TL: No, not those tits. It refers to a little bird called a 'Titmouse.' I could change the translation, but I prefer not to.
Without waiting for his parents to call him, Lionel put down his pen, put on his coat, and went to the living room.
The visitor was none other than the mayor, Mr. François Bertrand, who looked much older than Lionel remembered, with greying temples.
His brown suit, though neatly pressed, revealed its owner's financial struggles through worn elbows and an outdated cut.
He held a fedora in his hand, constantly twirling it.
Seeing Lionel, the mayor bowed slightly, his movements a bit stiff, and his expression unnatural:
"Welcome back to Montiel, Léon. This is truly an honor for our entire town."
His mother brought coffee, and Mayor Bertrand carefully took it, complimenting the exquisite porcelain.
After exchanging pleasantries, the mayor's conversation began to revolve around Paris:
"We, though far in the mountains, have heard of your achievements in Paris.
I've carefully collected all the newspaper reports about you."
As he spoke, he pulled out a neatly folded newspaper clipping from his inner pocket, though the cut marks clearly looked new.
Lionel, of course, didn't expose him, but replied politely with a serene expression.
After chatting about family matters for a while, Mayor Bertrand leaned forward, lowering his voice:
"Do you know, Montiel is dying!
Young people are flocking to the cities; last year alone, seventeen young people went to Lyon and Paris, leaving behind only the elderly and children.
Fields are being abandoned, and old Ranc's little hotel also closed last month—fewer people, and those remaining can't afford to patronize it."
He pulled out a leather notebook, densely filled with numbers:
"Look at these, the population has decreased from 127 households ten years ago to 98 households now;
Direct taxes collected this year have increased by one and a half tenths compared to three years ago, but our income..."
He shook his head:
"The big shots in Paris only sit in their offices wielding pens—do they know how much milk a cow produces in a day?"
Lionel listened quietly, without saying a word.
Mayor Bertrand's voice suddenly became cautious:
"If you are in Paris, and have the opportunity to meet officials from the Ministry of Agriculture...
Perhaps you could mention the difficulties of our small places? We don't need special treatment, just ask them not to raise taxes again.
Or... or at least could they fix the roads? The current roads are constantly being washed away by floods, and fresh cheese spoils in a few days if it can't be transported out."
Suddenly, the mayor seemed to realize he had said too much, and quickly stopped, forcing a smile:
"Of course, I know you've returned to rest and be with your family.
Though Montiel is poor, the air is fresh and the people are simple, making it ideal for recuperation.
We would never let trivial matters disturb your peace."
...
After seeing the mayor off, Lionel realized his cup of coffee was almost untouched and had grown cold.
————
Father Peltier arrived around noon.
He had a kind face and gentle eyes.
Before entering, he made the sign of the cross at the doorway:
"May the Lord bless this devout family."
His mother almost scurried to prepare refreshments, and his father also appeared particularly respectful.
The priest's gaze fell on Lionel:
"I've heard about your experiences in Paris.
In such a place... full of temptation and danger, it's not easy to create works that guide people towards good and resist depravity.
The Lord will remember your loyalty."
Lionel: "..."
The conversation turned to the changes in Montiel, and the priest's tone grew heavy:
"The greatest threat now is not poverty, but the loss of faith.
The railway brought newspapers, and newspapers brought those dangerous ideas from Paris—republicanism, secular education, women's teacher training..."
He spoke these words as if referring to a plague.
The priest's fingertips tapped lightly on the table:
"Young people are no longer content with the Lord's arrangements; they always want to go out and make their way in the world.
Fewer people come to church on Sundays, and even when they do, their minds are elsewhere.
The most frightening thing is that some people are beginning to question the teachings of the church, questioning why they should dedicate their hard-earned money to the church instead of keeping it for themselves."
At this point, he looked directly at Lionel:
"You were educated in a church school; you should understand that faith is the only fortress against this chaos.
You have influence in Paris; you should promote these precious values, and not... not bring too many of those unsettling new ideas.
Peace is Montiel's most valuable asset, and the cornerstone of its soul's preservation."
...
Before leaving, the priest gave Lionel a leather-bound Bible:
"No matter where you go, never forget where your roots are, and where your soul belongs."
Watching the priest's black figure disappear into the sunlight, Lionel suddenly realized that he wasn't actually that popular.
————
However, in a small place like Montiel, the fame earned in Paris was like a torch in the darkness, always attracting moths.
Over the next two days, townspeople began cautiously visiting.
Initially, they were relatives or old acquaintances of his parents, bringing homemade cheese, eggs, or jam as gifts, and offering compliments.
But soon, the true petitioners arrived.
An old farmer tearfully complained that his son had been taken by the conscription officer, leaving the family short of labor and their fields on the verge of ruin.
He asked if Lionel could plead with the Parisian gentlemen to let his son return early.
A widow hoped Lionel could help her write to the director of a textile factory in Lyon, to intercede for her daughter, who had fallen ill while working there but had her wages docked.
There was also a small farmer with a troubled face whose plot of land, due to inheritance laws, had been fragmented into scattered pieces, making it impossible to cultivate.
He had also accumulated an insurmountable debt to the vineyard owner, on the brink of losing everything.
He heard that people in Paris were discussing amending the law and wanted to know if "Young Master Sorel" knew any influential figures.
They regarded Lionel as a direct conduit to the heart of power in Paris, as "General Lamarque" who could solve all their sufferings.
Lionel listened patiently, but his heart was filled with a sense of helplessness.
He couldn't promise anything, only offering some empty comfort and advice—such as obtaining a certificate from the mayor or consulting a local notary.
For the first time, he so truly felt that fame brought not only glory but also heavy, suffocating responsibility and expectations.
He felt as if he had been placed on a pedestal, with countless eager eyes below him, yet his own strength was so minuscule.
————
All of this transformed into Lionel's written words.
It wasn't until night that he again spread out paper and pen, continuing to write "My Homeland."
He clearly remembered that when he was a child—a few years before the Franco-Prussian War—Montiel was not like this.
Although the villagers were not wealthy, they were self-sufficient, giving it a feeling of a "paradise outside the world."
[This boy was Lentou. When I first met him, we were both just over ten years old, almost ten years ago now; at that time, my grandfather was still alive, and our family was better off than it is now, and I could study with peace of mind.
That year, it was our turn for the small church in Montiel to host a grand High Mass commemorating the patron saint. This Mass was said to be very solemn, one of the grandest of the year, alongside Christmas.
...
So, I looked forward to the day of the Mass every day. When the day finally arrived, early in the morning, I heard that Lentou had already come and was helping in the sacristy next to the church. So I ran to find him.
He was wiping candlesticks, his cheeks red from the stove fire and the mountain wind, his hair disheveled, and a small, shiny bronze Virgin Mary statue hanging around his neck. This showed that his parents also cherished him, praying for the Holy Mother to bless him to grow up safely.
...
After a while, I asked him about catching tits.
He said: "It's not good now. We have to wait for winter, after it snows. We clear a patch of snow in a sheltered clearing in the mountain hollow, prop up a worn-out sieve with a stick, scatter some wheat grains or breadcrumbs underneath, tie a rope to it from afar, and hide.
When those hungry tits and sparrows come down to peck at the food, you aim, pull the rope suddenly, and you can trap several. If you're lucky, you might even catch some silly turtledoves."
...
"Not entirely. Someone passing by picking a bunch of grapes to quench their thirst usually doesn't count for much. The main things we guard against are badgers, wild boars, and foxes. On bright moonlit nights, listen, that rustling sound, it's definitely a badger coming to ruin the grapes again. You have to quickly grab a pitchfork and quietly sneak over..."
At that time, I didn't know what a badger was—even now I'm not very clear—I just inexplicably felt it was dog-like and very fierce.]
Lionel smiled as he wrote.
Montiel in his childhood was indeed a children's paradise.
And precisely because it once was a paradise, it formed a stark contrast with the Montiel of today, shrouded in gloom.
(End of Chapter)
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