffee was served, Lionel was surprised to find that the two porcelain cups on the tray were a whole size larger than the coffee cups he usually used.
Lionel was about to pick up the cup and drink as usual, but found that the cup had no handle, and it was made of thin porcelain, clearly very hot to the touch.
He looked at Maupassant, who then made a gesture that stunned him—
Maupassant carefully and steadily poured the scorching hot coffee from the cup into the shallow saucer beneath it.
Then, Maupassant picked up the saucer, blew on the hot steam, and then sipped from the edge of the saucer, making a "slurp" sound.
That posture and sound made Lionel feel a momentary trance, as if he had instantly returned to a small shop on the streets of Beijing, watching an old Beijinger drink stir-fried liver from the rim of a bowl.
After finishing a saucer of coffee, Maupassant contentedly wiped the coffee from his mustache with the back of his hand, looked up, and seeing Lionel's stunned expression, he smiled smugly.
He shook the saucer:
"How about that? Never seen it before, have you? This is the authentic way old Parisians drink coffee, my dear Lionel!
Before the Great Revolution, and up to the early days of the Empire, Parisians, especially common folk, drank coffee this way.
The cup is too thin, the coffee too hot; drinking directly would burn your mouth. Pouring it into the saucer cools it faster, and you can sip it along the rim, not wasting a single drop."
He looked at the untouched coffee in front of Lionel and urged,
"Try it? If you want to recreate history with 'The Cafe', you must pay attention to details like this. I dare say, in all of Paris, probably only this 'Dead Rat' stubbornly preserves this old-fashioned way of drinking!"
Lionel, half-believing, half-doubting, imitated Maupassant, pouring the coffee into the saucer, his movements a bit clumsy, almost spilling it.
He picked it up and tried to sip.
This method was far from elegant, even a bit awkward, but it instantly transported him back 100 years.
Maupassant lowered his voice:
"Do you feel it? It's not just the taste; it's the feeling. Sitting here, drinking coffee this way. You can almost hear the table next door discussing whether Louis XVI should be sent to the guillotine."
Lionel nodded, beginning to observe the small space more carefully.
The halo of the oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the mottled walls.
Old newspapers were piled in a corner, and most customers were plainly dressed, appearing to be artisans or hawkers.
They gathered in small groups, conversing in low tones, occasionally bursting into quiet laughter.
There were none of the common sights found in the cafes of Saint-Germain-des-Prés—intellectuals lecturing, artists lamenting poverty, ladies and gentlemen showing off and competing…
What was here was the quiet tranquility and ease of everyday common folk.
Maupassant suddenly stood up, signaling Lionel to follow him:
"Come, I'll show you something even more interesting."
They walked past several tables, heading towards a narrow passage at the back of the cafe. At the end of the passage were two small, closed doors.
A foul odor told them that behind the doors must be the cafe's restrooms.
Lionel's gaze fell on the sign on the door, and he was stunned once again.
What was written on it was neither the common "Men/Women" nor "Mr./Mrs.", but in black paint—
"Male Citizen" and "Female Citizen".
This term, like a ghost walking directly from the depths of history, carrying the aura of 1793, stood abruptly before Lionel.
Although women being able to enter cafes and the establishment of separate male and female restrooms in cafes were recent developments, it also showed the owner's mindset here.
Maupassant looked at the expression on Lionel's face and nodded with satisfaction:
"See? 'Citizen'! This shop, it's said to have been passed down for five generations.
It's been here since before the Great Revolution, having witnessed the Empire, the Restoration Monarchy, the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, the Second Empire, and now the Third Republic...
The world outside turned upside down. Baron Haussmann tore down and rebuilt Paris, but this place, like a stone in the Seine River, stubbornly remained in the past.
Generations of owners have stubbornly refused any 'modernization', insisting on drinking coffee from saucers and referring to their customers as 'citizens'.
He said it was a rule set by his great-grandfather, a staunch Jacobin, and it couldn't be changed."
He paused, then continued:
"Procope's history is even longer; Voltaire, Diderot, and Napoleon all visited. Oh, and Napoleon even pawned his military hat there. But now 'Procope' is too opulent!
Those who go there are parliamentarians, academicians, famous writers; it's no longer the nest where philosophers and revolutionaries conspired. Its history has become decoration, a gimmick to attract customers. But here, it's different—"
At this point, Maupassant patted the rough wooden doorframe:
"The history here is alive! This is the kind of place our 'The Cafe' needs. A stage truly belonging to the common people, still rooted in that era."
The two returned to their seats.
Lionel looked at the saucer of coffee in front of him, which was no longer steaming, feeling a much greater internal impact than he outwardly showed.
Maupassant was right; these details—
the custom of drinking coffee from a saucer, the appellation of "citizen", the dim and compact space—
"The Cafe" was no longer dry words on manuscript paper, but tangible fragments of history.
Together, they constructed a realistic historical environment that "actors" could immerse themselves in.
This was exactly what he wanted: that "immersive feeling" that could instantly pull the audience into a specific era.
Lionel looked up, approvingly at Maupassant:
"Guy, you've found an excellent reference sample. Everything here can almost be directly moved to the stage! Tomorrow, we'll bring Émile and his camera to photograph this place!"
Maupassant immediately grew excited:
"That's great! Émile will be thrilled!"
Lionel smiled, pouring a little more coffee into the saucer.
Drinking, he said to Maupassant,
"All right, we can now discuss Act Two of 'The Cafe'. According to our previous framework, Act Two is set in the Year II of the Republic, at the height of the Reign of Terror..."
(End of Chapter)