Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 150 Three Letters, Three Kinds of Feelings

For Alice and Petty, their time at Villa Médan was like a stolen moment of tranquility.

Compared to the sweltering heat and hustle and bustle of Lafitte Street, this place felt like another world.

The villa is surrounded by lush gardens, and the air is filled with the scents of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass.

Zola's cook was a kind, plump Norman woman who prepared delicious apple tarts, stewed lamb, and fresh vegetable soup for the people staying there every day.

Petty was like a bird released from its cage; she chased butterflies in the garden, helped the gardener pick beans, and even helped the cook prepare meals.

Her talent in cooking also astonished the cook.

Alice, on the other hand, was enjoying this rare moment of leisure.

She would sit under the oak tree with a book in the early morning and practice writing in the cool living room in the afternoon.

No one here asks about her past; she's just an ordinary girl from the Alps who's temporarily staying here.

That afternoon, the butler brought in a letter: "Miss Alice, it is from Mr. Lionel Sorel in the Alps."

Alice excitedly took the thick envelope, while Patty curiously leaned closer: "Is it a letter from Master Sorel? What did he say? Is the Alps fun?"

Alice carefully tore open the seal, revealing a thick stack of manuscripts inside. With a touch of curiosity, she began to read "Hometown".

At first, she was simply drawn to the familiar mountain scenery described by Lionel, but as she read on, the experiences of the Rento family, the decline of the town...

That pervasive sense of alienation and powerlessness surged into her heart like a tide.

She seemed to see her parents, her neighbors, the ever-clear skies of the Alps, and the snow-capped peaks that never melt...

Every detail in Lionel's writing touches the softest spot in her heart.

When Alice read Luntu's respectful yet distant "Master" and the "pathetic thick barrier," her vision completely blurred.

Tears welled up silently and dripped onto the manuscript paper.

She wasn't crying for herself, but for all the people on that land, like Luntu and her parents, who were burdened by life and forgotten by the times.

Lionel's words reveal the melancholy beneath Montiel's tranquil exterior, and also release her long-suppressed homesickness.

Petty was terrified. She dropped the handkerchief and grabbed Alice's arm. "What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell? Or has something happened to Young Master Lionel?"

Alice shook her head, choking back tears and unable to speak, but simply held Patty tightly in her arms.

After a while, she slowly calmed down, wiped away her tears, and smiled at Patty: "I'm fine, Patty. I just... just missed home."

Leon is alright too, he...he's fine.

A strong impulse rose within her.

This novel shouldn't be seen by just her; it should be made available to readers sooner.

Parisians will know that in the distant Alps, there exists such a world, and such a group of people.

This transcription wasn't just for Lionel or herself, but for her homeland...

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.

August in Paris is nothing but scorching heat and a stench that makes it suffocating.

The "colonial and overseas communications office" on the first floor of the "Orby Trading Company" was unbearably hot, and the only window could only be half-open to keep out mosquitoes, flies and dust.

Sophie Deneuve was wearing a high-necked long-sleeved shirt and an ankle-length skirt, her back already soaked with sweat.

Although it was almost time to leave work, she was still engrossed in sorting out a list of goods from Algeria, and the constant harassment from flies was making her somewhat annoyed.

Just then, a clerk from the mailroom brought her a letter. Seeing the freehand handwriting on the envelope, Sophie's heart skipped a beat, as if a refreshing mountain breeze had instantly dispelled the oppressive atmosphere.

She carefully opened the letter and began to read it greedily.

Lionel vividly depicts the scenes of the Alps:
The sky here is as clear and bright as a sapphire, while the sky in Paris seems to be forever shrouded in a gray veil.

In the early morning, a milky white mist fills the valley, like a fairyland... At night, the stars hang low, as if you could reach out and pluck them from the sky... The mountain air is crisp and pure, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers; every breath feels like a cleansing of the lungs...

Sophie seemed to be able to see the rolling green mountains and feel the refreshing coolness through the words.

Sophie's lips unconsciously curled up, happy that he could temporarily escape the hustle and bustle of Paris, and also attracted by the vast and vibrant world he depicted.

She felt incredibly proud as she thought of Lionel's popularity in high society and knew he was steadily entering the elite cultural circles of Paris.

Just then, the sound of two male colleagues who had just returned from drinking coffee talking loudly came from outside the office door. They probably thought that Sophie, like the other colleagues, had already made a clean getaway.

"Honestly, Miss Deneuve's eyes, when she looks at someone, are like they're filled with shimmering water; they can steal your soul..."

"Come on, she is indeed a beauty, that's all. Think about it, her parents are gone, how much dowry could she possibly have?"
I'm afraid we won't even be able to gather a decent set of silverware!

"Tsk, what a pity... Such beauty and intelligence, if only she had been born into a wealthy merchant's or judge's family..."

"That's not something we can even dream of! At most... hehe, I'd be more like a mistress to some lord. Haha..."

Sophie's smile froze instantly; the cold reality extinguished her joy.

Lionel is rising rapidly, while what about herself? She only owns a worthless, dilapidated old house in the 10th arrondissement; her savings amount to a meager 500 francs.

Thinking of that diamond necklace worth at least 4 francs, thinking of the faint smile on the lips of the dignified Madame Rothschild, thinking of the charming young girl from the Count of Rohan…

She had almost no "capital" to match a promising young talent like Lionel—looks are worthless in high society.

In Paris, wealthy people can have an unlimited number of lovers if they wish.

Suppressing the fear and inferiority that welled up within her, Sophie Deneuve took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.

She is Sophie Deneuve, a woman who was able to establish herself in Paris through her own abilities.

Sophie's gaze hardened again as she looked at Lionel's letter once more.

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.

Mr. Paul Pigut, editor of Le Parisien, also received a letter from Lionel.

He's been in a great mood lately.

Newspaper sales steadily increased thanks to "The Curious Case of Benjamin Bouton," whose novel setting and dramatic plot appealed to the general public.

So he was very surprised when he received Lionel's letter.

Lionel submitted two weeks' worth of serials in one go, saying he was going back to the Alps—how come he's back so soon?

Curious, he opened the envelope. Inside was a neatly handwritten manuscript titled "Hometown".

With a mixture of skepticism and anticipation, Paul Pigut began to peruse the book.

After reading just a few paragraphs, he was captivated by the calm yet powerful realistic style.

This is quite different from his familiar work, Benjamin's Curious Case of Bouton, which is full of urban fantasy.

As he read on, the expression on his face changed from curiosity to surprise, then from surprise to solemnity, and finally to deep admiration.

"Jean-Marlot, immediately withdraw that Maupassant story and replace it with this one! Our 'Proutos' has sent a new manuscript!"

(End of this chapter)