Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 251 Fire Thief

In the following days, the small villa in Croisette seemed to become a magnet for the French literary world.

Telegrams arrived like snowflakes, expressing their shock, grief, and regret.

Zola arrived first, looking travel-worn and his face filled with grief and exhaustion.

He hugged Maupassant and Lionel tightly, his voice choked with emotion: "I was looking forward to the next 'Flaubert's Sunday,' how could it all happen so suddenly..."

Next came Edmond de Goncourt, who, with a solemn expression, inquired carefully about Flaubert's final moments, sighing deeply.

Alphonse Daudet also came, his gentle face etched with sorrow, softly comforting everyone.

Ivan Turgenev also arrived. He looked physically and mentally wounded, and his already snow-white hair and beard appeared even more disheveled and dejected.

Flaubert's niece, Mrs. Caroline Commanville, arrived with her family.

Although she was saddened, she was more worried about the handling of Flaubert's estate, and kept a close eye on the objects in the villa and Flaubert's manuscripts.

She also maintained a polite but distant relationship with Maupassant, Lionel, and other "literary children."

The small villa was packed with people, and the air was filled with the smells of cigars, coffee, and a heavy, sorrowful atmosphere.

People chatted in hushed tones, reminiscing about their interactions with Flaubert, sharing his literary insights and anecdotes about his volatile temper in his early years.

Lionel, on the other hand, played the role of a semi-host, assisting Juliet in receiving guests, handling chores, and maintaining order as much as possible.

Wednesday, May 12, 1880, Rouen, Saint-Ouen Church.

The sky was overcast, and the ancient stone walls of the church appeared particularly solemn under the dim light.

The funeral mass was held as scheduled.

The church was packed, with flickering candlelight illuminating the solemn faces of the people.

The air was filled with the priest's solemn prayers and the ethereal voices of the choir.

Attendees included local Rouen officials, Flaubert's friends from his lifetime, curious and admiring citizens, and of course, literary representatives from Paris.

Zola, Goncourt, Daudet, Maupassant, Lionel... sat in the front row.

George Charpentier also arrived, his face somber, frequently wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

Maupassant's gaze never left the oak coffin covered with flowers.

After the Mass, the funeral procession slowly made its way to the Rouen Monument Cemetery.

The sky remained overcast, and the long procession, numbering at least three hundred people, walked silently through the streets of Rouen.

Citizens along the way spontaneously stopped and took off their hats in respect. They may not understand Madame Bovary, but they know that Rouen has lost a son they can be proud of.

Upon arriving at the cemetery, an unexpected incident occurred.

The prepared tomb was too small to properly accommodate Flaubert's coffin.

The coffin could only hang awkwardly above the grave, unable to be lowered into the ground, creating a somewhat suffocating scene...

The funeral procession waited quietly, a subtle emotion spreading through the air—

It seems that even death and the earth cannot easily accept this giant whose soul is so enormous.

The gravediggers had no choice but to get to work immediately, wielding shovels and hastily widening the grave.

The soil was dug up, and the whole process took almost an hour.

The funeral procession could only wait in silence, and the time seemed exceptionally long and agonizing.

Finally, the tomb was expanded to the appropriate size, and the coffin was slowly lowered.

The rope creaked softly as it rubbed against the pulley, finally settling steadily into the embrace of the earth.

The soil began to be shoveled into the grave, landing on the coffin lid with a dull, final sound.

Then, people began to deliver eulogies.

Maupassant called Flaubert "our master, our teacher," and "the most steadfast and sincere servant of French literature." His departure left all those who love literature as "spiritual orphans."

His eulogy was less like a carefully prepared speech and more like a heartfelt confession to his mentor, moving everyone who heard it.

Zola then spoke. He emphasized Flaubert's innovative position in literary history, calling him "the true founder of the modern novel," who "combined scientific precision with artistic perfection," and whose influence would last forever. Finally, all eyes fell on Lionel Sorel.

Lionel took a deep breath, stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over all the grieving faces present, then fixed on the coffin, which was now mostly buried in mud, and slowly began to speak:
"Gentlemen, friends."

"We are gathered here today not merely to bid farewell to a great writer—although the greatness of Mr. Gustave Flaubert needs no further proof from us at this moment."

Madame Bovary, Salambo, Sentimental Education... these works themselves are immortal monuments standing before his tomb.

Time will pass, and eras will change, but these works will forever remain indelible landmarks in the human spirit.

"We stand here today not only to bid farewell to a giant mentor, a saint who devoted his life to literature."

"What Mr. Flaubert taught us went far beyond writing techniques. He led by example, making us believe that finding the 'only right word' is not a fanaticism, but a sacred responsibility, a noble battle to defend the dignity of literature."

"He told us that a writer's duty is not to judge, but to understand; not to incite emotions, but to present the truth—the most accurate truth that can only be achieved through countless trials and tribulations."

He was like Prometheus, stealing not ordinary fire, but the light that illuminates humanity.

He once said, "Writers should be like God, existing in their works, invisible yet omnipresent." He himself was such a God, creating the world, hiding behind it, and gazing upon his creation.

Now, this God has returned to his heavenly kingdom, leaving behind the myriad worlds he created for us to learn from and revere.

"His body will eventually return to dust, just like all of us. But his dedication to sincerity, his reverence for language, and his loyalty to thought will never perish with him."

At this point, Lionel raised his voice slightly, as if he were not saying goodbye, but making some kind of solemn promise:

"Gustave Flaubert never married and had no children. But he possessed the richest legacy—all the works he left behind."

He also has the widest range of successors—all writers who, like him, are willing to endure solitude, pursue perfection, and refuse to compromise.

"Mr. Flaubert has left us. But he has not gone far. He is still there—"

Lionel extended his finger, pointing to the void, and also to the heart of each person:
"In every word, every sentence, and every timeless character in his works."

He was there in the moonlight of *Madame Bovary*, beneath the Carthaginian walls of *Salammbô*, amidst Frédéric Moreau's bewilderment, and in the seemingly futile yet utterly sincere quest of Bouvard and Pécuchet.

"As long as we are still reading, still thinking, still trying to understand and present this complex world with words, Mr. Flaubert will live on forever."

May he rest in peace. May his spirit continue to guide us forward!

Lionel's speech ended in silence, with many people silently shedding tears, including Zola and Goncourt, who had been trying to remain calm.

The burial ceremony was finally completed. People began to slowly disperse, leaving behind freshly turned soil and silent tombstones.

.........

The next day, on the train back to Paris, everyone's mood finally improved.

Maupassant stopped choking up and even said to Émile Zola, "Actually, for a teacher, this is a good death, an enviable blow."

I hope so too, and I hope all the people I love die like this, like an insect being crushed by a giant finger…

Zola smiled and nodded: "I heard he didn't suffer too much..."

Turgenev suddenly said to Lionel, "Actually, I also envy Gustav, not only because he died so cleanly, but also because of your eulogy."

'He was like Prometheus, who stole not fire, but the light that illuminates humanity'—this assessment makes me incredibly envious…

If I die, what will you say at my funeral?

Lionel's forehead throbbed as he listened, unsure how to respond to the master.

Fortunately, Turgenev did not press the matter, but his tone began to turn sorrowful: "The tumor on my back is telling me that my days are numbered."

Silence fell in the carriage again. Lionel looked at Turgenev's sunken face and knew in his heart that what he said was true.

What Lionel didn't know was that over the next 20 years, he would be sending off these masters one by one.

French, Russian, British, American...

His eulogy at his funeral is often regarded as the final judgment of the era on the deceased.

So much so that he earned a title even more resounding than "Father of 20th Century Literature"—

"The undertaker of 19th-century literature!"
(End of this chapter)