Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 222 Braving Wind and Snow
Croisette is a small town near Rouen in Normandy, located on the banks of the Seine River, about 120 kilometers from Paris.

Flaubert's father bought a small villa here before his death, and Flaubert spent most of his life here.

Important works such as "Madame Bovary" and "Salammbô" were almost all completed in the villa in Croiset.

He only came to Paris when he needed to attend salons or meet with publishers or friends.

Flaubert also died in Croiset.

"The telegram! I found it lying on the foyer floor when I got home!"

Maupassant pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Lionel with trembling hands: "From Juliet Ebert! The teacher... the teacher suddenly fainted while taking a bath!"
Dr. Felten is trying to save him, but his condition... is very bad!

Lionel took the telegram and quickly scanned it by the dim gaslight in the foyer.

The telegram was brief and alarming; as Maupassant noted, its contents revealed the sender's terror and helplessness.

Lionel felt a chill: "My God..."

If I remember correctly, Gustave Flaubert, the giant of French literature, died in 1880.

As for the exact month, I can't quite remember anymore. Could it be this time?
He hurriedly pressed, "When did this happen? What time was the telegram sent?"

Upon hearing this, Maupassant looked annoyed: "It was this afternoon! Look at the time! When it was delivered to my apartment, I was at 'Rose House'..."

I just got home and saw this! Several hours have passed! There are no trains left, not a single one in León! The earliest one isn't until noon tomorrow!
We must hire a carriage immediately! Immediately!

Maupassant is almost roaring, filled with urgency and despair.

Lionel completely understood his feelings. For Maupassant, Flaubert was far more than just a literary mentor.

They were family friends; Gustave Flaubert had known Maupassant's mother, Lorre-le-Poitvan, and her brother since childhood, and they were like family.

Even Laure Le Poitt's husband was named Gustave...

Flaubert practically watched Maupassant grow up, guiding him in reading and writing, and leading him into the literary world; their emotional bond was incredibly deep.

Lionel remained calm, gripping Maupassant's cold hand tightly: "I understand, Guy, I understand. What do you need me to do? Money? Right?"

A moment of embarrassment flashed across Maupassant's face, but it was quickly overwhelmed by an even stronger anxiety.

He nodded emphatically: "Yes! Money! To get to Rouen, at this time, the only option is to hire a private carriage, the fastest and lightest one!"

The journey is long, and the price doubles if traveling at night. Frequent horse changes are required along the way, and the driver will also charge extra...

And once we get there, who knows how much it will cost—medical expenses, or… or…”

He couldn't continue, his eyes slightly red: "I'm short of money... I'm really short of money lately, Leon."

You know... it's simply not enough to cover a trip like this.

Lionel certainly knew.

Maupassant's lifestyle—frequenting expensive cafes, restaurants, and brothels, and pursuing female widows—was notoriously extravagant.

Although "Boule de Suif" brought him great fame some time ago, it hasn't been able to be converted into income immediately.

As for the thousands of francs in royalties that Georges Charpentier had previously paid him, he has probably already spent them all.

Lionel patted him on the shoulder: "Money is no problem, Guy. Wait for me a moment."

Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately turned around and went back to his study, opened a hidden compartment under his desk, and counted out a thick stack of large denomination banknotes.

Then he grabbed several handfuls of gold and silver coins of varying denominations and stuffed them into a leather money bag. A rough estimate put the total at nearly one thousand francs.

This was a huge sum of money for a carriage journey, but he had to be well-prepared, as no one knew what he might encounter in Croise.

Lionel stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his coat, quickly put on his coat, hat, and gloves, grabbed a thick scarf, and went back to the foyer.

“Let’s go, Guy! We’re going to the Imperial Coach Company. They should have the best carriages and the most experienced drivers who know the roads best at night!” The two rushed out of the apartment and plunged into the cold Parisian night.

The streets were empty and quiet, with only the gas lamps casting dim yellow halos on the ground, and the cold wind scraped their cheeks like knives.

The Imperial Coach Company naturally had a branch in a bustling commercial area like Boulevard Saint-Germain, and it offered 24-hour service.

They practically ran all the way here.

In the bright office, a sleepy-eyed manager greeted them.

Upon hearing that they wanted to immediately hire the fastest two-wheeled light carriage to go to Croisette in Normandy, the manager's sleepiness vanished instantly.

He quickly calculated: "Gentlemen, at this time, on a long night journey to the vicinity of Rouen... this is a very special need."

We need the best horses and the most experienced drivers. We'll need to change horses at least three or four times along the way, and each horse change and night service will incur an extra charge..."

Lionel interrupted him impatiently: "Money is no object! As long as it's the fastest and safest!"

The manager quoted a staggering figure: the one-way cost was estimated to be at least 120 francs, and possibly even higher.

This is almost a month's income for an average working-class family.

Lionel didn't even flinch, and simply pulled out 60 francs from his inner pocket: "This is the deposit, the rest will be settled upon arrival."

Please arrange this immediately, as quickly as possible!

The power of money is immediate!
In less than fifteen minutes, a well-maintained light two-wheeled carriage was already parked at the company entrance.

In front of the carriage, two tall Norman horses puffed out thick white steam and pawed the ground restlessly.

The driver was a stocky middle-aged man, wrapped in a thick fur coat, who looked very experienced.

Lionel and Maupassant squeezed into the cramped carriage, adjusted themselves to a comfortable position, and sat close together.

The coachman cracked his whip, and with a crisp "Whoa!" the carriage sped off, heading northwest towards Paris.

The carriage quickly left the still-lit city of Paris and plunged into the countryside, which was completely shrouded in darkness.

Outside the car window, there was an endless, deep darkness, with only two windproof oil lamps hanging on the front of the car cutting through the darkness and illuminating the road ahead.

The sounds of wheels, horses' hooves, and the wind mingled together, forming the only accompaniment on this long night road.

Inside the carriage, there was an initial deathly silence.

Maupassant huddled in the corner, his body swaying with the jolting of the carriage, his face hidden in the shadows, his expression unreadable.

Lionel didn't know how to comfort him, so he could only stay by his side in silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, Maupassant finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

“Leon…I’m scared…I’m really scared…”

"Teacher...he can't be hurt...he absolutely can't be hurt..."

Lionel tried to comfort him: "The telegram said that a doctor named Feltan is already taking care of him."

When we get there, he might be smiling and greeting us at the door! Guy, cheer up!

Maupassant shook his head, his voice choked with emotion: "You don't understand, Léon... my teacher... he's suffered so much these past two years... so much..."

Lionel was somewhat surprised: "He always looks so energetic at the salon..."

Maupassant sighed and began to recount Flaubert's terrible situation over the past year.

(End of this chapter)