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Garian and Zola returned from the library, flipping through the Russian notebook along the way. It's just that he is not proficient in Russian, so he can only barely read a few sentences.

The fragmented sentences made him feel inexplicably familiar, but he couldn't recall where they came from. Eventually, he gave up his guess and tucked the notebook back into his pocket.

Garion hopes to return it to the next time he meets that person and remembers what he looks like.

"Hey, what's going on up ahead?"

Zola stopped abruptly, and he noticed a crowd of people surrounding the roadside, and there seemed to be voices of argument.

The sharp-eyed Garion saw that it was the wall where he had written his poems, blocked by a group of unfamiliar backs.

Suddenly uneasy, Garion quickly stepped forward and crossed the busy streets, trying to see what was happening.

"Look for death."

The coachman who was hurrying out whipped at the figure that suddenly rushed out, cursing the figure that had just crossed the street.

When you really got close to the crowd, you could see that two gentlemen who were dressed and talked differently from the crowd around them were arguing with the police. It's just that he was a little far away and couldn't hear what was arguing.

Zola didn't want to join in the fun, and urged Garian to leave quickly.

"Let's go, Garion, there's nothing to see."

"Wait a minute."

Garion stopped, his eyes half-squinted, for he saw that the poems he had written earlier had been mercilessly smeared with a layer of white paint.

He quietly clenched his fists.

"Garion...... Let's go, there's nothing to see. ”

"I said, wait a minute, didn't you hear?"

Zola stood behind him at a loss, never before he had ever seen the other speak in such a serious tone.

Although the blazing summer has not yet arrived, fine beads of sweat oozed from the heads of the leading policemen, sweat stains were also printed on the back of the black uniforms, and the fingers kept rubbing the wet palms.

Under Baudelaire's arguments, the other people who were busy applying also stopped their movements and became hesitant.

The police are just told to do their job, but if they offend a member of Congress, they have to weigh their own heads.

In this era, rich and powerful capitalists can do whatever they want.

For example, after Mérimée's lifelong friend Eugenie, the daughter of the Comtesse de Montijo, became the empress of Napoleon III in 1853, as Eugenie's uncle, Mérimée naturally became a member of the House of Lords, and often went to the Tuileries Palace, Fontainebleau and other places, became a frequent visitor to the French court, and had dinner with Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie.

And the people who had offended him before were also forced to flee Paris by Mérimée using the identity of Empress Eugenie's uncle.

Of course, Mérimée spent many years in festive amusements and ceremonial feasts, and his life as a writer and scholar was practically over, and he wrote only two novels, "Roski" and "The Blue Room", to compile a "Biography of Caesar".

Although Baudelaire's background was not as good as Mérimée's, he was also a man of letters who served as a member of the French House of Lords with Hugo, and the political background behind him was enough to clean up the inconsequential minor role.

Enraged, Baudelaire continued to incite the people around him, igniting the anger in their hearts.

"I'm wondering now, why did you erase this hymn? Only the people are in a position to decide what should be kept and what should be erased. What do you think you are? The master of Paris? I tell you, I don't promise, and neither do the people of Paris! ”

After the voice of the people was opened, the voice of echo gradually increased.

"Fuck off, you dogs!"

"Get out!"

"These bastards are the ones who kicked us out of the house and beat him to death!"

After being instigated by Baudelaire, the surrounding crowd also began to move, and under Baudelaire's instigation, some of the lower class people who had been kicked out of their homes during the reconstruction of Paris picked up the bricks on the side of the road and approached the police.

In the previous demolitions, there were already great complaints against the government, and now the attitude of the Paris police has even more offended the public.

Before they knew it, several policemen were surrounded by civilians gathered around them, and they were confronted by a group of angry Parisians, as well as the equally angry leading literati.

The policemen looked at each other with a look of hesitation on their faces. The brush in his hand also froze in mid-air.

The wrath of the crowd is unbearable.

After all, Baudelaire was outnumbered, the onlookers clenched their fists, and with the connections of the Bourbon Palace councillors, they could only make concessions.

Beaten to death by the revolution-loving Parisian people, none of whom had nowhere to reason.

"Let's withdraw!"

The gritted policeman glanced at Turgenev angrily, but finally had no choice but to pack up his things and leave.

The poems on the walls have survived, except that the psalms have been smeared beyond recognition, and only the first two sentences remain.

Meanness is the pass of the mean.

Noble is the epitaph of the noble.

It was like a merciless mockery of the Second Empire built by Napoleon III.

Turgenev looked at the unrecognizable blank space on the wall, and said in a regretful tone, "What a pity for this poem." ”

At this moment, a deep voice sounded behind him.

"If the poem is smeared, then write another one, and when the voice of the cry is imprisoned, it is written with a pen, and the mind is never afraid of bullets, and the poet is not afraid of feudal dictatorship and power."

Turgenev and Baudelaire turned their heads to see a young man standing behind them, staring at the white wall in front of them. His eyes were full of regret.

Garion looked at the smeared poem and asked Baudelaire in front of him, "May I ask this gentleman, do you have a pen?" ”

"Pen? Yes, of course. ”

Turgenev took out a water storage pen and handed it to Garion, he thought for a moment and asked, "What are you going to do?" ”

Garion didn't speak, he walked over to the painted white wall, the poem he had written had turned into a puddle of white paint, and the pungent smell seemed to satirize France's discourse on freedom of speech, on the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

All that the Panthéon's masters of thought have worked so hard to defend is now the target of severe repression by the authorities.

The dignity of the people, which they defended with their blood in the Great Revolution, was trampled on again and again by a thief of the country.

Garion's hands were resting against the white wall, his fingers stained with white paint.

After he was silent for a while, his eyes became resolute, and he answered him word by word in the face of Turgenev's question just now.

"Write poetry."