Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 250 Fall
It was a Saturday afternoon in early May 1880.

Springtime is in the air at apartment 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, with many freshly bought flowers displayed in the living room.

In the living room, Alice was typing away, clicking and dinging; while Patty hummed a tune as she placed fresh flowers into different vases.

With the sound of a typewriter opening and closing, Alice copied the manuscript of "A Study in Scarlet" that she had just finished typing and handed it to Lionel for revision.

Alice was clearly paying close attention to this story: "Leon, this novel is quite different from your previous works..."

Lionel asked with interest, "Oh? What's different?"

Alice thought for a moment before answering: "More... thrilling, more exciting, and more terrifying... I've never read a novel like that before, so I can't quite put my finger on it."

Are there really people in this world as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes?

Lionel laughed: "Not only have you never read it, but readers in France, England... and Europe have never read it either."

"Sherlock Holmes is based on a real person, a British doctor, whom you will have the opportunity to meet later."

Alice was about to say something when she was interrupted by a series of urgent knocks on the door.

Petty's singing stopped abruptly, and the sound of her footsteps walking towards the foyer could be heard from the living room.

Outside the door stood Guy de Maupassant.

He looked even more terrifying than he had on that snowy night a few months earlier. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, his eyes were empty and lifeless, his lips had lost all color, and they were trembling incessantly.

Lionel had already guessed what had happened: "Guy, it was Mr. Flaubert...?"

Maupassant suddenly grabbed Lionel's arm, his voice hoarse: "Léon... teacher... he... is gone..."

Lionel remained silent, helping Maupassant to his feet.

He was not panicked; he already knew that Gustave Flaubert would die this year, but he had just forgotten the exact time.

Ever since Flaubert fell ill at the beginning of the year, he had been waiting for this day to come deep in his heart.

At that moment, the boots finally landed, and he felt only heavy grief, not sudden shock.

Maupassant's voice was like a dream: "This time it's not illness, nor danger, it's real...death!"

Telegram… Dr. Feltan… confirmed dead.

He pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his crumpled coat and handed it to Lionel, his fingers trembling violently.

Lionel didn't go immediately, but simply nodded: "I understand, Guy. Come in and sit down."

He half-supported, half-carried the almost limp Maupassant into the living room, letting him sink into the soft sofa.

Patty stood to the side in a panic, while Alice's face was filled with worry.

Lionel calmly instructed, "Petty, pour Mr. Maupassant a glass of water and add a little brandy."

Alice, please help me pack my travel bag quickly, just a few changes of clothes. I'll be away for a few days.

Then, he briefly glanced at the telegram.

The telegram was extremely brief, sent again by the maid Juliet Ebel, and confirmed Flaubert's death, with Dr. Feltain having signed the death certificate.

The reporter's panic and helplessness were evident between the lines.

Lionel said to Maupassant, "We must go to Croise, immediately."

Maupassant suddenly raised his head: "Yes... I have to go... I must go... this is the last time..."

Lionel wasted no time comforting him, turning to Patty and Alice, and quickly and clearly instructed them: "You two keep an eye on the house. Alice, you're in charge of handling any visitors or mail—"

Important matters can be left here; urgent matters can be sent by telegram to Mr. Croisève-Loup's villa, but it is estimated that they will be difficult to receive in time.

Alice nodded vigorously: "I understand, Leon. Please accept my condolences and take care on your journey." After a quick tidying up, Leonard helped Maupassant leave the apartment and took a carriage to Saint-Lazare train station, where they bought tickets for the earliest train to Rouen.

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 train arrived at Rouen station in the evening. The two did not linger and immediately hired a light carriage to head to Croisette. Finally, as night fell, they saw the white villa standing by the river.

Juliette Ebert's face was pale and puffy, making her look ten years older, and her eyes were unfocused.

She recognized the man, her voice hoarse and almost inaudible: "Guy... Mr. Sorel..."

The two entered the foyer, and Maupassant's voice still trembled: "Teacher...where is he?"

Juliet didn't speak, but pointed with a trembling finger toward the study.

Maupassant and Lionel hurried into the study.

The books in the study were still neatly arranged, and manuscripts and pens were scattered on the table, as if the owner had only temporarily left.

But in the center of the room, on the backless Turkish sofa, lay a human figure.

Gustave Flaubert was wearing his usual casual robe, his hands folded over his chest, his expression unusually calm, as if he were simply in a deep sleep.

His thick eyebrows and beard still carried the dignity he had in life, but his face had lost all color, turning a waxy, pale white.

The most shocking thing was his neck.

A clear and grotesque purplish-black bruise, like an ugly rope, was wrapped around his neck.

Overwhelmed by grief, Maupassant broke down all his defenses. He covered his face and wept, his body convulsing, as if the whole world had collapsed before him.

Lionel stood quietly to the side, making no attempt to dissuade him.

Although his eyes also felt a stinging sensation, he forced himself to remain calm.

He looked around the study—the birthplace of Madame Bovary, Sentimental Education, Salambo, and Bouvard et Pécuchet, a work that Flaubert himself could not finish.

Now, the soul has departed, leaving only a cold shell and a room filled with silence.

After a long while, until Maupassant's sobs gradually turned into intermittent sobs, Lionel turned to Juliette Hébert, who had been standing motionless at the door.

He began to give instructions with practiced ease: "Mrs. Juliet, please prepare hot water, towels, and a set of the gentleman's most presentable clothes."

He should leave cleanly and neatly.

Juliet seemed to be enlightened, nodded vigorously, and turned to walk quickly to prepare.

Then, Lionel said to Maupassant, "Guy, pull yourself together. You need my help. Let's go together and see our teacher off on his final journey."

Together with Juliet, they cleaned Flaubert's body and changed him into a clean and tidy set of clothes to cover the bruises on his neck.

By the time all this was done, it was already late at night.

Lionel let the exhausted Juliet and Maupassant rest, while he himself sat at Flaubert's desk, spread out the letter paper, and picked up the quill pen that still retained the warmth of its owner's hand.

He personally drafted the telegram, which was concise and solemn, informing Flaubert of his death.

The list of recipients was long: Zola in Paris, Turgenev, Edmond de Goncourt, Alphonse Daudet, publisher Georges Charpentier…

All the important literary friends he could find in Flaubert's correspondence.

He also wrote a special letter to Flaubert's only close relative—his niece Caroline Commanville, who, despite being a burden to Flaubert during his lifetime, was still his only family.

The next morning, Lionel personally went to the telegraph office in Rouen to send out these heartbreaking messages.

He needed to inform the world: a literary giant had fallen!
(End of this chapter)