The news that Lionel, the rising star of French literature and the "Conscience of the Sorbonne," had been struck down by London's "plague air" triggered a chain reaction far beyond his own imagination.
In London, The Times published a scathing editorial titled, "The Fall of a French Gentleman: An Indictment of Our City's Filthy State!"
[...We, who pride ourselves on civilization and progress, invited Mr. Lionel Saurel, one of France's most talented young writers, to visit. What was the result?
Our capital treated him to its iconic, sickening "pea-souper," and successfully sent this guest into St. Thomas' Hospital!
Mr. Saurel's ordeal is by no means an isolated case; it is the daily suffering that afflicts countless poor and frail Londoners!
His high fever is his body's most direct and vehement reaction to our entire municipal system's shameful dereliction of duty in public health!
This is not an accident, gentlemen; this is a chronic, ongoing public health crisis! It is a disgrace to all of us!
We must act immediately to push for a stricter Purification Act and expand the sewer system, rather than waiting until cholera and typhoid once again harvest lives like a scythe, only to regret it then!]
This report sparked widespread resonance, as not everyone had the money or leisure to escape to seaside or country villas during this period.
Even the British upper class—those Members of Parliament—were considering relocating their offices to Oxford for the season.
This was the first time since the "Great Stink" of 1858 that London once again became the focus of attention due to its appalling environmental sanitation problems.
However, not all British media appreciated The Times's tone.
The Standard explicitly hit back, attributing Lionel's illness to the "frail constitution of a French dandy"—
[It is reported that a Parisian man of letters fell ill due to inability to adapt to the local climate.
What does this news tell us, other than that the nervous systems of certain continental individuals are excessively delicate and fragile?
London's air, though uniquely 'distinctive,' is precisely the breath of the British Empire's strength and prosperity! It is by breathing such air that we built an "empire on which the sun never sets."
Must our robust Anglo-Saxon constitution change for the sake of a foreign gentleman who cannot adapt to the vitality of our city?
If one cannot even endure the air of London, we can hardly imagine how such individuals would face truly severe tests—
For instance, German cannon shells.
Perhaps some people are better suited to discussing art in salons than to experiencing the real world.]
Tabloids quickly followed up, beginning to satirize France:
[Gentlemen of Paris, perhaps you should first manage the dead fish and feces in your own Seine River before lecturing us! At least our fog doesn't contain so many romantic bacteria!]
These words soon traveled across the sea and reached Paris.
The French media were all enraged—although Parisians themselves complained about the stench of the Seine, they absolutely could not tolerate the English using it as fodder for criticism.
Lionel's best partner, Le Petit Parisien, launched a counterattack the next day, publishing an article titled, "London's 'Fog'? Satan's Farts!"
[...Londoners seem to have grown accustomed to living in toxic gas and have lost their sense of smell!
Allow us to correct our London counterparts' choice of words—that is not romantic "fog," but the exhaust fumes Satan and all the devils of hell release from their intestines in London!
The Thames is a veritable "devil's large intestine"!
And our Seine, despite occasional temper tantrums, still flows with the light and shadow of poetry and paintings!
Londoners seem to have long ago become numb to smells in their toxic gas, mistaking this numbness for resilience. What a pathetic illusion!]
As a civic newspaper, Le Petit Parisien's language was utterly uninhibited and went all-out.
As a conservative newspaper, Le Figaro naturally would not be so crude; it countered London's counterparts in the form of a cartoon—
A scrawny British gentleman wearing a top hat, with smoke billowing from his nose like a chimney, points at a Frenchman across the river, who is pinching his nose, and mocks:
"Look, he can't stand the fresh air!"
The caption read:
[Gentlemen of London, perhaps you should first teach the eels in the Thames not to joyfully swim in excrement before you mock our strollers along the Seine?
We suggest that the London Athletics Association add a new event: "Breaststroke Across the Thames." We believe this would better embody the 'British spirit' than boat races!
Congratulations, London, on successfully defending your crown as "Europe's Dung Capital!"]
After these newspapers reached Britain, this cross-channel war of words rapidly escalated.
The media on both sides spared no effort in sarcasm, ranging from air quality, river cleanliness, drainage systems, and waste disposal, eventually even escalating to the level of national character and the superiority or inferiority of civilizations.
London newspapers satirized Parisians as flashy and superficial, their bodies unable to bear their excessive vanity; Parisian newspapers countered by calling Londoners rude and dull, having lost basic aesthetic and sensory abilities in their toxic fog.
This war of public opinion was later referred to by news historians as the "Great Sewer War" and the "Battle of the Dung Capitals"—of course, unlike other "contests," London and Paris were vying to pin the "Dung Capital" label on each other's heads.
The intensity of this battle, the viciousness of its rhetoric, and the shrewdness of its angles directly refreshed the perceptions of media and readers across Europe.
It was not until the first heavy autumn rain fell on both cities, temporarily washing the streets, settling the dust, and flushing away the strong odors, that it gradually subsided.
————
However, the media squabble did not diminish the British literary world's concern for Lionel.
Not only did Harold Thompson of The Nineteenth Century and Norman MacLeod of Good Words visit him in the hospital, but many writers and artists also frequented his ward.
Although the French writers close to Lionel knew the news, no one dared to come to London, having learned from previous experience, and could only send letters of condolence.
What surprised Lionel most was that Empress Eugénie, Napoleon III's consort, even sent an envoy to visit him.
He was a solemn gentleman in a black suit, who introduced himself as Empress Eugénie's private secretary.
He conveyed Her Majesty the Empress's condolences to Lionel.
He stated that although the Empress lived a secluded life and was heartbroken, she had still taken notice of the news of Mr. Lionel's illness.
Her Majesty especially appreciated Mr. Lionel's profound care for the old soldiers loyal to the Empire and the Napoleon family in his work The Old Guard.
Lionel knew that Empress Eugénie had been living in seclusion in Chislehurst, in London's southeast suburbs.
A few months prior, her only son, Napoleon IV (Prince Louis-Napoleon), had tragically died in the Anglo-Zulu War at the young age of 23.
This event had almost completely extinguished the hopes of the Napoleon family rising again.
The secretary finally conveyed the Empress's command: all of Lionel's expenses during his stay at St. Thomas' Hospital would be covered by the Napoleon family.
Furthermore, to ensure he received the best recovery, he was to be immediately transferred to a quieter, more comfortable luxury private ward within the hospital.
Lionel was stunned by this sudden "imperial grace," but politely expressed his refusal—he did not want to get entangled in any strange public opinion battles after returning to Paris.
Due to Lionel's repeated insistence, the Empress's private secretary could only leave regretfully.
Just as Lionel was thinking of getting some good rest, a voice softly echoed from the ward doorway:
"Lion, why didn't you tell me you were coming to London?"
(End of Chapter)
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