Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 223 Bloodletting Therapy
"Do you know Caroline? His niece! Her husband, that bastard Ernest Comenville, went bankrupt in business and owed huge debts... He almost went to jail!"
The teacher had used almost all his savings over the past few years to fill that hole! A full 25 francs! Leon, 25! Almost his entire fortune!

Maupassant began to roar again, but this time, it was all out of anger!
Lionel was taken aback by what he heard.

He knew that Flaubert was not wealthy and lived a decent life mainly by relying on the inheritance left by his parents.

Flaubert was an extremely slow writer; he could spend an entire day deliberating over a single punctuation mark. As a result, he left behind only four novels and one collection of novellas.

Therefore, royalties were not his main source of income; rather, it was the inheritance left by his parents and the resulting profits.

But 25 francs was almost all of his wealth.

Lionel sighed as well: "I've never heard him mention it. Every time I see him at the salon, he always..."

Maupassant's voice was bitter: "He's always so witty and charming, isn't he? That's just the kind of person he is! Léon, he's so proud, he never shows the slightest weakness in front of others!"
Especially for us young people, he always wanted to be that powerful, omnipotent protector.

Soon, his voice became agitated: "But who knows how badly he's been tormented by all this? Money is only one aspect! His body... his body is already riddled with holes!"

Syphilis, epilepsy, neuralgia, insomnia, and that damned stomach ailment and indigestion… He often suffered so much that he couldn't sleep all night, relying on tobacco, morphine, and coffee to get through it all!

Lionel sighed inwardly.

The calm, reserved, quiet, and kind Flaubert at the salon was a completely different person from the impoverished and ailing old man described by Maupassant.

Maupassant's voice trailed off: "He has been writing frantically lately, but progress on Bouvard and Pécuchet has been slow, which he finds very dissatisfying and often frustrating..."

He told me that he felt his energy was not as good as before, and it was also difficult for him to concentrate for a long time... Leon, he's only 58 years old!

But he often said he felt like an old man…

At this moment, the carriage suddenly stopped at a post station. The driver and the post station staff shouted loudly and then began to hurriedly change horses. The noise interrupted Maupassant's monologue.

After changing horses, the carriage sped into the darkness once again.

After resuming his journey, Maupassant calmed down somewhat, but remained frustrated: "He was my teacher, Léon, but more like my second father... Without him, I wouldn't be who I am today."

He taught me to observe life, to hone my language, and to treat literature with the same devotion as a faith… He introduced me to Turgenev, to Zola, to Charpentier…

He paved the way for me... but I... but I always caused him worry, all those ridiculous things I did... I never really did anything for him..."

Lionel remained silent and could only pat him on the shoulder.

For the rest of the journey, the two remained mostly silent.

Maupassant seemed to have exhausted himself, leaning against the carriage wall with his eyes closed, it was unclear whether he had fallen asleep.

Lionel himself was wide awake, staring out at the endless night, lost in thought.

Each change of horses, each brief rest, felt incredibly long, causing both of them immense suffering.

Time flowed slowly as the wheels turned, and the pitch-black sky gradually faded, turning deep blue, and then a pale white...

Finally, the dim winter morning sunlight managed to pierce through the clouds and illuminate the frost-covered fields of Normandy.

In the distance, the Seine River resembles a gray ribbon, winding through the desolate landscape.

When the coachman finally shouted, "We're almost at Croiset!", the two men almost simultaneously straightened up, their exhausted faces filled with nervous anticipation.

The carriage drove through a quiet little village and finally stopped in front of a simple, unpretentious two-story villa by the river.

This is Croise, Flaubert's "ivory tower".

Maupassant practically stumbled off the carriage; his stiff, numb limbs caused him to fall, but he quickly struggled to his feet.

Lionel paid the remaining 60 francs and gave the coachman 10 francs, telling him to go to the post station to rest and not to return to Paris yet, as he might need the carriage again later.

The two then rushed toward the villa's gate.

The door was ajar, as if it were waiting for their arrival.

Maupassant flung open the door and rushed into the familiar front hall.

The room was filled with a strong smell of medicine, charcoal, and blood, all mixed together and assaulting the senses.

A middle-aged woman was walking briskly out of the bedroom, carrying a white porcelain basin with a blood-stained cloth draped over its rim.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her face ashen, and her apron stained with blood. Upon seeing Maupassant and Lionel following closely behind, tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

"Guy! My God, you've finally come!"

Maupassant asked urgently, "Juliet! Where is the teacher? How is he?"

Lionel then realized that the woman was Juliette Hébert, whom Maupassant had mentioned on the road, saying that she was Flaubert's only maid and also his unofficial mistress.

Juliet's voice trembled: "Dr. Filton is inside...he's bleeding the master..."

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.

A middle-aged man came out, wiping his fingers with a white handkerchief—it was Dr. Feltan.

He saw the extremely anxious Maupassant and nodded slightly, as if he recognized him.

Maupassant rushed forward: "Mr. Filton, the teacher..."

Dr. Feltain raised his hand, signaling him to calm down: "Mr. Maupassant, you've come quickly. Rest assured, the most dangerous time has passed."

He turned to Juliet: "Madame Ebel, please prepare the leeches I brought."

Juliet quickly put down the blood basin and took a small glass jar from a low cabinet next to her. Inside the jar were several black leeches that were slowly wriggling.

Lionel: "..."

Dr. Feltain led Juliet back into the bedroom, while Maupassant and Lionel stood watching from the doorway.

Flaubert's massive body lay on the large bed, covered with a thick quilt, his face sallow, his eyes closed, and his breathing heavy.

His arm was exposed, with a white cloth strip wrapped around his elbow, and faint traces of blood seeping out.

Dr. Feltain skillfully picked up the slippery leeches from the jar and carefully attached them to Flaubert's broad forehead and temples.

The black creatures began to work almost immediately, their bodies gradually swelling and turning a dark red, shiny color.

Time passed slowly in the oppressive silence.

Finally, Dr. Feltain finished his procedure. After watching the leeches saturate with blood and fall off on their own or be removed, he listened to Flaubert's heartbeat and examined his eyelids.

After a while, Dr. Feltan stood up, walked out of the bedroom, and closed the door.

His tone was somber: "Gentlemen, Mr. Gustave Flaubert has suffered a severe epileptic seizure!"

I bled him twice, once yesterday and once just now, each time for a full 400 milliliters, and finally he calmed down!

The leeches were used to reduce congestion and inflammation in the brain, which is currently the most effective treatment.

He is now in a deep sleep, his heartbeat more stable than last night. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.

He must remain absolutely quiet; no one can disturb him. I'll come back this afternoon!

Maupassant swayed, as if all his strength had been drained away.

Lionel de Maupassant thanked the doctor, saying, "Thank you, doctor."

At the same time, he took out some banknotes from his pocket: "If you need any extra medicine, feel free to buy it. This is an advance payment!"

Dr. Feltan took the money and nodded: "I will do my best. But for now, it's more about waiting and observing."

"Keep a close eye on him. If anything changes, have someone come to me immediately."

He gave Juliet a few more instructions, then picked up his black medical kit and left the villa.

Juliet slumped into a chair in the foyer, silently weeping.

Maupassant leaned against the cold wall, staring blankly at the closed bedroom door.

Lionel suddenly spoke up: "I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat at home?"

(End of this chapter)