Ask for collection, the signing contract has been sent, and the official double change after changing the signing status.

The year 1860 was an era of shining stars and giants in the literary world.

In the past, there were great writers such as Balzac, Hugo, and Alexandre Dumas, and later there were rising stars such as Flaubert, Maupassant, and Dumas, which developed French culture and art to the peak.

The effect of celebrities and the encouragement of high manuscript fees have given birth to countless young people who fantasize about becoming writers, and they began to pick up the quill pen in their hands and use the tip of the pen to vent their creative impulses.

Not everyone is so lucky – with the exception of Flaubert, Zola, Maupassant and a few others who have gone down in French history, the vast majority of their works have become the mud of the Ganges of time, sinking in the mud of history.

In nineteenth-century France, literary success meant fame, fortune and wealth.

Flaubert never married, but he had five mistresses, including the aristocratic Princess Mathilde, whose mistress was also a poetess, Colllet, who proposed to him twice, both of which were rejected. Alexandre Dumas had already spied a scaly claw from his name, and his illegitimate son, Dumas, even wrote "The Dissolute Father" to allude to and satirize him.

And his son Alexandre Dumas also continued his father's romance, remarrying Henriette Reniere, who was 40 years younger than him, in 1895, staging a plot of an old cow eating tender grass, unfortunately this marriage only lasted half a year, Dumas died, and Madame Reniere was also a successful short-term investment.

Although Maupassant never married, he had three illegitimate children, and he only offered alimony, and was never willing to admit it. The literary master Hugo hooked up with a married woman and was caught raping the people, and the king of the July Dynasty, Louis Philippe, even suggested that he take refuge in the countryside, but this great Wen (Huang) Hao (Mao) also emphasized that he would do it if he did it, what can I do, the wife of the other family is willing! What can I do as the old king next door, I'm also helpless.

Tear off the last fig leaf on the masters of the writers, one is more like a scumbag, one is more like grass powder than the other, and completely adheres to the "three nos" of not taking the initiative, not refusing, and not being responsible, and the chaotic gossip of private life makes the people of Paris who eat melon seeds and watch the excitement breathtaking.

Even the "social conscience" who has been criticizing the decadence and extravagance of the capitalist world all his life has not escaped the fate of the romantic peach blossom debt.

To paraphrase Brother Cheng's words, it is not them who are wrong, it is the world that is wrong.

Hearing the landlord's reply that he was a writer, Garion became interested, put his luggage aside, and said, "I want to visit him first, can I leave my luggage here for a while, Mrs. Florent?" ”

"Of course you can, but I'm curious."

Emily took the other party's gray suitcase and placed him on the couch. She looked at Garion quizzically, and asked, "Why do you want to visit a madman?" ”

"Crazy?"

Garion smiled and said disappreciatively, "Let's see if the other party can be reasonable, if I can, I won't have to look for another house." ”

The landlady shook her head helplessly and said, "Good luck, Mr. Garion, but I think you'll be disappointed." ”

Emily's house is the same as the apartment opposite, and at the end of the hallway, there is an additional hallway that leads to the classicist building opposite.

When I came to the closed wooden door of the other party, the doorknob on it was already rusted. There are signs of vandalism on the door lock, and it seems that the writer's disturbance of the neighborhood has caused public outrage.

He reached out and knocked on the door, and there was a movement of a chair moving inside.

The young man who opened the door was of medium height, slightly fat, and had a simple but stubborn face. His head, like the head of a figure in an Italian engraving, is not pretty, but shows his intelligence and strong character.

The lower part of this fat but resolute face was covered with a short beard, and the black eyes showed a very sharp and inquiring gaze.

He always felt that he had seen this face somewhere, but he couldn't remember it for a moment.

"Who are you looking for?"

The other stared at Garion with alert eyes, looking up and down.

Garian took off his hat and politely introduced himself, "I'm the tenant opposite, my name is Garian, sir." ”

The chubby young man seemed to have a great prejudice against Emily's landlord, and jumped at the sight of the word tenant.

"Tenants? Oh, damn it, it must be Mrs. Florand again, I didn't tell her I would try to be as quiet as possible, why call someone to come and talk! Mr. Galrian, I'm sorry, that's the case, I'm more emotionally excited......"

Looking at the other party's angry expression, Garian quickly said that he was innocent and interrupted him, "I'm sorry, I just came here by myself, and it has nothing to do with Mrs. Florand." I heard that you are a writer, and I wanted to pay you a visit. ”

"I'm a down-and-out writer."

The young man corrected his speech, scratched his head, seemed a little deflated, opened the door a crack, and said with a wry smile, "Don't stand outside the door, come in." What's so nice about a down-and-out writer's room. ”

I didn't know what it was until I actually opened the door, and the floor was full of twisted scraps, snowballing all over the wooden floor, leaving a clear footprint on the paper on the ground.

The dry ink solidifies on the quill pen leaning on the pen stand, and next to the pale yellow letter paper lay a plate containing half-eaten bread smeared with garlic.

Garion watched as he bent over with difficulty, picking up the scattered manuscripts and a pile of postmarked letters. Presumably, those envelopes are rejection letters.

He tossed the envelope aside, and there was already a pile of letters, large and small, that had accumulated to a crumbling height. He turned his head to the curious face behind him and said, "So, Mr. Garrian, you also write and are you a writer?" ”

Garion shook his head, "No, I usually like to read books and write something occasionally, but I haven't published it either." I just came to Paris to make a living, and I got a job as a typist at the customs office thanks to a friend. ”

With his hands on the table pausing, he turned his head and asked curiously, "Oh?" So coincidentally, you also work in customs? ”

"Yes."

Garion was a little surprised, he didn't expect that the strange-tempered neighbor was actually a colleague of him.

The young man said disdainfully, "I advise you to find another job as soon as possible, there are a bunch of vulgar, stupid and visionary guys, who only know that they live like worms, receive a low salary, and will not be productive in this life." I swear that even if I starve to death in this life, I will not live like them. ”

Then the young man said to himself, "But now I am not worthy of my ambition, and I have failed my suffering." ”

A gust of wind poured in from the window, blowing the few manuscripts on the ground that he was sitting on, and Garion picked up the manuscripts scattered on the ground and looked at them a few times. Glancing at the title of the book in the lower right corner, his eyes widened suddenly. He turned to look at the impassioned young man sitting by the window, his eyes full of disbelief.

He hesitated and asked, "Wait, what's your name?" ”

"My name?"

He patted his head for a moment, only to remember that he had forgotten to introduce himself to Garion, and quickly added, "I forgot about it, well, introduce myself again, my name is Emile Zola." ”

"Emile Zola."

Hearing the name, the corners of Garion's mouth twitched, and he couldn't stop crying or laughing. I didn't expect to meet future literary masters in the St. Anthony neighborhood. No wonder Garion felt so familiar when the gatekeeper saw that face.

Faced with the future of the late nineteenth-century naturalistic literary master, the great writer of the first half of his life, Garion could only extend his hand in a friendly way, and said with a smile, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Zola's writer." ”