Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 144 Returning home in glory
Petit is right, Paris in August is like a giant, airtight steamer, unbearably hot.

As soon as the sun climbed over the eastern rooftops, the asphalt road began to melt, leaving deep ruts on horse-drawn carriages and emitting a suffocating stench mixed with horse manure.

The Seine had only been clear for a little over two months, and now its water level had dropped to its lowest point of the year. The exposed riverbed was bluish-black, and rotting water plants and garbage were fermenting under the scorching sun, with the stench spreading throughout the city on the wind.

Lionel opened the window to get some fresh air, but was choked by a strong ammonia fumes and coughed repeatedly.

The stables across the street weren't cleaned up in time, and thick piles of horse manure had spilled onto the sidewalk, with greenbottle flies buzzing around them.

"This awful weather." Alice brought over a basin of cool water and used a towel to wipe Patty's forehead; the little girl's cheeks were covered in prickly heat.

Newspapers were once again filled with reports about the "stench of Paris".

Le Figaro published a joint letter from doctors warning that "high temperatures and filth could trigger cholera" and advising citizens to "avoid going out before sunset."

Almost all salons, balls, and theaters in Paris were closed, and those who could leave left—they stayed a few days later this year because of the exorcism ritual.

On the one hand, the artists needed to escape the heat, but on the other hand, the sweltering weather also caused them to suffer from syphilis symptoms.

"Flaubert's Sunday" disappeared just as August began.

Gustave Flaubert returned to the town of Kanterle near Rouen and retreated to his villa in Croisette to fight his chronic illness.

His situation was particularly bad.

When Maupassant visited him in Rouen, the great writer was lying in the shade of his country villa, with a cloth soaked in medicine covering his legs.

He grumbled, “Those damn pustules make it impossible to write properly in Paris.”

The manuscript of "Bouvard et Pécuchet" lay scattered on his desk, the handwriting illegible due to trembling.

But his student's genitals were also covered with lumps, and his legs and entire buttocks had turned blue from the application of mercuric iodide.

Flaubert suggested: "Guy, try leeches and enemas, I find them quite effective... If that doesn't work, try bloodletting..."

……

Zola also left Paris and took his family to Marseille.

In his letter to Lionel, he described:

The sea breeze here is at least clean, unlike in Paris, where even breathing feels like swallowing rotten flesh.

He also mentioned that most of the young members of the naturalist literary group went to Normandy or Brittany.

Only that eccentric Huysmann preferred to stay in Paris studying medieval manuscripts.

The "Thursday Dinner Party" and the "Meitang Night Party" naturally came to an end.

Without these people, "Tuesdays at Charpentier" certainly couldn't be held.

The Parisian social season of 1879 came to an end, and it wouldn't begin again until the cool autumn.

The sound of the coachman cursing came from outside the window; the wheels had probably gotten stuck in the melting asphalt again.

Lionel picked up his quill and began replying to the two inviters—wherever he went, leaving this stinking Paris was of utmost importance.

His gaze fell on the gray, distorted Parisian skyline outside the window.

Going to the Count of Rohan's castle? It means endless social engagements, insincere flattery, and the possibility of getting embroiled in deeper political turmoil.

Going to the villa in Italy with Madame Rothschild? That ambiguous implication would only complicate their relationship further.

A clearer and more urgent thought arose in his mind: go home, back to the small town of Montiel at the foot of the Alps.

There was a cool mountain breeze, clear streams, familiar local accents, and his family whom he hadn't seen in a long time—his parents, who were gloomy and depressed because they had been deceived, and his sister Ivana, who was deeply heartbroken.

Although the fraudster suffered far greater punishment than imagined, the trauma he inflicted on his victims cannot be healed in a short time.

Lionel can't hide from his family forever; now is the perfect time to go back.

Once he made up his mind, he immediately began to plan.

The first question is how to accommodate Alice and Patty. Alice's identity is sensitive, and Patty is not suitable for long journeys, so neither of them can go with her.

But leaving them in this sweltering apartment was both unbearable and unsafe.

He thought of Emile Zola.

The Zolas had gone to Marseille for the summer, but his villa in Médan should still have a cook and servants left behind.

It's located in the suburbs, in a quiet environment, and is much more comfortable and safer than downtown Paris.

He immediately went to the post office to send a telegram to Monsieur Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting permission to temporarily accommodate Alice and Petit in Médan until his return to Paris. Lionel believed that the generous and hospitable Monsieur Zola would not refuse.

Then he sent a telegram to the Laranj post office, telling his father that he would be returning home in a few days.

Only after he had done all this did he announce his decision to Alice and Petty.

"Back to the Alps?" Alice's eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again.

She certainly missed the air and scenery of her hometown, but she was more worried about causing trouble for Lionel.

Lionel said gently, “Since you and Petit aren’t going, I’ve already written to Mr. Zola, asking you to stay in Médan for a while.”

There are gardens and shady trees there; it's much more comfortable than here. I'll come pick you up when I get back from the Alps.”

Alice opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end she just nodded, her eyes filled with gratitude and a hint of disappointment.

Petty got excited when she heard that she could go to a country villa, and temporarily forgot about the itching of her prickly heat.

Zola's reply arrived quickly by telegram, brief and warm:
[Médan welcomes the two ladies; preparations have been instructed with the housekeeper. Have a safe journey. Émile Zola]

The day after receiving the telegram, Lionel personally escorted them to Villa Médan, and then returned to the Saint-Lazare train station to buy connecting tickets to the Alps.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

There are no direct trains from Paris to the Alps; you need to transfer in Lyon.

The train to Lyon departed at seven in the morning. Lionel carried a simple suitcase into the first-class carriage, where the seats were made of leather and covered with starched linen covers.

Each compartment had four seats, making it feel like paradise compared to the third-class carriages.

In particular, the first-class carriages have two separate toilets – which is very important for long journeys of more than 10 hours.

As the distance between each station increases, it's common for people to feel suffocated.

Passengers in third class, regardless of gender, could only go to the connecting area at the rear of the carriage, hold onto the railing, and dangle their buttocks in mid-air, flying freely.

If you encounter a sharp turn, passengers in both the front and rear carriages will be able to enjoy the spring scenery.

First class passengers don't have this problem—but the ticket price is as high as 60 francs.

Across from Lionel sat an elderly gentleman wearing the Legion of Honour, carefully peeling an apple with a silver knife, the peel forming a continuous thin line.

"To Lyon?" The old gentleman handed over half an apple, a smile on his face.

Lionel was flattered and accepted the apple: "Further, to the Alps—thank you."

The old man squinted his eyes: "The Alps are a good place. When I was young, I served in Savoy. The air there can cleanse the soul."

Unlike Paris, where even the pigeons are coughing.

The train whistled as it pulled out of the city, and factory chimneys were gradually replaced by fields.

Lionel leaned back in his chair, watching the scenery rushing past the window.

The wheat fields have been harvested, leaving neat stubble. Grapevines spread out along the hillside, with bunches of dark purple fruit hanging heavily.

In this sweltering summer, the French countryside exudes a languid abundance amidst the high temperatures.

Twelve hours later, the train arrived at Lyon station.

Instead of wandering around the city, Lionel spent the night at a hotel next to the train station.

The next morning, Lionel boarded a small train bound for the Alps.

This train has only five carriages, and the white mist emitted from the locomotive refracts into rainbows in the sunlight.

As the train slowly climbed the winding valley, the altitude increased and the air became cooler.

Outside the window, exposed rocks, vast forests, and veil-like clouds began to appear.

Lionel opened the car window, and a cool mountain breeze rushed in, dispelling the stuffy air in the car and also dispelling the restlessness in his heart.

Eight hours later, the train arrived at Laranje station. It was a station with only a platform and a small wooden hut, where the stationmaster, who was also the ticket seller, was wiping the station sign with a rag.

Lionel had just stepped off the train when he was stunned by what he saw—a red banner hung from a large tree at the station entrance, with large, crooked characters that read:

Welcome back to our homeland, our pride and renowned author Lionel Sorel!

(End of this chapter)