Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 24 The fireworks in the world are the most soothing to mortal hearts.
After finalizing the important matter with Gabriel, Lionel finally breathed a sigh of relief.

In fact, Gabriel would have accepted even if he had asked for 3000 francs—because he was desperately short of money.

Not only did the Sorel family, still far away in the Alps, desperately need money to boost their morale, but he also needed money to leave Mrs. Martin's apartment.

It wasn't that he disliked Mrs. Martin's meanness or the apartment's shabby condition, but rather that he had been hearing more and more coughing at night lately—which was not a good sign.

Every winter, Paris expels tens of thousands of residents with the flu and pneumonia, mostly poor people from the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, 18th, 19th and 20th arrondissements, aside from the homeless.

Anyway, when spring comes next year and the flowers bloom, several times more people from other provinces will come to this magnificent city in search of hope.

Lionel wasn't that confident in his immunity.

Although he hadn't received the 1500 francs in cash yet, he still decided to celebrate, but this time he wasn't going to eat at a "public table" outside.

He first took a public carriage back to the 11th arrondissement, but got off at the Poppunkur Market at the intersection of Poppunkur Street and Roquette Street. This was one of the most famous open-air markets in the 11th arrondissement, with stalls selling vegetables, fruits, and meats.

Lionel lingered in the market for quite some time before finally buying the ingredients he wanted: a slaughtered grey hen, a cleaned oxtail, a few carrots, a few onions, a few turnips, a bunch of celery, a bag of mushrooms, a bag of various spices, a kilogram of Italian pasta... and a bottle of pepper powder—Mrs. Martin was extremely stingy and never allowed them to use too much of this expensive seasoning.

Then he went to a small shop that sells tableware and kitchenware and bought bowls, plates, knives and forks—he wanted to buy but couldn't find any—most importantly, a soup pot.

These cost him a total of 12 francs, which did make him feel a little heartbroken.

But the thought of not having to share droplets with Mrs. Martin's tenants and diners at the communal dining table made him realize how necessary it was.

When he returned to the apartment, it was almost 1 p.m., and Mrs. Martin was clearing the table.

Seeing Lionel return carrying a large bag, she unusually refrained from making sarcastic remarks, instead offering a polite, expressionless greeting: "Good afternoon, Master Sorel."

Lionel could tell that this time "Young Master Sorel" didn't sound sarcastic, so he politely replied, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Martin."

The conversation between the two clearly alerted the people upstairs. Lionel could feel the previously noisy apartment quiet down for a moment, as several pairs of eyes appeared on the stairs and in the hallway.

Because of Lionel's extravagant behavior this morning, the ladies who are keeping him have gone from being wealthy wives to baronesses.

Upon reaching the third floor, just as they stepped into the attic door, they heard the door creak open, revealing Petty's pale face with two bright eyes: "You're back, Master Sorel."

Lionel nodded, went into the room, opened his pocket, and laid out the items inside one by one.

With each item placed, Patty's eyes lit up a little more.

Lionel asked, "Have you eaten?"

Patty shook her head: "Mom said that now I am your servant and can no longer eat with them at Mrs. Martin's, so she asked Mrs. Martin for the rest of the meal allowance for this month."
Mrs. Martin added, "You haven't paid for my meal yet, so I can't sit down to eat..."

Lionel: "..." He sighed. What can I say?

He asked Patty, "Can you cook?"

Patty shook her head; her family always ate takeout, so of course she wouldn't.

Lionel selected a few ingredients from the ground, then picked up the newly bought soup pot and spoon, and led Petty downstairs to Mrs. Martin: "Mrs. Martin, may I use your stove to cook for myself from now on?" Mrs. Martin hesitated for a moment, glanced at the ingredients and tools in Lionel's hands, and frowned: "Charcoal and coal are not cheap..."

Lionel said, "How about we deduct it from my meal plan?"

Mrs. Martin's brow relaxed, she nodded, and led him into the kitchen.

The apartment's kitchen had a small cast-iron stove with a metal sliding door for adding charcoal and controlling the heat. Although it wasn't as advanced as later gas stoves, the method of use was similar.

Mrs. Martin briefly taught the two how to use it before leaving the kitchen, but she kept glancing into the kitchen from the dining room—she simply couldn't believe that Lionel, this poor college student, could cook, especially with so many complicated ingredients.

Keep in mind that this is a skill only a proper chef working in a restaurant would possess. Even just being able to stew a chicken properly would be worth at least 150 francs a month!

Lionel didn't care what Mrs. Martin thought of him; instead, he earnestly began to teach Patty how to peel carrots and turnips, how to clean mushrooms, and how to cut onions...

Then, Petty brought in a pot of water, put the whole grey hen into the pot, stuffed it with carrots, celery, and onions, brought it to a boil over high heat, and skimmed off the foam and excess oil with a ladle; then, he turned the heat down to low, added turnip root chunks, mushrooms, peppercorns, and other spices...

Patty stared wide-eyed, her little brain practically burning out, before she could barely remember these steps, which were actually not complicated at all.

Once the fire in the stove had finally simmered down to a low flame, and the soup pot was covered, making a soft, bubbling sound, Lionel finally stopped working.

Looking back, I saw that Patty's eyes were full of adoration, which was beyond words.

Lionel smiled slightly: "This hen is quite big and quite old..." Suddenly, Mrs. Martin in the restaurant dropped something with a "thud".

Lionel ignored her and continued, "...It will take about an hour to stew. If you are hungry, you can take two sous to the bakery around the corner to buy a loaf of bread."

Petty shook her head and pointed to the soup pot, indicating that she wanted to watch the old hen stew until it was done.

Lionel glanced at the sky outside and said, "Okay, you stay here and watch the fire. I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up in an hour."

Petty nodded: "Don't worry, Master Sorel!" As he spoke, he patted his chest, making a gesture as if he would defend the chicken soup to the death.

Lionel told Petty to be careful with the fire, then went upstairs and soon fell into a deep sleep on the bed...

Before he knew it, he drifted into a peaceful dream—first fragmented memories of the Alps and Paris, then 150 years later, to the true resting place of his soul, where he was reunited with family, classmates, and friends, everyone asking him where he had been lately and why he hadn't told them…

In a daze, Lionel suddenly felt the floorboards shaking slightly, as if many people were walking and talking.

"Why is the apartment so lively?" Lionel woke up and immediately smelled a familiar, rich fragrance that went straight to the top of his head, instantly making him feel as if his soul had been healed.

Is this what they mean by "the warmth of everyday life, which is most comforting to ordinary people"?

He hurriedly got out of bed, opened the attic door, and looked down through the gap in the stairwell. He saw that the corridor was already full of people, each with their necks outstretched, mouths half-open, nostrils flaring, and eyes showing a look of intoxication.

Meanwhile, on the first floor, a voice faintly drifted up: "Just one bite, just one bite. Young Master Sorel hasn't woken up yet..."

Then came Petty's innocent yet resolute refusal: "No! This is Master Sorel's soup! No one can touch it!"

(End of this chapter)