It was not a pleasant experience to walk through Oberkampf Street in the 11th arrondissement in the morning mist.
Without a sewage system, the way residents cleared accumulated waste from the night before was not much different from the Middle Ages, and Lionel had to constantly watch overhead and underfoot to avoid his only wool coat and leather shoes being ruined by rude neighbors.
Fortunately, it was January, and the cold weather prevented the spread of odors, so he didn't have to hold his breath.
He tried to walk as close to the middle of the road as possible, frantically dodging carriages that occasionally came his way, and in the angry shouts of the coachmen, he hurried to the public carriage stop at the intersection with Market Street.
Seeing the few other passengers also waiting there, Lionel knew he hadn't missed the carriage and breathed a sigh of relief.
Just then, the bell of Saint Marguerite Church rang in the distance, and he was able to accurately tell the time: 8:30 AM.
Although he had been reborn for more than two weeks, Zhang Chaohua—now Lionel Sorel—was still unaccustomed to judging the approximate time by observing the sun's height and the direction of street shadows.
It was only because the original owner of this body had pawned his only pocket watch before his rebirth, in exchange for the 90 francs he now relied on to live.
Soon, the dense sound of hooves came from afar, first the crisp clatter on stone, then the muffled squelch on mud, and then a four-wheeled carriage pulled by two draft horses appeared from around the corner.
Lionel saw the jostling heads in the carriage at a glance, so before the carriage had even stopped, he swung his long legs onto the footboard of the door, then reached out and grabbed the rafter at the edge of the window, curving his body to the side to make space for the conductor to open the door.
“You son of a whore!”
“You sack of shit, get down!”
“Sewer rat!”
The curses from the other passengers did not make Lionel loosen his grip by an inch; as long as he became “part” of the carriage in front of him, no one would dare to pull him down.
When the door opened, he deftly swung himself in, like a monkey, and slipped into the carriage, tossing a five-sou copper coin to the conductor.
“Good morning, Mr. Martin!”
“Good morning, Mr. Sorel!”
After a brief greeting, Lionel found the last empty seat at the back of the carriage and sat down.
This small space was already packed with people; the hard wooden seats were just big enough for a medium-sized bottom, and arms could only be squeezed together with the person next door.
The conductor, Martin, closed the door and shook the bell hanging on it twice; hearing the signal, the coachman gave a flick of his hands, and the two draft horses resumed their heavy pace, pulling the huge carriage, loaded with 24 people, forward on Republic Avenue.
Lionel looked out the window, and the scenery along the way quickly changed from the Gothic style of Saint Ambroise Church to the bustling and extraordinarily noisy Place de la République;
Then, along Saint Martin Boulevard, through the Saint Martin Gate, one could see the outline of the City Hall, which was currently undergoing reconstruction…
Even though he had been reborn into this body for two weeks and inherited most of the original owner's memories, he still couldn't help but marvel at this 19th-century European capital.
In 1879, its elegance, solemnity, and splendor… it simply didn't seem like a city that existed in reality—of course, it was not appropriate to think of the 11th arrondissement where he lived at this time.
After the Pantheon flashed past in his sight, the iconic Baroque dome and cross of Sorbonne University soon appeared before him, marking Lionel's destination—five minutes later than usual.
Today was January 7th, the first day of school after the Christmas holiday.
The giant clock under the dome showed two minutes until 9 AM, and Lionel dared not delay; after jumping off the carriage, he strode with long legs towards the Faculty of Arts.
Lionel's boots clattered on the smooth flagstones, making a crisp yet slightly hurried sound; he had no time to admire the bas-reliefs of scholars of past generations embedded in the walls, with only one thought in his mind:
To try his best to make it to the 9 AM lecture on “The Origins of French Literature.”
The main professor for this course, Hyppolite Taine, a member of the French Academy, was known for his rigorous and rigid nature and his aversion to tardiness; it was said that two unlucky students last year were ridiculed by him for an entire semester for being late on the first day of school.
As he rushed up the last few steps, Lionel could already hear Professor Taine's distinctive, nasal, and intoned voice coming from behind the thick oak door of the lecture hall.
“Damn it, did he start class early?”
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the panting brought on by his frantic run, and gently pushed open the door.
The door hinge emitted a faint “creak,” which sounded particularly jarring in the pauses of the professor's speech.
Everyone's gaze in the classroom focused on Lionel; those gazes held curiosity, indifference, and more often, a condescending scrutiny and undisguised contempt.
Professor Taine, wearing a black robe and with graying hair, pushed up his exquisite crystal spectacles on his nose: “Aha! Look who it is! Our diligent gravedigger has finally deigned to leave his warm bed? Mr. Sorel, come in, come in!”
A wave of suppressed snickers erupted in the classroom, especially from the well-dressed, elegant students.
Most of them came from wealthy Parisian families, or were the sons of provincial aristocrats and rich merchants, exuding a faint scent of cologne, their new coats crisp, and their leather shoes gleaming.
Lionel bowed to Professor Taine: “My apologies, Professor, the public carriage was delayed.”
Professor Taine's lips curled slightly: “The public carriage? What a 'common wisdom' way to travel! It seems Mr. Sorel is well-versed in Parisian street life? Alright, don't stand there like a pillar at the door, go find a seat. I hope you haven't missed too much of the noble origins of French literature, though it might not be 'common' enough for you.”
Lionel lowered his eyes, trying hard to control his emotions—he had to constantly remind himself that this was Sorbonne University in 1879, not Yenching University in 2025.
In this era, the chasm of class was as clear as the division between the banks of the Seine River; from students to professors, no one would deliberately hide their contempt.
The back rows were already full, with only a few scattered seats in the front area near the podium—these were the “front-line” positions that wealthy students deliberately avoided, too close to the professor, with too high a risk of being questioned.
Lionel had no choice but to bite the bullet and walk quickly to the front row under countless gazes.
As soon as he sat down in an empty seat, a deliberately suppressed snicker came from his neighbor.
It was a tall, handsome young man with arrogant eyes, wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue velvet coat, with exquisite lace trim peeking out from the cuffs, and a vibrant red carnation tucked into his breast pocket.
He nonchalantly flicked at non-existent dust on his coat with his finger, his body leaning slightly to the other side, as if Lionel carried some kind of plague.
“Albert de Rohan.” This name immediately surfaced in Lionel's mind. The original owner's memory told him that this was a notorious troublemaker in the Faculty of Arts, the son of an old aristocratic family, who enjoyed being sarcastic and ostracizing common students.
“Look at this outfit,” Albert said in a lazy aristocratic tone, audible only to those nearby, “Is this the new fashion trend from Oberkampf Street? Or is it a tribute to the miserable Jean Valjean from Mr. Hugo's novel?”
Lionel didn't even glance at Albert, his eyes fixed on Professor Taine who was lecturing, but his mouth quietly spat out his retort: “And you, Albert? Is that a tribute to Rastignac?”
Rastignac is one of the characters in Balzac's novels *Le Père Goriot* and *La Comédie humaine*, from a declining aristocratic family. In his pursuit of success, he abandoned all morality and conscience, becoming devoid of humanity.
Albert was stunned, and then his pale cheeks flushed. He didn't understand why the usually timid Lionel dared to talk back.
But it was already a republic now, and he didn't have the courage to cause trouble in an academician's class; he could only glare at Lionel with his eyes: “You just wait…”
“…Therefore, we can see that the classical rules established by Corneille and Jean Racine are the unshakeable cornerstones of French literary tradition.
Those so-called ‘new trends’ are nothing but a showy bubble…” Professor Taine waved his arms, his voice impassioned.
For Lionel, who was a young lecturer in the Chinese Department of Yenching University in his previous life, these contents were outdated and biased, full of an almost fanatical reverence for classicism and a subtle disparagement of symbolist pioneers like Baudelaire.
Just then, Professor Taine's gaze swept over the front row again, seemingly wanting to find a “typical example” to corroborate his point, or perhaps just to continue to chastise the late common student; his gaze finally settled on Lionel.
“Mr. Sorel!” Professor Taine's voice carried an undeniable authority, “Since you ‘love’ our literary history so much, please explain your understanding of the ‘three unities’ principle proposed by Boileau in *The Art of Poetry*, as specifically embodied in Jean Racine's tragedy *phèdre*?
Especially how the unity of time serves the dramatic conflict?”
The entire classroom instantly fell silent, and all eyes once again focused on Lionel. Albert de Rohan and his friends in the front row wore expressions of anticipation and schadenfreude.
The “three unities” refers to the plot, time, and place of a play needing to remain consistent, meaning the script can only have one storyline, the story takes place in the same location, and the plot is completed within one day.
*phèdre* is a classic classical tragedy written by French playwright Jean Racine, adapted from ancient Greek mythology. In the play, phèdre, the wife of King Theseus of Athens, falls into a forbidden love with her stepson Hippolytus.
When Theseus is rumored to be dead, phèdre confesses her feelings to Hippolytus but is rejected. Theseus suddenly returns, and phèdre falsely claims that Hippolytus tried to seduce her. Theseus angrily curses his son, leading to Hippolytus being killed by a sea monster.
Finally, phèdre, learning the truth, commits suicide in despair. In the end, Theseus discovers phèdre's true repentance and is filled with sorrow.
This question was not tricky, but for someone who was suddenly called upon to elaborate in detail on the first day of school, after being humiliated and having missed part of the lecture due to being late, it was undoubtedly a form of deliberate difficulty.
In the last row of the classroom, a young man slightly older than the students raised his head, looking at Lionel with interest.
