The so-called 'common table' originally referred to all guests and the owner of a hotel sitting at a large table to enjoy food during meal times. Later, it evolved into a widely accepted dining style where, as long as one paid, they could join at any time.
It was a bit more upscale than those simple eateries where stewed beef was as tough as leather and impossible to cut or chew, yet more modest than restaurants offering private dining areas. It was perfect for Maupassant and Lionel, who had just met, to dine together.
It was midday, and the food was not as lavish as it would be in the evening, so the meal price was also cheaper. However, the table was still laden with roasted sausages, stewed beef, and several kinds of strange fish.
Maupassant explained in a low voice, "If we could come in the evening, we'd get to eat their famous roasted grouse—but I already have another engagement tonight."
Lionel nodded, "This is already very plentiful!"
At the edge of the table were bread baskets, a whole pot of thick soup, a large bowl of salad, salt shakers, and spice bottles containing pepper or cinnamon powder. Of course, there were also wines from different regions, their colors a tempting, rich red.
Whenever a large serving platter of food was empty, the hostess would come forward to take it away and return it to the table, refilled with food.
At the 'common table,' there was no need for 'plating.' As long as the dishes were full enough, diners would loudly praise the establishment's generosity.
All four sides of the table were already packed with people: old men, young people, intellectuals, government employees, engineers… Most of them didn't know each other, but they were all feasting together at the same table, wine and chatter flowing, knives and forks clattering, creating a lively and joyful atmosphere.
This was vastly different from the elegant, noble 'French feast' Lionel remembered, which could take three or four hours to eat. It felt much more like a communal banquet.
Lionel watched the condiments splash onto the slightly warm tablecloth and breadcrumbs scatter everywhere, finding it quite amusing. He picked up his dinner knife and silver fork and joined the grand feast.
He forked a piece of tender, stewed beef rump from a platter two arms' length away, seasoned it with salt and pepper, cut off a large piece with his knife, and chewed it.
Instantly, the rich aroma of the meat filled his mouth, even 'invading' his brain directly via his nose. His body's primal craving for quality protein, fat, and amino acids was satisfied.
Then he ladled himself a bowl of mushroom cream soup and drank it down, his body, which had been cold all morning, finally warming up.
The 'hunger and cold' of the past half-month seemed to be completely redeemed at this moment.
"If only I could eat a meal like this every day…" This thought had barely surfaced before Lionel himself extinguished it.
He had watched Maupassant pull 8 francs from his pocket and hand it to the owner of the 'Prince Hotel,' meaning the meal cost 4 francs per person—while an ordinary person's daily food expenses were only about 1 franc.
After his rebirth, he had searched through the original owner's memories and every corner of that low attic, confirming that his total assets amounted to only 90 francs and 35 centimes. Of the 90 francs, he had borrowed them by pawning the pocket watch left to him by his grandfather before Christmas.
The 900 francs from last year had long been spent, and there had been no news about this year's 900 francs despite the original owner writing several times to urge them…
Maupassant was very talkative. In less than fifteen minutes, Lionel learned that he had recently received a transfer order, moving from the Colonial Administration Department of the Ministry of the Navy to the Ministry of Education. He would take up his new post next month and was currently on vacation.
That was why he had so much free time to specifically come to Sorbonne University for 'inspection.'
Halfway through the meal, he even began discussing with a retired primary school teacher next to him whether the 'Empire' was better or the current 'Republic' was better.
The intensity of the debate almost made the rather elegant conservative old man jump up and swear, but in the end, he only coldly retorted, "France cannot be without an emperor!"
Then he threw down his knife and fork, wiped his lips with a napkin, and left the 'Prince Hotel' in a huff.
Maupassant, on the other hand, was flushed and beaming, showing no remorse for having angered a stranger. He even continued to mock the old man's retreating back, "The only thing France cannot be without is wine, not an emperor!"
Then he drained the 'Bordeaux' in his glass.
Lionel looked at the overly excited Maupassant with some speechlessness, then tried to make himself appear more discreet… This great writer later went mad and was confined to a mental asylum, dying prematurely at 43—it seemed there were signs.
However, his appetite was indeed astonishing. He ate nearly three servings of food before finally putting down his knife and fork under the shop owner's murderous gaze.
Lionel finally understood why he had brought him to this self-service 'common table' for a meal…
Maupassant let out a very loud burp, casually wiped his lips with a napkin, and asked Lionel, "Why did you eat so little?"
Lionel: "…"
The two finally left the 'Prince Hotel' before the owner completely lost his temper.
Maupassant still seemed to want more, "The taste here is only average, far inferior to Mr. Zola's weekend lunches…" He then realized he had let something slip and quickly stopped.
Lionel's heart trembled, instinctively wanting to ask more, but he quickly suppressed the urge, then pretended he hadn't heard anything.
However, this fleeting flicker of emotion was caught by Maupassant's keen observation skills, and his assessment of the young man rose a few points.
He pulled out a golden pocket watch and checked the time, "It's already 1:40. You should be heading back to Sorbonne for class—but I'm curious, if you're late again this afternoon, will you still perform as well as you did this morning?"
This was clearly a joke, and Lionel smiled shyly, "Thank you for lunch! I really should go back to class now—and you?"
Maupassant shook his head, "I have other things to do this afternoon."
Lionel, understanding the hint, took off his hat and bowed to Maupassant in farewell, "Then I wish you all the best!" With that, he prepared to turn and leave.
Maupassant looked somewhat surprised and hesitated for a moment, but ultimately didn't speak, watching Lionel disappear around the street corner with hurried steps.
The afternoon class was dull and boring Latin. The professor lectured from the book, and the students were drowsy—in this era, the original Latin works of the Homers were already outdated; only eccentrics and bookworms were interested.
In contrast, Lionel, attending a Latin class for the first time, listened with great interest…
All classes ended at 5 PM.
A very fulfilled Lionel chose not to take a public carriage but walked for nearly an hour to return to his apartment on Oberkampf Street in the Eleventh District, which was managed by the widowed Mrs. Martin.
As soon as he entered, Mrs. Martin called out to him.
This ill-tempered old woman, whose cooking was even worse, poked her white-haired head out from the living room on the first floor and said in a sharp voice, as if always laced with sarcasm, "Isn't this our young Master Sorel? A letter arrived for you from your family."
Saying that, she threw an envelope at Lionel's feet—she wouldn't bother with pleasantries for this provincial man who often delayed paying his rent.
Lionel could only helplessly bend down to pick up the envelope. He opened it as he went upstairs, his heart filled with joy, "My living expenses have finally arrived…"
However, the first line of the letter left him dumbfounded:
"Dear Lionel: You should still drop out of school…"
