Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 225 There is no more decent writer in Paris than Léon!

Lionel certainly knew what “helping Guy” meant, but the task was simply too heavy for him.

Maupassant's tragic "later life" is a famous case in literary history.

He was tormented by syphilis to the point of mental breakdown and eventually spent the rest of his life in a mental hospital at the young age of forty-three.

The root of all this lies in Maupassant's dissolute and unrestrained lifestyle—

His endless prostitution and alcoholism led him to contract syphilis at a young age (which he was proud of), ruining his health and talent.

On his deathbed, Flaubert's greatest regret was not his unfinished masterpiece, "Bouvard et Pécuchet," but rather the student he so deeply regretted losing.

Lionel, of course, could not tell him how cruel Maupassant's fate would be, and that almost everything he feared would come true.

However, he couldn't bear to refuse a request from a teacher at this time.

Lionel took a deep breath and tried to make his voice sound firm and reliable: "Sir, please don't say that. You will be alright."

Guy... Guy just needs some time to grow up.

He tried to comfort Flaubert, but his explanation seemed rather weak.

Flaubert shook his head slightly: "No, Leon... I know him as well as I know myself when I was young... or even worse..."

He's more talented than me, and also...more undisciplined. He's like a wild horse; someone needs to pull him back before he plunges off a cliff..."

A violent cough interrupted him, and Lionel quickly supported him and fed him a small sip of water.

Flaubert, his breathing catching slightly, still held the urgency in his eyes: "You...you're different, Leon. I've been observing you for a long time...you're clear-headed, disciplined..."

You don't chase after those frivolous and decadent pleasures... you're on the right path. I hope... I hope Guy can spend more time with you.

Your advice might be more effective than this old man's... Guide him, Leon, guide him onto the right path, make him cherish his talent...

Let him...live a few more years, and write works that truly match his talent...promise me..."

Looking into Flaubert's eyes, filled with despair and hope, Lionel could no longer utter any empty words to deflect or offer comfort.

He nodded slowly: "I promise you, Mr. Flaubert. I will do my best to help Guy, to the best of my ability."

This brief promise seemed to possess a magical power.

Flaubert breathed a sigh of relief; his tense body instantly relaxed, and his hand slid limply back onto the sheets.

His face, previously filled with anxiety and fear, was now replaced by a serene weariness. He let out a long, satisfied sigh: "Good...good...thank you...thank you, my child..."

"That makes me feel a little more at ease..."

The murmured words grew softer and softer, and the heavy eyelids slowly closed.

Almost instantly, Flaubert fell into a deep sleep again, his breathing becoming even more steady and long than before.

Outside the window, the night in the Normandy countryside was still deep, but the eastern horizon seemed to have already revealed a very faint gray-white tinge.

------

Over the next two days, Flaubert recovered slowly and steadily.

He is now able to feed himself and have short conversations.

Dr. Feltan visits daily and is optimistic about the improvement in the patient's condition.

This improvement dispelled the oppressive atmosphere in the villa.

Madame Juliet regained her color, and Maupassant was no longer listless; he could even occasionally crack a joke with Lionel.

On the afternoon of the third day, Lionel and Maupassant finally bid farewell to Flaubert, one returning to the Sorbonne to teach and the other to return to work at the Ministry of Education.

Before leaving, Flaubert, in front of Lionel, sternly called out to Maupassant: "Guy, I have once lingered at the gates of hell and have come to understand many things."

Life, health, talent... these are gifts that God is stingy with, and cannot be squandered in the slightest." Maupassant lowered his head somewhat uncomfortably.

Flaubert emphasized, “You have seen the punishment I received for my youthful folly… This broken body is proof of it.”

I absolutely do not want you to repeat my mistakes, or even... be worse than me.

He pointed at Lionel: "Look at Lionel! He's younger than you, but he's more clear-headed and more self-disciplined!"

His life was spotless, free from all those sordid vices! There was no more upright writer in all of Paris than him!
This is the right path, Guy! This is the right path that allows talent to burn brighter and longer!

Maupassant's cheeks flushed slightly, as if he wanted to explain something, but in the end he said nothing and nodded sullenly.

Flaubert's voice regained some of its former booming: "When you return to Paris, you must put away those dissolute thoughts! Go to brothels less often! Drink less!"

Spend more time with Lionel, listen to his advice! He's a trustworthy friend! Did you hear me, Guy?

Maupassant's face flushed red and then turned pale, showing some embarrassment and frustration.

But he understood that these words came from his teacher's heartfelt concern, and finally raised his head to meet Flaubert's gaze, nodding solemnly...

------

Exhausted, Lionel finally returned to 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain.

It was already night. He took out his key and opened the door, thinking that Patty and Alice must have already gone to sleep.

However, the gaslight in the living room still shone with a soft glow.

Alice wasn't resting; she was sitting at her desk in the living room, typing away furiously.

Hearing the door open, she immediately looked up, a joyful expression on her face: "Leon! You're finally back! How's Croissant?"

Lionel hung up his hat and coat: "The situation has stabilized, and we're out of danger for now, but we still need to rest. Guy and I have to come back first."

Alice made the sign of the cross: "Thank God, this is a blessing in disguise. We've been on tenterhooks these past few days."

The soup is still warm in the kitchen, shall I get you a bowl?

Lionel smiled and said, "Thank you, I really need to warm up!"

As Alice turned to go to the kitchen, she suddenly remembered something and slapped her forehead: "Oh, I almost forgot! I received a few letters while you were gone these past few days. I left them all on your desk."

Lionel nodded; a moment later, Alice brought him a bowl of hot soup, which he drank and then returned to his study.

Sure enough, three letters were neatly arranged on the table.

The top letter had a London address printed on it and came from the Good Words magazine.

Lionel used a letter opener to cut open the envelope and took out the letter inside, which was a handwritten letter from the editor-in-chief, Dr. Norman McLeod.

He enthusiastically expressed that the magazine "Good Words" would definitely reserve enough space for Lionel's new work, and he looked forward to the day when he would see the manuscript.

It also expressed the British readers' love for "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"—they absolutely adore this historical fantasy romance novel.

At the end of the letter, Dr. Norman McLeod inquired whether Lionel's royalties were paid per issue, or monthly or quarterly.

This letter undoubtedly gave Lionel a shot in the arm.

Dr. McLeod's response and the success of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" gave him even more confidence in creating the Sherlock Holmes series.

As for the payment method, he was not in a hurry to collect the royalties, but instead entrusted them to open an account in London to deposit them.

This way, when I go to the UK in the future, I won't need to exchange pounds in Paris.

He then picked up the second letter, addressed to Edinburgh Medical School, and the sender was, of course, Arthur Conan Doyle.

(End of this chapter)