University education in the 19th century was vastly different from that of the 21st century.
Even in Paris, known for its progress, openness, and freedom, the universities here primarily aimed to cultivate national elites—officials, scholars, and professionals—to serve the nation or the construction of the French people.
Professors mainly imparted knowledge through classical systems, unilaterally instilling so-called "absolute truths" into students.
Critical thinking was absolutely not encouraged here, and there was certainly no "flipped classroom"—unless you wanted to be expelled and then regarded as a madman by everyone.
Especially in humanities universities, students were still predominantly young people from privileged families such as old aristocrats, merchants, and bureaucrats. Students from provincial clerk families like Lionel, while not unique, were certainly not the mainstream.
In most people's eyes, he should have attended an "accounting school," a "road and bridge college," or a "mining school," rather than sitting in this seminary, inherited from the time of Richelieu (1624-1642), learning knowledge that touched the human soul.
The most direct manifestation of the disparity in family background in university classrooms was not whether one wore luxurious clothes or expensive perfume, but rather the accumulation of reading.
Even in the latter half of the 19th century, when book prices were already very affordable, only a few families could support a private library.
When well-off students casually quoted sentences from slightly "uncommon" works, they were effectively excluding their commoner classmates from the circle.
Although public reading rooms were ubiquitous in Paris, they only contained newspapers and novels for leisure and entertainment. Jean Racine's collected plays, for example, could only be borrowed from a few libraries.
After all, Jean Racine was not a household name like Victor Hugo, Balzac, or Flaubert among Parisians; he had been dead for nearly 200 years. Moreover, plays were different from novels; apart from directors and actors, only a few professionals would read them.
In class, if a professor mentioned a classic work—like phèdre—the commoner student's task was to silently note down the title and then try to borrow it from the library.
The opportunity to discuss the specific content of a work with the professor belonged only to those wealthy classmates who had received a good home education from an early age.
Professor Hyppolite Taine was clearly going to give the late Lionel a hard time. He stared at the student before him with a critical gaze, waiting to hear an "Excuse me, Professor, I haven't read phèdre..."
But he would never have imagined that inside the familiar young student's body was a soul who, over 140 years later, would teach "Selected Works of Foreign Literature" and "Literary Theory" in the Chinese Department of Yanjing University in China...
Lionel looked up, met Professor Taine's gaze silently for a moment, then stood up, his voice as calm as water: "Racine's phèdre is a play that strictly adheres to the 'three unities' advocated by Boileau.
The story has a single plotline, the action is concentrated in one location, and the time takes place within a single day..."
Albert chuckled, interrupting Lionel's speech: "Mr. Sorel is truly brilliant; he could use that line for any of Racine's plays..."
The classroom erupted in laughter.
Everyone thought Lionel was using rhetoric to avoid analyzing the specific content of phèdre, and Professor Hyppolite Taine was no exception.
He frowned and waved his hand, cutting off the laughter in the classroom: "Lionel, I once thought honesty and simplicity were your good qualities..."
Lionel did not panic, his voice remaining calm: "Professor, I haven't finished yet."
Professor Hyppolite Taine nodded helplessly, gesturing for him to continue—he even regretted asking this poor young man from the Eleventh District a question.
However, this emotion only lasted for a few seconds before being drowned out by Lionel's eloquent narration:
"In phèdre, phèdre's immoral love for Hippolytus is the single, highest-level plotline; all secondary actions serve this main thread, conforming to the 'unity of action';"
"The entire play unfolds in the forecourt of the Palace of Troezen, with columns and stone steps symbolizing a cage, metaphorically imprisoning the characters by fate, conforming to the 'unity of place';"
"The entire plot occurs from the news of Theseus' 'death' until dusk after his return, spanning less than 18 hours, conforming to the 'unity of time'."
"Professor, this is the answer to the first question. Do you think it's acceptable?"
The clear, concise, and focused answer plunged the scene into a long silence. Professor Hyppolite Taine withdrew his dismissive gaze and began to re-examine the young man before him with thick black hair and blue eyes.
Perhaps it was just a coincidence? Although Jean Racine's works were difficult to borrow, he was, after all, a great playwright who influenced all of French theater. It wouldn't be surprising if Lionel had occasionally seen a play or performance.
However, to answer this question so accurately under such hasty circumstances...
Professor Hyppolite Taine remained impassive, nodding again—though this time with a hint of encouragement—indicating that he had no objection to Lionel's answer and he could continue.
The next question was even more difficult, arguably beyond what a university student could improvise in class, and it would not be shameful to fail to answer it.
Professor Hyppolite Taine had already essentially forgiven Lionel's tardiness.
Lionel remained equally impassive, his voice also devoid of fluctuation, showing no hint of joy at being affirmed: "The unity of time requires the plot to occur within twenty-four hours.
Racine cleverly arranges the plot—the news of Theseus' 'death,' phèdre's suppressed emotions erupting for Hippolytus, Theseus' unexpected return, the revelation of the truth, and the final tragedy—all these critical turning points are compressed into the brief period from dawn to dusk.
This high concentration of time is not merely to adhere to rules, but to intensely amplify the drama's tension and the characters' psychological pressure.
Imagine phèdre's desire, jealousy, fear, and despair, exploding and colliding violently like a lit fuse in a bomb within a single day, ultimately leading to irreversible destruction.
Time, here, is not a constraint, but a catalyst that accelerates the tragic process and highlights the abyss of human nature. Character conflicts are like gunpowder; the same amount, if scattered on the ground, will only burn for a moment; but if packed into a confined space, it can cause an explosion.
Racine's greatness lies precisely in his ability to unleash such a powerful emotional force within the framework of classicism.
Professor, I have answered both questions."
After speaking, he sat down without waiting for Professor Hyppolite Taine's agreement.
The classroom was dead silent.
If reading phèdre was not strange, then analyzing it to such a profound degree was completely beyond everyone's expectations.
Seeing that Lionel had not made a fool of himself, Albert de Rohan's face turned ashen with anger, like a corpse just pulled from the water; his cronies were silent, not daring to breathe.
Professor Hyppolite Taine was first shocked, then puzzled, and then his expression turned to admiration.
However, he did not praise Lionel, merely saying calmly: "Well answered, Mr. Sorel. I hope that in the future, your arrival time in class will be as precise as your answer."
Then he continued lecturing: "...Jean Racine was the great master of French classical drama, but why do we admire Molière more..."
Finally, at noon, the bell for class dismissal rang. Everyone stood up and bowed to Professor Hyppolite Taine, and only after the professor's back disappeared down the corridor did everyone breathe a sigh of relief.
In an era when teachers held absolute authority, and Professor Hyppolite Taine was a supreme member of the French Academy, the pressure his class exerted on students was self-evident.
To answer his questions calmly and serenely, like Lionel did today, instead of trembling and facing a formidable enemy, was unprecedented.
Therefore, the shock Lionel brought to his classmates today was not only due to his surgically precise answers but also his confident, unyielding attitude, which was usually believed to be a social demeanor possessed only by gentlemen of extremely noble birth.
Students still remembered that before the Christmas holiday, Lionel was a timid, submissive countryman from the Alps who only dared to shrink into a corner.
Some were already whispering, wondering if Lionel had inherited a large fortune from somewhere? Or a noble title?
In their minds, only money and power could bring about such a significant change in a person.
As for why he was so familiar with the "three unities" and phèdre, almost no one cared.
And why Lionel was still wearing an old coat with worn elbows and had to take a public carriage to the academy was intentionally or unintentionally overlooked—perhaps he just hadn't had time to complete the acceptance procedures?
As the center of attention, Lionel only wanted to leave the classroom quickly and get some fresh air outside.
The main building of Sorbonne University was originally the Sorbonne Seminary, with a history of 200 years. Its lighting and ventilation were not as good as modern Haussmann buildings, requiring lamps even during the day to supplement light.
After a morning of classes, the air was already filled with various unpleasant odors—the hormones of young men, various perfumes, and the smell of gas lamps—making it suffocating.
Lionel glanced at Albert, who was still looking at him with resentful, uncertain eyes, secretly scoffed, packed his notes, and rushed out of the classroom impatiently.
The most urgent problem now was to fill his empty stomach.
Lionel had a piece of bread, warmed by his body, with a thin slice of bacon inside.
If he could find a cafe and buy a hot cup of coffee for 10 centimes, he could make do with a decent lunch.
Just then, a clear voice came from behind him: "Lionel Sorel, isn't it?"
Lionel turned around and saw a young man a few years older than himself, not tall but well-built and well-defined, with thick, dark brown hair neatly trimmed, and a thick handlebar mustache on his upper lip extending to his cheeks—this was the fashion of the day.
His expression was rather arrogant, but he was trying his best to show friendliness to Lionel.
Lionel was a little puzzled: "I am... Who are you?"
The young man extended his hand to Lionel: "My name is Guy de Maupassant, and if you're free, I'd like to invite you to lunch!"