Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 532 The Ministry of the Interior's Methods!

Charles Garnier and the young man left, the door closed softly, and the office returned to silence.

Louis Pasteur sat in his chair, staring at the paper package on the corner of the table for a long time before reopening it.

The moldy bread lay there, its greenish patches anything but pleasant.

But when he picked up the bread and brought it to his nose, he smelled a damp, slightly pungent, typical moldy odor.

Then he walked to the bookshelf, his gaze lingering for a long time before he pulled out an old notebook, opened it, and began searching page by page. He stopped halfway through.

In the corner of that page was a line of small writing he had done years ago: "Some molds show antibacterial effects? Unverified."

He stared at that line of text for a long time—it turned out he had seen this problem before.

I just thought it was too small and too trivial at the time, so I put it aside. Now the problem has come back.

Pasteur closed his notebook and took the rotten food to the laboratory.

He put on gloves, picked up a scalpel, cut a small piece of bread from the edge of the mold, and placed it on a glass slide.

I cut off another small piece of bread, which was away from the mold but had already started to soften, and placed it on another piece of glass.

He walked to the microscope, adjusted the tube, and leaned over to look. In his field of view, the hyphae of the mold looked like intertwined tree branches, densely packed.

Outside the moldy area, traces of other microorganisms can be seen—bacterial spots, yeast buds…

But in areas with dense mold, these are almost invisible.

Pasteur straightened up, walked to the laboratory window, and looked outside. In the courtyard, his assistant Emil was washing glassware, the water splashing loudly.

He stood there for a long time, then he turned around, returned to the table, took out a piece of paper, and picked up a pen—

"To Mr. Lionel Sorel..."

After writing the letter, he put it in an envelope and sealed it. Then he went to the door and called out, "Emil."

Emil turned his head, his hands still dripping water: "Professor?"

"Starting tomorrow, you'll be doing a new experiment with me. It's about mold."

Emil blinked. "Mold? What mold?"

"On bread, on cheese, in the wine cellar. All those molds that nobody really looks at."

Emil stood there stunned, but Pasteur offered no explanation and walked back to the lab bench.

On the table, the moldy food lay quietly in its paper wrapping. The green hue was as transparent as a thin velvet blanket in the light.

Pasteur sat down and opened a new experimental notebook. On the first page, he wrote the date: July 26, 1882.

He then wrote the title: "Preliminary observations on the inhibitory effect of mold on bacterial growth".

He paused, thought for a moment, and added a small line below the title: "A series of observations inspired by everyday phenomena."

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Lionel and Charles Garnier said goodbye at the intersection; Garnier was going back to his architecture studio, while Lionel walked alone to his apartment.

He walked slowly, his mind still replaying the scene from earlier: Pasteur's serious face, his focused eyes as he stared at the moldy bread.

He had succeeded in persuading himself—at least the seed had been planted. But what's next?

Lionel turned into a side street. The shadows fell, offering some respite from the August heat, but he still unbuttoned the top button of his coat.

After this meeting, he will leave Paris to find a place to escape the summer heat, perhaps by the sea in Italy or in the mountains of Spain.

In short, staying in Paris is not an option. The repercussions of the guano war linger, and with a cabinet change in France, the budget for cleaning up the city has been delayed.

So even though Paris's sewer system has been extended by hundreds of kilometers, the city's stench remains severe.

Lionel was not worried about whether Pasteur could discover the antibacterial effects of Penicillium.

Pasteur was the leading microbiologist of his time, and if he had looked closely, he would have noticed the unique characteristics of Penicillium.

He would see clear inhibition zones on the petri dish and observe that the cocci that cause wound suppuration cannot grow around the mold.

He might even deduce that what works is a "diffusible substance" secreted by some kind of mold.

Lionel's real concern was the next step: extraction. Because the chemical tools of the late 19th century were far too rudimentary!

Pasteur would certainly have used all the methods he was familiar with to treat the mold culture:
After filtering out the mycelium and obtaining a clear filtrate, we tried heating it—and found that the activity had disappeared.

I tried adjusting the pH by adding acid and alkali to precipitate something—but the activity disappeared again.
Next, precipitation was performed using alcohol, extraction with ether, and precipitation with various salts...

Each time, that fragile antibacterial substance decomposes and becomes inactive during the rough handling process.

Lionel could almost picture the scene: Pasteur standing before the lab bench, his brow furrowed, looking at yet another failed extract.

The assistant took notes: "Heating to 60 degrees Celsius completely destroys its activity." "The antibacterial effect disappears after adding dilute hydrochloric acid."...

The more the records accumulate, the clearer the conclusion becomes: this substance only works when the mold is alive; once it is separated from life, it quickly disintegrates.

Then the research will come to a standstill.

Pasteur would turn to other topics that were more likely to yield results—rabies vaccines, anthrax vaccines, those problems he could tackle.

Penicillium might be recorded on a page of a lab notebook, or published in a journal, becoming an "interesting but impractical" observation. Lionel looked at his hands. These hands could write novels, type, and draw simple mechanical blueprints—

However, they cannot operate precision chemical instruments, do not understand organic synthesis, and do not know the molecular structure of penicillin.

His biology knowledge was limited to what he had learned before his high school entrance exams; he only knew some vague concepts: penicillin is unstable, sensitive to heat, and sensitive to acids and alkalis...

But what use is this knowledge? This era lacks the biological and chemical agents and tools of the 20th century, which we couldn't have invented ourselves.

So all he could do was begin. Throw out the problem, let the smartest people see it. And then wait.

The wait could be long. Pasteur was sixty years old this year, and even if he gave it his all, he might not be able to overcome the extraction hurdle in his lifetime.

Then his students, and his students' students, generation after generation, continued the work. Perhaps it wouldn't be until the beginning of the 20th century, or perhaps until around the time of World War I—

Maupassant would certainly be gone by then, having died of syphilis and its complications. And me? Who knows if I'll even live to see that day!
Even so, it's worth it.

Unbeknownst to him, Lionel returned to his apartment at 117 Saint-Germain. As soon as he entered, Mr. Bonjaman gave him a letter.

The postmark was from London, and the sender was Norman MacLeod, editor of the magazine "Good Words".

As Lionel went upstairs, he opened the envelope, and what he saw immediately stunned him—

Lionel, my friend.

Unfortunately, I must inform you in this way that starting with the next issue, *Good Words* magazine will be suspending its serialization of *Pirates of the Caribbean*...

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In the offices of Good Words magazine, Norman McLeod sat behind his desk, with Alexander Strand sitting opposite him.

The funder of the magazine "Good Words" and the owner of "Sterland Publishing".

But since investing in and founding his own magazine sixteen years ago, he has come to the office almost zero times.

Alexander Strand looked at him: "I'm sorry, Norman."

This was said sincerely. Stellan wasn't the type to say nice things, but when he apologized, he genuinely felt sorry.

Norman McLeod shook his head: "No need to apologize. I would have made the same decision."

Alexander Strand was a little surprised: "You're not angry?"

Norman MacLeod laughed, but his voice was cold: "What's the use of getting angry? Facts are facts. Good Words lives off the postal service."

Half of the subscribers nationwide are not in London or major cities, but in small towns, villages, and parish schools. They wait for the postman to deliver the magazine to their door every month.

If we are removed from the postal service's 'postage discount list,' the price will go up again—but we are already the most expensive magazine in the UK, and even in Europe.

"At that point, many people won't subscribe anymore. If some post offices simply refuse to accept them, then the magazine will be completely dead."

Alexander Strand was silent for a moment; he hadn't expected McLeod to be so calm.

He sighed: "A magazine sent from London to Edinburgh costs two pence for regular postage, but only half a pence for the discounted rate, a difference of three times."

Without this incentive, a nationally distributed magazine simply wouldn't survive. Unless its distribution is reduced to London and a few surrounding counties.

Norman McLeod nodded: “I know, so I accept this fate. Good Words doesn’t belong to me alone; many people make a living from it.”

"If I stay, the magazine will die; if I leave, the magazine will live—a simple choice."

Alexander Strand was speechless for a long while before saying, "I know you're upset..."

Norman McLeod interrupted him: “I started at twenty-four, worked as an editor for twenty years, and as editor-in-chief for sixteen years, and I’ve never been choked like this before.”

But it wasn't you, Mr. Strand, who was choking him. It was the Home Office, those people sitting in Whitehall offices, those in uniform!
They don't need to issue a ban or shut it down; they only need to give a hint to the General Post Office, and "Good Words" will slowly die out on its own.

How clever! How dignified! The empire doesn't need to ban any publications; a single postmark is enough to make a media outlet self-destruct.

Alexander Strand sighed again, then took an envelope from his inside suit pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards McLeod.

"This is your compensation, enough for you to go back to Yorkshire and live a good life."

Norman McLeod did not touch the envelope.

Alexander Strand asked, "Not enough?"

Norman McLeod shook his head: "It's not about the money."

Alexander Strand asked curiously, "What is that?"

Norman McLeod stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the bustling street scene for a while.

Then he turned around and said, "If you really want to make amends, you should give the money to the people who deserve it."

"Who?"

"Lionel Sorel".

Alexander Strand visibly panicked upon hearing the name: "This...this...maybe it has to be postponed. The Ministry of the Interior said..."

Norman McLeod gave a mocking look, but not to his old buddy Alexander Strand, but to someone who wasn't even in the office.

"I will write a letter to Mr. Sorel and tell him everything that has happened in London. As for the rest, I'll leave it to God!"

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(End of this chapter)