After finalizing the big deal with Gabriel, Lionel finally breathed a sigh of relief.
In fact, even if Gabriel had asked for 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, urgently need money to boost their flagging spirits, but he also needed money to leave Mrs. Martin's apartment.
It wasn't that he disliked Mrs. Martin's stinginess or the simplicity of the apartment, but lately, he had been hearing more and more coughing at night—which was not a good sign.
Every winter, Paris would use influenza and pneumonia to "clean out" tens of thousands of residents, mostly the poor from the Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth, Thirteenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, and Twentieth Districts, in addition to the homeless.
Anyway, by the time spring arrived, several times that number of people from the provinces would come to this glorious city in search of hope.
Lionel wasn't so confident in his own immunity.
Although he hadn't yet received the 1,500 francs in cash, he decided to celebrate, but this time he wasn't going to eat at a "communal table" outside.
He first took a public carriage back to the Eleventh District, but got off at the Popincourt Market at the intersection of Rue Popincourt and Rue Roquette, one of the most famous open-air markets in the Eleventh District, with vegetable, fruit, and meat stalls, all fully stocked.
Lionel lingered in the market for a long while, finally buying the ingredients he wanted: a slaughtered grey hen, a cleaned oxtail, a few carrots, a few onions, a few turnip roots, a bunch of celery, a bag of mushrooms, a bag of various small spices, a kilogram of Italian macaroni… and a bottle of pepper—Mrs. Martin was extremely stingy and never allowed them to use much of this expensive seasoning.
Then he went to a small shop selling tableware and kitchenware, buying bowls, plates, knives, and forks—he really couldn't find any—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 droplets with Mrs. Martin's tenants and the diners at the communal table in the future, he felt it was very necessary.
By the time he returned to the apartment, it was almost 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, and expressionlessly, said, "Good afternoon, Young Master Sorel."
Lionel could tell that this time the "Young Master Sorel" didn't sound sarcastic, so he politely replied, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Martin."
Their conversation obviously startled everyone upstairs; Lionel distinctly felt that the usually noisy apartment fell silent for a moment, and several pairs of prying eyes appeared from the stairs and corridors.
Due to Lionel's lavish display that morning, his patroness had already been upgraded from a rich merchant's wife to a baroness.
Going up to the third floor, just as he reached the attic door, he heard the door creak open, followed by Petty's pale face, adorned with two star-like eyes: "You're back, Young Master Sorel."
Lionel nodded, walked into the room, opened his bag, and laid out its contents one by one.
With each item placed, Petty's eyes brightened a little more.
Lionel asked, "Have you eaten?"
Petty shook her head: "Mama said that now I am your servant, and I can no longer eat with them at Mrs. Martin's, so she asked Mrs. Martin for the remaining meal money for this month;
Mrs. Martin then said that you haven't paid her my meal money yet, so I still can't eat at the table…"
Lionel: "…" A sigh, What can I say?
He asked Petty, "Can you cook?"
Petty shook her head; her whole family ate catered meals, so of course she couldn't.
Lionel selected a few items from the ingredients on the floor, picked up his newly bought soup pot and ladle, and took Petty downstairs to the first floor to find Mrs. Martin: "Mrs. Martin, can I use your stove to cook for myself from now on?"
Mrs. Martin hesitated for a moment, looked at the ingredients and tools in Lionel's hand, and frowned: "The price of charcoal and coal is not cheap…"
Lionel said, "How about deducting it from my meal expenses?"
Mrs. Martin's brows 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 to add charcoal and control the heat; although not as good as later gas stoves, the method of use was largely similar.
Mrs. Martin briefly taught the two how to use it and then left the kitchen, but she kept looking towards the kitchen from the dining room—she really didn't believe that Lionel, this poor university student, could cook, especially using so many complex ingredients.
One must know that this was a skill only proper chefs working in restaurants possessed. Even just 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 seriously began teaching Petty how to peel carrots and turnip roots, how to clean mushrooms, how to cut onions…
Then he had Petty bring in a pot of water, put the whole grey hen into the pot, stuffing its belly with carrots, celery, and onions, first bringing it to a boil over high heat, skimming off the foam and excess fat with a ladle; then reducing it to a simmer, adding the turnip root chunks and mushrooms, as well as peppercorns and other spices…
Petty's big eyes were wide, and her little brain was almost fried, just barely managing to remember these actually not-so-complex steps.
When the fire in the stove finally turned into a simmer, and the soup pot was covered, emitting a faint gurgling sound, Lionel finally stopped bustling.
He looked back to see Petty's eyes full of adoration, even beyond words.
Lionel smiled slightly: "This hen is quite large and old…" In the dining room, Mrs. Martin suddenly made a "thump," dropping something.
Lionel ignored her and continued to instruct: "…It will probably take an hour to stew through. If you're hungry, you can take two sous and buy a piece of bread at the bakery around the corner."
Petty shook her head, pointed to the soup pot, indicating that she wanted to watch the old hen stew.
Lionel looked at the sky outside and said, "Okay, you watch the fire here. I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up in an hour."
Petty nodded: "Don't worry, Young Master Sorel!" As she spoke, she patted her chest, making a gesture of vowing to protect the chicken soup with her life.
Lionel instructed Petty to be careful with the stove and then went upstairs, falling into a deep sleep on the bed shortly after…
Unconsciously, he sank into a tranquil dream—first some fragmented scenes in the Alps and Paris, then 150 years later, his soul's true resting place, reuniting with family, classmates, and friends, everyone asking him where he had been recently and why he hadn't informed everyone…
In a daze, Lionel suddenly felt the floorboards subtly vibrating, as if many people were moving and talking.
"Why is the apartment so lively?" Lionel woke up, then immediately smelled a familiar, rich aroma that went straight to his head; he instantly felt his soul being healed.
Is this what they mean by "the warmth of human life, most comforting to the common heart"?
He quickly got out of bed, opened the attic door, and looked down through the gaps in the stairwell, only to see the corridor already filled with people, each stretching their neck, mouths half-open, nostrils flaring, eyes showing a look of intoxication.
And on the first floor, a voice faintly drifted up: "Just one bite, just one taste. Young Master Sorel isn't awake yet…"
Immediately followed by Petty's childish but firm refusal: "No! This is Young Master Sorel's soup! No one can touch it!"