Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 146 The Pirate Boy Under the Moonlight
As night fell, the kerosene lamp cast a warm glow on the old wooden table in the Sorel family's dining room.

The table was covered with the fruits of Mother and Ivana's afternoon's work:
The stewed lamb is served with local herbs, golden and fragrant roasted potatoes, rye bread, homemade cured ham, and a small jar of precious butter.

Compared to the refined cuisine of Paris, this country dinner was simple, yet it was filled with the most authentic flavors from Lionel's memory.

His mother kept putting lamb and potatoes onto his plate with a knife and fork: "Eat up, Leon. You can't get this authentic lamb in Paris."

Father Joseph sipped his homemade wine and after a long while spoke: "Paris... is everything alright? What the newspapers are saying... is it all true?"
"You really spoke with such high-ranking officials and earls?"

Lionel put down his knife and fork, carefully considered his words, and briefly described the literary salons in Paris and his interactions with several literary giants.

However, he omitted the treacherous struggles and complex interpersonal relationships involved, only sketching a glamorous picture of success.

The mother made the sign of the cross on her chest: "God bless... I knew our Lionel would amount to something."

Ivana ate in silence, and even when she heard these words, her eyelashes only trembled slightly.

The atmosphere was somewhat silent for a moment.

Seeing that the time was right, Lionel cleared his throat and spoke in a gentle tone: "About that swindler, Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve... oh, the alias he used, 'Émile'..."

The mother immediately tensed up, the father put down his wine glass, and Ivana suddenly looked up, her face turning pale instantly.

Lionel spoke very cautiously: “He received the punishment he deserved, a very severe punishment.”

He did not describe the horrific scene that occurred in Notre Dame, and believed that his family had already received the news and there was no need to repeat it.

Lionel simply stated: "He has confessed to the crime and is now in custody awaiting final sentencing."

He could no longer hurt anyone.

Ivana's lips trembled slightly, her voice barely audible: "Did he... mention... us in court?"

Lionel's tone softened: "No, sister. His case is too numerous and far-reaching; Montiel's matter is only a small part of it."

He probably doesn't even remember it.

Ivana seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, but her eyes remained vacant as she slowly lowered her head.

Joseph, the father, sighed, but he was more concerned with the practical matter: "The money he swindled away..."

5000 francs was the family's savings of decades, and it was suffocating them.

Lionel immediately replied, "The police seized his assets, but he used most of the proceeds to buy 'Panama Canal Five-Year Bonds'."

These bonds will be forced to be sold once he has been tried and convicted in court in all the regions where he committed the fraud.

The money obtained will be returned proportionally to victims like us.

Although it may be impossible to recover the full amount, a portion can usually be recovered.

This news clearly brought a great sense of relief to the parents.

Even if not all of it, getting back a portion would be enough to alleviate their heavy sense of guilt and financial burden.

The mother murmured, "That's wonderful...that's really wonderful..."

The father nodded heavily, a look of relief on his face, and even poured Lionel a little more wine.

The atmosphere became noticeably more relaxed in the latter half of dinner.

My parents started asking about trivial things about life in Paris: prices, what I usually eat, and what kind of house I live in.

Lionel picked out some interesting, trivial things to talk about, but they still managed to elicit gasps of amazement from them.

After the meal, Ivana silently helped her mother clear the table, still rarely speaking. Lionel wanted to help her, but her mother firmly pushed him away: "Go and rest. You must be tired from the journey. Your room is all ready."

When he returned to his familiar room, it was indeed spotless.

The sheets and duvet cover were clearly freshly washed, carrying the scent of sunshine and soap.

The desk had been carefully wiped clean, and there was even a small terracotta vase on it with a few wildflowers in it.

Everything was almost exactly the same as before he went to Paris, yet it was all meticulously prepared with great care.

He lay on his familiar bed, listening to the faint chirping of insects from the quiet countryside outside the window, and smelling the cool scent of pine and hay in the air.

This is completely different from the hustle and bustle and stench of Paris.

A deep weariness and a strange peace enveloped him at the same time, and he fell into a deep sleep...

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.

The following morning, Lionel was awakened by the familiar birdsong outside his window and the faint sound of cowbells in the distance.

The mountain air was crisp and sweet, dispelling the last trace of sleepiness.

After breakfast, Lionel sat down at his desk and looked out the window at the familiar yet unfamiliar mountain scenery. Yesterday, Luntu's "Young Master" and the child's timid bow welled up in his heart again like a cold mountain spring.

He spread out the manuscript paper, dipped his quill pen in ink, and a strong impulse prompted him to write the title: "Hometown".

Then, the words poured down like flowing water:

I braved the sweltering heat and noise of Paris to return to my hometown, hundreds of kilometers away, which I hadn't visited for ten years.

It was the height of summer, but as we approached my hometown, the weather turned cool. A mountain breeze whistled through the train carriage. Looking out the window, beneath a clear blue sky, several lonely mountain villages lay scattered in the distance, nestled in the vast shadows of the mountains, seemingly forgotten by time. A wave of melancholy washed over me. Ah! Could this be the vibrant hometown I remembered?
……

The hometown I remember is nothing like this. My hometown is much better, full of vitality. But if I were to point out its beauty and merits, I have no clear picture, no suitable words.

It was as if what I saw before me was everything. So I explained to myself: perhaps my hometown was meant to be like this—though it may not be progressive, it is not necessarily as bleak as I feel right now; it's just that my own state of mind has changed.

Because I came back this time with many things weighing on my mind.

Lionel did not limit himself to the present era, but rather looked at the dramatic changes in French rural society throughout the 1860s and 1870s—especially in marginalized villages like Monttier.

After all, he wrote a novel, not a factual essay.

The land inheritance system under the Napoleonic Code led to the fragmentation of self-cultivating farmers' land, making it increasingly difficult for the new generation of farmers to make a living.

After the Franco-Prussian War, in order to repay the 50 billion francs in war reparations, the French government imposed heavy taxes on agriculture, causing many people to go bankrupt or incur debt.

Heavy taxes and usury were like two nooses around the necks of French peasants at the time, making it impossible for them to breathe.

In 1870, railways were not yet well-developed, and the roads to markets were rugged and long, so high-quality agricultural products and timber often could not be exchanged for their due value.

While the church provided some education and relief, it also hindered the introduction of new ideas and technologies, confining people to tradition and poverty.

All of this bears a striking resemblance to the near-total bankruptcy of rural society in southeastern China 40 years later.

This is why Lionel was inspired to write "Hometown," and not just because of Luntu's address of "Young Master."

As I write, it's time for "Runtu" to make his appearance—

At that moment, a strange yet vivid image suddenly flashed into my mind:
A golden full moon hung in the deep blue sky, below which terraced fields stretched as far as the eye could see, planted with grapevines. Among them, a boy of eleven or twelve, with a small bronze statue of the Virgin Mary around his neck, gripped a steel fork tightly in his hand, striving to stab a badger. The badger, however, twisted its body and escaped between his legs…

Just then, a commotion came from the front door; guests had arrived.

(End of this chapter)