Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 382 A complete mess!
The carriage entered a quiet, clean street and eventually stopped in front of a respectable Georgian-style townhouse.

"We've arrived." Norman was the first to jump off the carriage.

He took out his key and opened the door: "This is my private apartment. It's usually empty, very quiet, and fully equipped."

You can stay here for now; it's perfectly safe, and no one will bother you.

The apartment's interior wasn't luxurious, but it was comfortable and practical, with a faint scent of perfume.

The living room has a clean carpet, a sofa and a desk by the fireplace, and the bed in the bedroom is neatly made.

Norman McLeod opened a drawer with practiced ease, took out a thick envelope, and handed it to Lionel.

"Here is £120, in both banknotes and coins, for your convenience."

Then he pointed to the closet: "There are several outfits in there, made to your size, ranging from casual wear to formal coats."

Oh, and this too—"

He patted a brand-new typewriter on his desk with a hint of pride; the metal parts gleamed coldly under the gaslight.

“A Sorel 1! I had someone go to Harrods to buy it for me today, because I know you’re used to using it for writing.”

Lionel took the envelope; Norman always thought things through in these details.

Lionel thanked him sincerely: "Thank you, Norman."

Norman McLeod patted him on the shoulder: "You're welcome, my friend. Your safety and ability to continue writing is the greatest gratitude I can show you."

Alright, it's getting late, you should get some rest. Let me know if you need anything. I won't bother you any longer.

Norman McLeod gave a few more instructions, then turned and left, the sound of the carriage gradually fading into the distance.

The apartment fell completely silent.

Lionel walked to the window, opened it, and the evening breeze carried the smell of the Thames River. The smell was awful, but Lionel chose to endure it.

Outside the window, it was the deep night of London in 1881.

In the distance, the western district is still brightly lit, and the clubs there may be in the midst of a dance party; closer by, this middle-class neighborhood has fallen asleep, silent and still.

Further east, in that region shrouded in darkness, lies the Whitechapel, cholera...

The anxious face of Sean Omara and the eyes of the people queuing in the tavern to write letters kept flashing through his mind.

The legal battles in Paris, Holmes's brilliant success, the politicians' scheming... all of these seem to have faded into a blurry background noise at this moment.

He recalled the muddy streets of Rue de l'Obo Camp in Paris, and the slums of Paris he had once taken Chekhov to.

Both countries' capitals harbor abysses hidden beneath a facade of prosperity, a sight that is shocking at the mere glance.

His experience writing letters for others over the past few days has etched a series of rough sketches of society into his mind.

The copper coins handed over by calloused hands, the oral accounts filled with suffering and hope, the eyes that held the letter as if it were a priceless treasure, a life-saving charm…

At first, he did do this with a compassionate heart, trying his best to use beautiful writing to package those broken feelings into decent words.

But did this brief act of kindness really change anything?
Sean Omara sent out the petition, but would London City Council then install enough taps and build decent sewers for Whitechapel?

The answer is almost certainly no.

The mainstream society of this era largely believes that the livelihood problems of the poor can be solved through the charitable donations of the rich and the church.

Just like when he wrote letters in the tavern to comfort some people's hearts.

These conflicting thoughts collided and fermented in his mind.

What he needed was neither a story like "The Sign of Four" nor a script like "Thunderstorm".

He needs a more concise and symbolic form to pierce the veil of warmth covering reality.

It should happen in both the high and low places of the city, involving dedication and sacrifice, concerning both visible splendor and invisible suffering. And of course, it should also include those tiny lives easily overlooked by mainstream society.

He reached out and rolled a piece of white paper into the typewriter.

------

Verneve, France, on the banks of the Seine.

The summer sun still shone brightly, shining on Lionel's once tranquil and elegant summer villa, but it could not dispel the oppressive atmosphere that enveloped the place.

Sophie, Alice, and Petit, accompanied by Zola, Maupassant, and De La Roux, stood in front of the villa's open gate.

They were all stunned, their faces filled with shock and disbelief.

The meticulously maintained lawn and flowerbeds in the front yard looked as if they had been trampled by a herd of bison, covered with deep and shallow footprints, messy tire tracks and hoofprints.

The white garden table and chairs that were originally placed there were overturned on the ground, flower pot fragments and scattered soil were mixed together, and a few trampled rose bushes were stuck to the ground.

Pushing open the half-closed door, apart from a few clear shoe prints, the interior was in complete disarray.

In the living room, the bookshelves were overturned, books were scattered all over the floor, the covers of many hardcover books were torn, and dirty footprints were left on the inner pages.

Lionel's collection of newspapers was torn to shreds, and the scraps of paper covered the carpet like snowflakes.

The sofa was slashed open with a sharp object, revealing the filling inside.

Inside the restaurant, shards of cutlery and food scraps were mixed together, emitting a rancid smell.

The kitchen was the worst affected area, with cabinet doors hanging crookedly and flour and beans scattered everywhere.

They carefully made their way up to the second floor, stepping over the debris scattered on the ground.

Lionel's bedroom and study were the most severely damaged areas.

The wardrobe was wide open, clothes were pulled out and thrown on the floor, the mattress was overturned, and even cut open with a knife.

In the study, the large desk where he often wrote was overturned, all the drawers pulled out and thrown on the floor, with manuscripts, letters and stationery scattered everywhere.

The ink bottle spilled, and dark blue ink smeared across the carpet and scattered papers, like congealed blood.

Maupassant was the first to lose his temper, growling, "These beasts!"

He kicked aside an empty drawer blocking his way, his fists clenched tightly, his face flushed with anger.

Zola's broad chest heaved violently, like an enraged bull: "This is not simple destruction, this is hatred, this is venting!"

Sophie was pale, her body trembling slightly. She bit her lip, trying hard not to cry; Alice held Patty's hand tightly, her eyes reddening.

The little girl was terrified by the sight before her; her big eyes filled with tears, and her face turned deathly pale.

Notary Delaruwak appeared much calmer, but his brow was furrowed.

He carefully examined the damaged door locks and windows, and began to assess the damage.

This unbridled destruction clearly goes beyond theft or venting anger; it carries a strong sense of intimidation.

Zola picked up a stack of papers from the ground: "They wanted to warn him, to warn everyone connected to him. They wanted to frighten Lionel, to frighten us."

Maupassant whirled around and roared at the wrecked house, “They’re dreaming! Lionel isn’t afraid! Neither are we!”

Sunlight streamed through the broken windows, illuminating the devastation on the ground and the faces etched with indignation and resolve.

At that moment, a commotion arose outside the villa, and everyone went out to investigate.

Paul Pigut, editor-in-chief of Le Parisien, stood at the door, followed by a group of reporters and even a camera being set up.

Paul Pigut's voice wasn't loud, but everyone could hear him: "Here, all Parisians must see this!"

(End of this chapter)