Paris on September 1, 1881, the morning light had not yet completely dispersed the mist, but Saint-Lazare Station was already bustling with people.
The white plume of smoke from the steam locomotive, like a huge signal, announced that the train from Calais was about to arrive.
On the platform, a dense crowd had already occupied every inch of space.
They stood on tiptoes, craning their necks, their gazes fixed on the distant tracks.
The pervasive smell of sweat, perfume, and newspaper ink was mixed together by people's anxious anticipation, making the air seem almost palpable.
"Woo—!"
The long blast of the whistle tore through the morning's tranquility, the wheels grinding against the tracks with a heavy wheezing sound, as the train slowly entered the station.
"He's here! He's here!" The crowd instantly stirred; shouts, applause, and whistles merged into one, almost enough to lift the station's huge glass dome.
Policemen linked arms, forming a fragile human wall, striving to resist the surging crowd.
The carriage door opened, and the first person to appear at the doorway was Lionel Sorel.
He was wearing a dark travel coat, his face full of fatigue, but his eyes remained clear and calm, as if the roaring cheers and tumult around him had nothing to do with him.
His appearance was like a drop of water falling into boiling oil, instantly igniting even greater fervor.
"Long live Lionel! Long live France!"
"We support you!"
"Truth will prevail!"
The slogans were nothing new, but people still chanted them tirelessly.
Reporters, like vultures discovering their prey, swarmed forward.
"Mr. Sorel! What are your thoughts on the upcoming trial?"
"Do you believe this is political persecution?"
"How will you defend yourself in court?"
Lionel paid no attention to these questions; he had already refused all interviews on the ship.
He did not linger on the platform, nor did he deliver any impromptu speeches, but merely continuously waved and nodded at the crowd, before being escorted to a carriage.
His destination was clear—Île de la Cité, the Palais de Justice.
——————
When the carriage finally crossed the Seine River and arrived on Île de la Cité, the magnificent and imposing Gothic complex of the Palais de Justice stood prominently before them.
This enormous building was first built by Philip IV, "the Fair," at the end of the thirteenth century, and was France's first royal palace.
It was later rebuilt during the Second Empire, becoming the seat of the French Supreme Court and the Paris Court.
It witnessed the rise and fall of royalty, the birth of the Republic, and the judgment of countless destinies.
The gloomy annex prison at its northern end once held Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette.
Now, it was awaiting another "enemy of the state" to be judged here.
The square in front of the Palais de Justice was boiling as if it had returned to the era of the French Revolution.
There was a sea of people, a throng of heads, and everywhere one looked, there were bobbing heads and waving arms.
The clamor was like a continuous tsunami, crashing against the ancient stone walls of the Palais de Justice.
Innumerable placards rose and fell in the crowd:
"Justice must be done!"
"Thought is not a crime!"
"Lionel, we are with you!"
At the foot of the steps in front of the Palais de Justice, a small group of people stood quietly.
They were Lionel's closest friends and companions.
Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Joris-Karl Huysmans... members of the "Médan Soirée" were all present.
Of course, there were also Alphonse Daudet, Edmond de Goncourt, and a few other friends frequently seen at the "Naturalism Gatherings."
Publisher Georges Charpentier also stood firmly there, and beside him were Impressionist painters Renoir, Paul Gauguin, Monet, and Manet.
In addition, there were Sophie and Alice, with Monsieur Delacroix standing beside them.
Patty, meanwhile, because the scene was too chaotic, and for her safety, stayed at home.
The carriage carrying Lionel finally, through the combined efforts of the human wall and the police, stopped in the small open space in front of the Palais de Justice steps.
All eyes, all cameras, all hopes and fears, at this moment, focused on the young man in the carriage.
Lionel took a deep breath, got steadily out of the carriage alone, and stood before everyone.
He didn't listen to the frantic slogans, nor did he pay attention to the reporters' questions.
His gaze first met that of each of his friends, and then he embraced each of them.
Everyone whispered something eagerly into his ear; there were worries, concerns, warnings, reminders, and silent sobs...
Then, he turned around, facing the towering stone steps, which symbolized the nation's judicial power.
One step, two steps, three steps...
His steps were steady, his boot soles striking the stone steps with clear echoes, as if knocking on everyone's heart.
The crowd held its breath, thousands of eyes following his back, watching him walk step by step towards the door that might determine his fate.
Just before he was about to step onto the last stair, he suddenly stopped.
Lionel slowly turned around, facing the entire square, facing the dense crowd.
He stood high up, the autumn sun shining obliquely from behind him, outlining a faint halo around him.
The wind ruffled his thick black hair and brushed across his calm, unruffled face.
He looked down, at an ocean of faces; yearning, anger, support, curiosity... all human expressions could be found in this ocean.
At this moment, the entire square fell silent.
Even the loudest reporters closed their mouths, with only the sound of flags fluttering in the wind.
Everyone looked up, holding their breath, waiting, waiting for his declaration, his accusation, his battle manifesto.
They expected him to speak eloquently like the sages of old, exposing injustice and igniting the flames of resistance.
Lionel's gaze swept over the countless pairs of eyes below; he slowly raised his hands, gently pressing them down, as if calming them, or perhaps confirming something.
Then, he spoke, standing elevated, his voice didn't need to be particularly loud to carry far:
"Citizens! Friends! All who have come here today!"
"Today, I stand here, at the gates of the Palais de Justice, not to escape, nor to beg for clemency. I am here to answer the charges, to respond to the accusations of the Paris Palais de Justice."
The square was so silent that a pin drop could be heard, only his voice echoed.
"They accuse me, 'in publicly published articles and statements, 'of undermining French military discipline,' 'inciting soldiers to disobedience,' and 'insulting the nation'."
He recited the charges from the indictment, as if reading a text unrelated to himself.
Then, his voice rose a notch:
"Regarding these accusations—"
A sudden pause, as if time had frozen at this moment.
"—I plead guilty!"
"I plead guilty!"
These words, like a heavy bomb, were unexpectedly thrown into the silent square, then exploded with a roar, causing utter chaos!
"...What?"
"What did he just say?"
"I plead guilty?! He pleaded guilty?!"
"My God! This is impossible!"
After a brief moment of stunned silence, came a commotion and uproar like a volcanic eruption!
The crowd erupted, with cries of surprise, doubts, angry roars, disappointed sighs...
All sorts of sounds mingled together, forming a massive wave of noise, almost threatening to breach the walls of the Palais de Justice!
"He's mad! He must be mad!"
A student-like person clutched his head, shouting in disbelief.
"Why? Why plead guilty? We supported him so much!"
A man dressed as a worker waved his fist, his face full of indignation and incomprehension.
"Coward! He's scared!"
Scattered curses rang out in the crowd.
"No! There must be a reason! Let him finish!"
More people, in their shock, tried to find answers.
The reporters were utterly frantic; they pushed forward desperately, trying to get closer to the steps.
Flashbulbs flickered with unprecedented frequency, capturing this astonishing scene.
British reporters' eyes widened, German reporters muttered,
"This is too dramatic".
While American reporters excitedly shouted,
"Write this down! Headline! Definitely a headline!"
Below the steps, Lionel's friends and family were also plunged into immense shock and bewilderment.
Lionel stood high up, without explanation, without reassurance, just quietly waiting, waiting for the most violent shockwave to pass.
There was no fear on his face, nor the slightest hint of triumph, only calmness.
With these words, he intended to completely disrupt everyone's expectations, and push this trial into an unforeseeable abyss.
The uproar and commotion in the square lasted for nearly a minute, until the crowd's clamor gradually subsided due to confusion and anticipation, only then did he slowly raise his hand again.
His voice remained steady:
"Please be quiet, citizens, listen to me—First, I plead guilty to the judges who are about to try me."
He reached out and pointed to the massive archway behind him, which symbolized France's highest judicial power.
"Yes, I will take the stand as a defendant, I will confess to all charges before the judges—
'Undermining French military discipline,' 'inciting soldiers to disobedience,' 'insulting the nation'... I admit to all of these.
I will not offer any defense, nor will I allow a lawyer to speak on my behalf, I will completely waive my right to defense.
The judges may, according to the code in their hands, freely and without any interference, pass judgment on me.
Whether it be fifteen days imprisonment, or five years of exile, or the deprivation of my citizenship, I accept it all."
A commotion broke out in the crowd, some couldn't help but boo, but more people were puzzled and confused.
Lionel's tone became sarcastic:
"A writer, if reduced to denying his own words with flowery rhetoric, then his soul is already dead.
Moreover, in a trial where the outcome is already predetermined, any defense—no matter how eloquent, how logical—is both ineffective and ridiculous.
Instead of acting like a clown, leaping and jumping in the defendant's box according to their script, fruitlessly trying to prove my innocence;
Or like a Patty vendor, haggling with the judges, using all my words, to lighten my sentence...
I choose, by this very 'guilty plea' that they desire, to prove to all French people, to the whole world—
That in this country, the law has never truly been independent of politics! The robes of the judges still conceal the will of politicians and nobles!"
The supporters suddenly realized that "pleading guilty" was the most extreme form of defiance!
One by one, they relayed Lionel's words to those behind them, all the way to the edge of the square.
Cheers and applause once again roared like thunder.
The wave of sound lasted for a moment, before Lionel again raised his hand to quell the clamor.
"But these are not my true 'crimes'—"
"My second plea of guilty is a confession to France!"
(End of chapter)