After settling the major matter with Gabriel, Lionel finally breathed a sigh of relief.
In fact, even if Gabriel had offered 3,000 francs at the time, he would have accepted – he was simply too short on money.
Not only did the Sorel family, far away in the Alps, desperately need a sum to lift their sagging spirits, but he also needed funds to leave Mrs. Martin's apartment.
It wasn't that he disliked Mrs. Martin's meanness or the apartment's crudeness; rather, he had been hearing more and more coughing at night recently – which was not a good sign.
Every winter, Paris would "clean out" tens of thousands of residents with influenza and pneumonia, almost all of them poor people from the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, 18th, 19th, and 20th arrondissements, besides the homeless.
Anyway, by the time spring arrived the following year, several times that number of provincials would come to this glorious city in search of hope.
Lionel wasn't so confident in his own immunity.
Although the 1,500 francs in cash hadn't reached his hands yet, he decided to celebrate anyway, but this time he wasn't going to eat at a "public table" outside.
He first took a public coach back to the 11th arrondissement, but got off at the Popincourt Market, located at the intersection of Popincourt Street and Roquette Street.
This was one of the 11th arrondissement's most famous open-air markets, with stalls for vegetables, fruits, and meats, all readily available.
Lionel lingered in the market for a long time, finally buying the ingredients he wanted: a slaughtered grey hen, a cleaned oxtail, a few carrots, a few onions, a few turnip roots (kohlrabi), a bunch of celery, a bag of mushrooms, a bag of various small spices, one kilogram of Italian pasta... and a bottle of pepper – Mrs. Martin was extremely stingy, never letting them use much of this expensive seasoning.
Next, he went to a small shop selling tableware and kitchenware, buying bowls, plates, and cutlery – he couldn't find forks – and most importantly, a soup pot.
These cost him a total of 12 francs, which indeed made his heart ache a little.
But thinking that he wouldn't have to share airborne droplets with Mrs. Martin's tenants and the diners at the public table in the future, he felt it was absolutely necessary.
By the time he returned to the apartment, it was nearly 1 PM, and Mrs. Martin was clearing the dining table.
Seeing Lionel return with a large bag on his back, she uncharacteristically didn't make a sarcastic remark, but instead politely said, expressionless:
"Good afternoon, Master Sorel."
Lionel could tell that this time the "Master Sorel" didn't sound sarcastic, so he politely replied:
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Martin."
Their conversation clearly startled everyone upstairs.
Lionel distinctly felt the usually noisy apartment fall silent for a moment, and several pairs of prying eyes appeared from the stairwell and hallway.
Due to Lionel's generous display that morning, the aristocratic lady who was supposedly keeping him had gone from a rich merchant's wife to a baroness.
Upon reaching the third floor, just as he arrived at the attic door, he heard it creak open, and then Petty's pale face, framed by two star-like eyes, appeared:
"You're back, Master Sorel."
Lionel nodded, entered the room, opened his bag, and laid out its contents one by one.
With each item he placed, Petty's eyes lit up a little more.
Lionel asked:
"Have you eaten?"
Petty shook her head:
"Mama said that now I'm your servant and can't eat with them at Mrs. Martin's anymore, so she asked Mrs. Martin for the remaining meal package fee for this month back; Mrs. Martin then said you haven't paid her my meal package fee yet, so I still can't sit at the table to eat..."
Lionel: "..."
What can I say?
He asked Petty:
"Do you know how to cook?"
Petty shook her head; her family always ate pre-arranged meals, so of course she didn't know how.
Lionel selected a few items from the ingredients on the floor, picked up his newly bought soup pot and spoon, and took Petty downstairs to the first floor to find Mrs. Martin:
"Mrs. Martin, can I use your stove here to cook for myself from now on?"
Mrs. Martin hesitated for a moment, glanced at the ingredients and tools in Lionel's hand, and frowned:
"Charcoal and coal aren't cheap..."
Lionel said:
"How about you deduct it from my meal package fee?"
Mrs. Martin's brow then relaxed, she nodded, and led him into the kitchen.
The apartment's kitchen had a small cast-iron stove with a movable metal door for adding charcoal and controlling the flame size.
Although it couldn't compare to later gas stoves, its method of use was already quite similar.
After Mrs. Martin briefly taught the two how to use it, she left the kitchen, but occasionally peered into it from the dining room – she simply couldn't believe that Lionel, a poor university student, could cook, especially using so many complex ingredients.
One must know this was the skill of proper chefs working in restaurants.
Even being able to stew a chicken well was worth at least 150 francs a month!
Lionel didn't care what Mrs. Martin thought of him; instead, he earnestly began teaching Petty how to peel carrots and turnip roots, how to wash mushrooms, how to chop onions...
Then he had Petty bring in a pot of water, placed the whole grey hen in it, stuffed its belly with carrots, celery, and onions, brought it to a boil over high heat, and skimmed off the foam and excess fat with a ladle; then he reduced the heat to low, added the turnip root chunks and mushrooms, along with peppercorns and other spices...
Petty stared with her big eyes, her small brain almost fried, barely managing to remember these steps, which were actually not that complicated.
Only when the fire in the stove finally turned to a low simmer, and the soup pot was covered, emitting a faint "gurgling" sound, did Lionel stop his busy work.
He looked back and saw Petty's eyes filled with adoration, almost beyond words.
Lionel smiled slightly:
"This hen is quite large and old..."
In the dining room, Mrs. Martin suddenly made a "thump," as if dropping something.
Lionel ignored her and continued to instruct:
"...it will take about an hour to stew thoroughly.
If you're hungry, you can take two sous and buy a loaf of bread from the bakery on the corner."
Petty shook her head, pointed to the soup pot, indicating she wanted to watch the old hen stew until it was done.
Lionel glanced at the sky outside and said:
"Alright, you watch the fire here, I'm going to take a nap.
Call me in an hour."
Petty nodded:
"Don't worry, Master Sorel!"
As she spoke, she patted her chest, making a gesture as if to defend the chicken soup with her life.
Lionel instructed Petty to be careful with the stove fire, then went upstairs and soon fell into a deep sleep...
Unconsciously, he drifted into a peaceful dream – first some fragmented scenes from the Alps and Paris, then 150 years later, to the true resting place of his soul, gathered happily with relatives, classmates, and friends.
Everyone was asking him where he had been recently, and why he hadn't informed anyone...
In a daze, Lionel suddenly felt the floorboards faintly vibrate, as if many people were moving about and talking.
"Why is the apartment so lively?"
Lionel woke up, and then smelled a familiar, rich aroma, directly assaulting his senses.
He instantly felt his soul being healed.
Is this what "the everyday warmth of human life, most soothing to the common soul" means?
He quickly got out of bed, opened the attic door, and looked down through the gaps in the stairwell.
The corridor was already filled with people, each stretching their necks, mouths half-open, nostrils flaring, eyes showing an intoxicated expression.
And on the first floor, a faint voice drifted up:
"Just one bite, just a taste.
Master Sorel isn't awake yet..."
Immediately followed by Petty's childish yet firm refusal:
"No! This is Master Sorel's soup! No one can touch it!"
(End of Chapter)
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