Petti was right; Paris in August was like a massive, airtight steamer, furiously hot.
As soon as the sun climbed above the eastern rooftops, the asphalt roads began to melt.
Carriages would leave deep ruts as they passed, mixing with horse manure to emit a suffocating stench.
The Seine had only been clear for a little over two months.
Now, its water level had dropped to its lowest point of the year.
The exposed riverbed was tinged dark blue-green, and decaying water weeds and garbage fermented under the scorching sun, their stench carried by the wind throughout the entire city.
Lionel pushed open the window to get some fresh air but was choked into a fit of coughing by a strong ammoniac smell—
The stable across the street hadn't been cleaned in time, and thick layers of horse manure had piled up onto the sidewalk, with greenbottle flies buzzing above.
"This awful weather,"
Alice said, bringing a basin of cool water and wiping Petti's forehead with a towel.
The little girl's cheeks were already covered in heat rash.
Newspapers were once again filled with reports about the "Stench of Paris."
Le Figaro published a joint letter from doctors, warning that "high temperatures and filth could trigger cholera" and advising citizens to "avoid going out before sunset."
Almost all salons, balls, and theatrical performances in Paris had been cancelled.
Those who could leave had already left—this year, they had delayed their departure by a few days, due to that exorcism ceremony.
Artists, on one hand, needed to escape the heat, and on the other, the sweltering weather made them suffer greatly from the symptoms of syphilis.
"Sunday at Flaubert's" had gone silent by the beginning of August.
Gustave Flaubert had returned to Croisset, a villa near Rouen, where he battled his chronic illness.
His condition was particularly bad.
When Maupassant visited him in Rouen, the great writer lay in the shade of his country villa, his legs covered with cloths soaked in medicinal liquid.
He complained indignantly,
"Those damned pustules, I can't write properly in Paris at all."
Manuscripts of Bouvard and Pécuchet were scattered across his desk, his handwriting shaky and messy.
But his student, at this time, also had lumps all over his lower body, and his legs and entire backside had turned blue from applying mercuric iodide.
Flaubert suggested,
"Guy, try leeches and enemas; I find them quite effective... If that doesn't work, try bloodletting..."
...
Zola also left Paris, taking his family to Marseille.
In a letter to Lionel, he described:
[The sea breeze here is at least clean, unlike Paris, where even breathing feels like swallowing carrion.]
He also mentioned that most of the younger members of the Naturalist literary group had gone to Normandy or Brittany.
[Only Huysmans, that eccentric fellow, prefers to stew in Paris researching medieval manuscripts.]
Naturally, the "Thursday Dinner Party" and "Médan Evening Gathering" also came to an end.
Without these people, "Charpentier's Tuesday" certainly couldn't be held.
The social season of 1879 in Paris came to an end and would not resume until the cooler autumn.
Outside, the coachman's curses could be heard, likely because a wheel had gotten stuck in the melting asphalt again.
Lionel picked up his quill and began to reply to his two inviters—no matter where, leaving this stinking Paris was the top priority.
His gaze fell upon the hazy, heat-distorted Parisian skyline outside the window.
To Count Rohan's castle?
That would mean endless socializing, false flattery, and potentially getting entangled in deeper political whirlpools.
To Madame Rothschild's villa in Italy?
Those ambiguous hints would only complicate their relationship further.
A clearer, more urgent thought rose in his mind: to go home, to the small town of Montiel at the foot of the Alps.
There, he would find cool mountain breezes, clear streams, familiar local accents, and his family whom he hadn't seen for a long time—his parents, who were gloomy and dejected from being swindled, and his sister Yvanna, deeply hurt by a love affair.
Although the swindler had suffered a punishment far beyond imagination, the trauma left on the victims could not be soothed in a short time.
Lionel couldn't hide from his family forever, and now was the right time to go back.
Having made up his mind, he immediately began to plan.
First, how to settle Alice and Petti.
Alice's identity was sensitive, and Petti was unsuitable for long-distance travel; neither could accompany him.
But leaving them in this stuffy apartment would be both suffering and unsafe.
He thought of Émile Zola.
The Zolas had gone to Marseille for the summer, but his Médan villa should still have a cook and servants remaining.
It was located in the suburbs, with a serene and tranquil environment, far more comfortable and safe than central Paris.
He immediately went to the post office and sent a telegram to Monsieur Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting permission to temporarily house Alice and Petti in Médan until he returned to Paris.
Lionel believed that the generous and hospitable Monsieur Zola would not refuse.
Next, he sent a telegram to the Laragne post office, informing his father that he would be returning home in a few days.
After doing all this, he announced his decision to Alice and Petti.
"Back to the Alps?"
Alice's eyes brightened for a moment, then dimmed.
Of course, she missed the air and scenery of her hometown, but she was more worried about causing trouble for Lionel.
Lionel's tone was gentle:
"You and Petti won't be coming. I've already written to Monsieur Zola for you to stay in Médan for a while.
There's a garden there, and shade, much more comfortable than here. I'll pick you up when I return from the Alps."
Alice opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, she just nodded, her eyes filled with gratitude, but also a touch of disappointment.
Petti, upon hearing she could go to a country villa to play, became excited and temporarily forgot the itchiness of her heat rash.
Zola's reply came quickly via telegram, brief and enthusiastic:
[Médan welcomes both ladies, butler already instructed to prepare. Have a good journey. Émile Zola]
The day after receiving the telegram, Lionel personally took them to Médan villa, then returned to Saint-Lazare railway station and bought connecting tickets to the Alps.
————
There were no direct trains from Paris to the Alps; one needed to change trains in Lyon.
The train to Lyon departed at seven in the morning.
Lionel entered the first-class carriage with a simple suitcase.
Here, the seats were leather, covered with starched linen slips.
Each compartment had four seats, which felt like heaven compared to the third-class carriage.
Especially important for a journey of over 10 hours, the first-class carriage also had two independent restrooms.
Due to the increased distance between stations, incidents of being unable to hold it in often occurred.
Passengers in the third-class carriages, regardless of gender, could only go to the connection at the end of the carriage, hold onto the railing, stick out their bottoms in mid-air, and "fly freely."
If the train encountered a sharp turn, it would give passengers in the carriages ahead and behind an ample view of their "spring scenery."
First-class carriages had no such concerns—however, the ticket price was as high as 60 francs.
Opposite Lionel sat an old gentleman wearing the Legion of Honor medal, meticulously peeling an apple with a small silver knife, the peel forming a continuous thin line.
"To Lyon?"
The old gentleman offered half an apple, a smile on his face.
Lionel was flattered and surprised, taking the apple:
"Further, to the Alps—thank you."
The old gentleman narrowed his eyes:
"The Alps are a wonderful place. I served in Savoy when I was young; the air there could cleanse one's soul.
Unlike Paris, where even the pigeons cough."
The train whistled as it pulled out of the city, factory chimneys gradually being replaced by fields.
Lionel leaned back in his seat, watching the scenery rapidly receding outside the window.
The wheat fields had been harvested, leaving neat stubble, and grapevines spread out along the hillsides, heavy clusters of purplish-black fruit hanging low.
In this scorching summer, the French countryside, under the high temperatures, presented a lazy abundance.
Twelve hours later, the train arrived at Lyon station.
Lionel did not wander into the city but rested for a night at a hotel next to the station.
The next morning, Lionel boarded the small branch line train to the Alps.
This train had only five carriages, and the white steam from the locomotive refracted rainbows in the sunlight.
As the train slowly climbed through the winding valleys, the altitude increased, and the air became cooler.
Outside the window, exposed rocks, vast forests, and scarf-like clouds began to appear.
Lionel opened the train window; the cool mountain breeze streamed in, dispersing the stale air in the carriage and the irritation in his heart.
Eight hours later, the train arrived at Laragne station.
This was a station with only a platform and a small wooden cabin, where the station master, who also doubled as ticket agent, was wiping the station sign with a rag.
As Lionel stepped off the train, he was stunned by the sight before him—a red banner hung from the large tree at the station entrance, with crookedly written large characters:
[Welcome our pride, renowned writer Lionel Sorel returns home in glory!]
(End of chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon