The old man walked up to Lionel, not shouting excitedly like the others, but merely bowing deeply:
"Mr. Sorel! Do you still remember me?
Antoine Mathieu, the poor sailor on the 'Saint Michel' who spent his life shucking oysters for others!"
Lionel, of course, remembered.
His story "My Uncle Jules" was first orally dictated in front of Maupassant and others, using Mathieu as the blueprint.
However, the old man was no longer as down and out as he had been two years ago.
His clothes were clean and well-fitting, and his face was free of grime.
Lionel stepped forward and shook his hand:
"Mr. Mathieu, of course I remember—but you've changed a lot."
Antoine Mathieu broke into a smile, his crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling together:
"Changed? Yes, sir, now everyone calls me 'Uncle Jules'!
It was you who changed the fate of me and this 'Saint Michel'!"
He turned around, pointing to the 'Saint Michel' docked at the pier.
Unlike the other busy ships, it was empty at the moment, with none of the usual bustling passengers on deck, only crew members standing respectfully, their gaze directed here.
The old man's voice trembled with excitement:
"Do you see? Today, it was deliberately emptied, carrying not a single guest, nor a single box of cargo!
It is here, only waiting for you, waiting for you and these... these people who follow and believe in you!"
He surveyed the dense crowd of supporters around him, raised his arm, sweeping a grand arc in the air, trying his best to emphasize their sheer numbers.
"It was you and your pen that gave this old ship new life, giving it a story and hope. Today, it will use its cleanest cabins to take you home!"
At this moment, the 'Saint Michel' blew its whistle, emitting a long blast, as if echoing Antoine Mathieu's words.
Lionel knew he couldn't refuse this simple goodwill.
He took a deep breath, nodded solemnly, and then started walking towards the gangway of the "Saint Michel".
The supporters behind him also followed onto the 'Saint Michel'.
The only ones who breathed a sigh of relief were the British police officers—their mission was complete, and the remaining troubles could be left to the French.
As old Mathieu had said, the ship was spotless, indicating that it hadn't carried any passengers when it came from the port of Calais.
The several-hour voyage passed in a strange and enthusiastic atmosphere.
Antoine Mathieu personally served Lionel the plump oysters he had shucked himself—without, of course, charging 5 francs a dozen.
The other crew members on the ferry also shed their usual laziness, their eyes full of curiosity, and provided exceptionally attentive service.
————————
When the outline of the 'Saint Michel' finally appeared on the horizon of Calais Port, the shore was already another boiling ocean.
An even larger crowd than on Jersey Island gathered at the pier, countless arms waving hats, handkerchiefs, and makeshift placards.
"Welcome back, Lionel!"
"Long live truth and freedom!"
"Paris awaits you!"
The shouts merged into a massive wave of sound, carrying from afar, overpowering the roar of the waves and the long blast of the ferry's whistle.
The 'Saint Michel' slowly docked, and the gangway was lowered.
When Lionel's figure appeared at the ship's rail, the entire port of Calais seemed to ignite.
People eagerly rushed forward, and the human wall formed by the police seemed precarious under immense pressure.
Countless hands reached out to Lionel, wanting to touch him, wanting to express their support for him.
Reporters squeezed to the front like hounds, pencils flying across their notepads.
Lionel, escorted by several strong supporters, painstakingly descended the gangway.
He did not immediately give a speech, but merely continuously waved to the crowd.
"Back to Paris! We'll go back to Paris together!" New shouts erupted from the crowd.
Clearly, many of those gathered in Calais were not just there to see him; like many on Jersey Island, they intended to accompany him back to Paris.
Lionel also knew that from the moment he set foot in Calais Port, his return journey was no longer a private trip, but had transformed into a public procession.
——————
As Lionel approached Paris day by day, the city's public opinion and political atmosphere became increasingly strange, and taut like a bowstring drawn to its limit.
Newspaper headlines changed daily, and even the morning and evening papers could have completely opposite stances, fully demonstrating the fickle nature of Parisian public opinion.
When Lionel was still "exiled" in London, almost all media unanimously condemned the failure of Jules Ferry's government's colonial policy and its inability to curb violence.
They also clearly expressed sympathy for Lionel, calling for him to return "to the embrace of the homeland," as if he were a panacea to save France's reputation.
But once Lionel truly decided to return, and was greeted by cheering crowds, it was again viewed by many as a "provocation."
The attitude of some newspapers underwent subtle changes.
Especially those media outlets that supported Jules Ferry and the moderate Republicans, such as Le Temps and Le Figaro.
Their headlines gradually shifted from "Welcome the Wanderer Home, Justice Will Surely Prevail" to "View the Return Rationally, Beware of Public Opinion Abuse."
Commentators even began earnestly advising Lionel to "exercise the people's affection for him cautiously, and not to be impulsive."
Or, "Consider Mr. Jules Ferry's past support for you; do not drag the nation into unnecessary division and turmoil."
Between the lines, it was all hinting that his immense influence had become a "threat" to Jules Ferry's government.
Within Jules Ferry's cabinet, there were also fierce disputes and major disagreements.
Jules Ferry himself was suffering a triple torment from colonial failures, parliamentary distrust, and public opinion pressure.
After learning that Lionel was about to arrive in Paris, he almost gritted his teeth as he demanded Justice Minister Jules Corde to pressure the Paris prosecutor.
He hoped that the damned, utterly foolish charges would be dropped before Lionel arrived in Paris.
Jules Ferry paced in his office, his face ashen:
"We must cut our losses, Jules!
Allowing this farce to continue in court will only bring more humiliation to us, and to the Republic!
The British are laughing at us! Withdrawing now, we can still preserve a little dignity!"
However, Jules Corde, the Minister of Justice and also a legal expert, helplessly spread his hands, indicating his powerlessness.
Jules Corde's tone was steady and calm:
"Mr. Prime Minister, I understand the current situation and your considerations.
However, I regret to inform you that I cannot do it. Those prosecutors have now become semi-independent.
They will not obey my orders as Minister of Justice, especially in such a high-profile case.
They insist that the prosecution is based on legal provisions, and once the process has begun, it must be completed and cannot be swayed by public opinion.
Any intervention from the cabinet will be seen by them as a desecration of judicial independence, and could provoke a greater backlash."
"These scoundrels!" Jules Ferry almost roared.
He knew who was exerting influence behind this so-called "judicial independence."
The prosecutors' strong stance stemmed from their judgment of the political situation—he, as Prime Minister, would be stepping down by November at the latest.
Usually, for the Third Republic to dismiss a prime minister, someone in parliament would need to propose a vote of no confidence, and then it would be put to a vote.
But in France, it usually doesn't come to such an ugly scene.
Members of parliament would express their stance by rejecting important bills, especially major budgets.
If a bill or budget passed, it indicated that the Prime Minister could continue in office; if it didn't pass, the Prime Minister would be expected to gracefully lead the cabinet in resignation.
The provisional supplementary military budget for Tunisia in late July was a test for him, but he narrowly passed it.
Now, a month later, whether in Tunisia or Cochinchina, the situation has not improved at all, and the French army remains mired in difficulty.
In October, he would submit the government budget for 1882 to parliament for discussion; if it were rejected, his more than a year as Prime Minister would come to an end.
Jules Ferry knew very well in his heart that this budget bill was destined to fail.
That was why the prosecutors and the Palais de Justice so brazenly resisted his will—though to the public, they appeared to be acting according to their own conscience.
Jules Ferry now felt like he was sitting on a volcano about to erupt, with molten lava beneath his feet...
————————
Meanwhile, in a private aristocratic salon in the Saint-Germain district, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the street noise, and the air was filled with the smoke of fine cigars and the mellow aroma of aged brandy.
Under the crystal chandelier, several elegantly dressed gentlemen and magnificently adorned ladies sat together, their faces bearing knowing smiles.
Duke Giscard de Montmorency, wearing a monocle, raised his glass:
"To our impending victory, cheers."
He was the host of this salon, an old duke with close ties to the Orleanists.
Count Patrice de Gramont, a retired general in military uniform, echoed by raising his glass:
"For the true order of France."
Victor Bonaparte swirled the amber liquid in his glass:
"How amusing, look at those commoners, they chase Sorel as if he were an idol.
Do they not understand that temporary clamor changes nothing? Paris, in the end, needs intellect and tradition to govern."
Duke Montmorency slowly said:
"That fool Jules Ferry has been pushed into a corner.
Whether Lionel Sorel wins or loses, this trial will destroy his government.
And we just need to wait patiently. When the populace grows tired of chaos, that will be the moment for order to return."
Marquise Isabelle de Lafayette chuckled, covering her mouth with a fan:
"I heard that Mr. Sorel even wrote a fairy tale in London, which ended up annoying the British?
What an energetic young man! However, making too many enemies is not a wise move."
Victor Bonaparte said coldly:
"Let him stir things up, the bigger the fuss, the better. It would be best if everyone could see—
how easily the so-called 'voice of the people' can be incited, and how unreliable it truly is.
When he falls in court, or when the public's expectations are dashed, that scene will certainly be very instructive."
The crisp clinking of glasses echoed in the warm salon, forming two starkly different worlds from the restless Paris outside the window.
(End of Chapter)