Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 564 Awakening! (First Update)
Lionel Sorel struggled to awaken from a state of confusion. His consciousness seemed to be sinking to the bottom of deep water, slowly rising to the surface.

The first thing to recover was hearing—indistinct voices, footsteps in the distant corridor, and the sound of horses' hooves outside the window… gradually filling my ears.

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as heavy as lead.

"...He moved! The doctor said he might wake up today..." It was Sophie's voice, but she sounded very tired.

"It's been two days... Oh God..." It was Alice's voice, trembling with sobs.

Lionel finally opened his eyes.

His vision was initially blurry; he could only make out a few swaying figures and a grayish-white ceiling. He blinked, and his vision gradually cleared.

The first person I saw was Sophie. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes red-rimmed, her face pale, and her golden hair disheveled over her shoulders.

She was holding Lionel's hand tightly.

Then came Alice. The girl stood behind Sophie, her hands clutching her dress tightly, her eyes swollen like peaches, clearly having cried many times.

To the side, he saw Émile Zola and Guy Maupassant, who also came over with concern.

“Lionel?” Sophie’s voice trembled as she saw his eyes open.

She immediately touched Lionel's face with both hands: "You're awake? You're really awake? My God...you..."

She couldn't continue speaking, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Alice's legs went weak, and she knelt by the bedside: "Leon! Leon, you're finally awake! That's wonderful... wonderful..."

She spoke while crying, her words incoherent.

Zola let out a long sigh of relief, his tense shoulders relaxing. Maupassant turned and strode to the door, shouting down the corridor, "Doctor! Doctor! He's awake!"

Two heads wearing police hats peeked into the house through the doorway, then disappeared immediately, followed by a series of hurried footsteps.

Lionel tried to speak, but his throat was dry and sore. He opened his mouth, but only managed a hoarse, breathy sound.

“Water…” he managed to squeeze out the word.

Alice jumped up, rushed to the small table in the corner of the room, poured a glass of water, and carefully lifted Lionel's head, bringing the glass to his lips.

The water was warm, and after Lionel drank a few sips, his throat felt much better.

"Drink slowly," Sophie said softly, wiping the water from the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief.

Lionel lay back down on his pillow and looked around. It was a single hospital room, not large, but very clean.

The sky outside the window was overcast and gray, making it impossible to tell whether it was morning or evening.

“I…” Lionel began, his voice still hoarse, “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Two days.” Zola walked over and stood by the bed. “From the morning before yesterday until now, it’s exactly two days.”

Maupassant added, "You lost so much blood that I heard it took the doctors three hours to remove the bullet. When we arrived, we all thought..."

Lionel nodded. Memories slowly returned—the day of the trial, the crowd outside the courtroom, the deafening shouts, the sudden gunshot, the sharp pain in his left leg, the screams of the crowd, the shouts of the police…

He suddenly remembered something and nervously reached out to touch his left leg.

"Don't move!" Sophie quickly pressed his hand down. "The wound was only stitched up two days ago, you can't move around!"

But Lionel had already touched it—his left leg was still there! It was wrapped in thick gauze.

He tried to move his toes again—and his toes could move; he then lifted his leg slightly, and a sharp pain shot through him, but his leg could indeed move.

He breathed a sigh of relief; his leg was still there, and he could still feel it.

Just then, the ward door was pushed open, and a doctor strode in.

He came to the bedside: “Mr. Sorel, I am Joseph Lister, your doctor. I performed the surgery, and you even asked me if I had washed my hands.”

Lionel nodded: "Dr. Lister."

Joseph Lister began to examine Lionel's condition. He first checked his pulse, then looked at his pupils, and then gently lifted the blanket to examine the gauze on his legs.

"No bleeding, no redness or swelling." Dr. Lister nodded in satisfaction. "It looks good."

He pulled the blanket back up and looked at Lionel: "Mr. Sorel, you're lucky. The bullet entered from the outside of your left thigh, passed through the muscle tissue, and finally got stuck in the inner muscle. It didn't damage any major blood vessels or bones."

You were in a coma after the surgery, mainly due to blood loss. Now that you're awake, that's a good sign.

Lionel listened, but his eyes were fixed on the thick gauze on his leg: "Doctor. The gauze and bandages...were they sterilized?"

Joseph Lister paused for a moment, looked closely at Lionel, and then replied, "It's been disinfected; it's been soaked in a 5% carbolic acid solution."

Lionel nodded, but wasn't entirely reassured. He asked again, "What about the sheets? The pillows? The disinfection of the ward..."

Joseph Lister was even more surprised. He looked at Lionel seriously and asked, "Mr. Sorel, you are very knowledgeable about disinfection procedures?"

"I was just asking."

"The sheets and pillowcases were disinfected with sulfur fumigation. This room was also thoroughly cleaned before you checked in."

He then remarked with emotion, "To be honest, Mr. Sorel, you are the first patient I have encountered who is so concerned about the details of disinfection. Many doctors find this procedure too cumbersome and troublesome."

They preferred to believe the theory that "the air in hospitals is filled with sickness," and that infection was inevitable.

Lionel finally relaxed, rested his head back on the pillow, and whispered, "Thank you, doctor. I was just being cautious."

Joseph Lister's voice was filled with the joy of "you understand me": "This caution has saved many lives. Since I implemented the disinfection system at Glasgow Royal Hospital, postoperative infection and mortality rates have dropped by two-thirds. But many people still don't believe in the existence of microorganisms, let alone that they are the culprits of infection."

Lionel shook his head: "But I believe it!"

Dr. Lister looked at him: "Why? You're not a doctor."

Lionel thought for a moment before answering, "Perhaps it's because I've spoken with Mr. Louis Pasteur, and I trust him."

Joseph Lister's eyes lit up: "Mr. Pasteur! Yes, yes! My theory of disinfection is based on Mr. Pasteur's research! He proved the existence of microorganisms and that they can cause decay and disease."

I applied this principle to surgery—if microorganisms cause wound decay, then eliminating the microorganisms can prevent infection!

He became more and more excited as he spoke, as if he had found a kindred spirit: "You know Mr. Pasteur? Then you will understand! Many people laugh at me, saying that I am 'overly clean' and that the smell of carbolic acid is 'nauseating'."

But what they didn't know was that this 'disgusting' procedure reduced the mortality rate of amputations from 45% to 15%!

Lionel nodded. "You're right, Doctor. Microbes are the culprit."

Joseph Lister took a deep breath, composed himself, and regained his professional demeanor: "Back to your case, Mr. Sorel. The surgery itself was successful, but you need time to recover."

Normally, you can try sitting up or standing for short periods with assistance after a week. If there is no further bleeding or wound infection, you can try walking slowly with crutches for a few minutes after two weeks.

However, each session should not exceed ten minutes, and no more than three times a day. It takes about six weeks to fully regain basic mobility. Complete recovery and a return to normal walking may take three months or even longer.

The speed depends on how well the wound heals and your physical condition. However, you are still young, so your recovery should be quick.

Lionel listened quietly, then nodded finally. "I understand. Thank you, doctor."

“This is what I should do. Now you need to rest. Talk less and sleep more. I will have the nurse check on you every hour. If you feel unwell—fever, severe pain in your wound, difficulty breathing—press the call button immediately.”

He then gave a few more instructions before leaving the ward.

After the door closed, the room was quiet for a while.

Maupassant spoke first: "Three months... damn it."

“It’s lucky we survived,” Zola said. “If that bullet had been just a few centimeters off course…”

Sophie held Lionel's hand tightly, her grip trembling uncontrollably.

“Don’t be afraid,” Lionel said softly. “I’m fine.”

Lionel saw that one corner of the room was piled high with bouquets, gifts and letters.

Just as he was about to say something, there was another knock on the ward door, and Sir Charles Warren walked in.
The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was dressed in civilian clothes, without a hat, his hair was somewhat disheveled, he had heavy eye bags, and looked tired.

He saw Lionel on the bed and visibly relaxed: "Thank God. Mr. Sorel, how are you feeling?"

Lionel said simply, "Still alive."

Sir Charles Warren glanced at the others in the room, then hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but didn't.

Zola understood what he meant. He patted Maupassant on the shoulder: "Guy, let's go outside for a smoke."

Maupassant nodded. The two then told Lionel to "get some rest" before leaving the ward.

Sophie hesitated for a moment, then stood up as well: "I'll go ask the doctor if we can prepare something for you to eat."

She pulled Alice out of the room.

Now only Lionel and Sir Charles Warren remain in the ward.

Sir Charles Warren sat down in a chair by the bed. He placed his hands on his knees and remained silent for a moment.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sorel,” he finally spoke. “The attack outside the courthouse… was my negligence. I should have deployed more police, and I should have controlled the crowd more strictly…”

Lionel shook his head: "There's no point in talking about this now. What I want to know most right now is, who is the murderer?"

Sir Charles Warren looked troubled: "The murderer has been... taken over."

Lionel frowned: "Take over? What do you mean?"

"That means he's no longer under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police. The Home Office has already sent people to take him away. My men can't even see him."

Lionel stared at him: "You really don't know?"

Sir Charles Warren hesitated for a moment, then nodded: "We only know the basic identity. The Home Office won't allow us to ask anything more, saying it's not 'police affairs'."

"Then who is he? He was shouting in French before he fired, so he's French?"

“He is indeed French, thirty-seven years old, named Jean-Pierre François Damien Rouvier, who came to England seven months ago.”

Lionel listened quietly. Jean-Pierre François Damien Rouvier? The name was unfamiliar; Lionel was certain he didn't know him.

He pressed further, "What was his motive? Who hired him?"

Sir Charles Warren fell silent again. He stood up, walked to the window, looked outside, and then turned to look at Lionel.

He lowered his voice: "Mr. Sorel, I have no evidence for what I'm about to say. It's just speculation. Do you understand?"

Lionel was silent for a moment, then nodded.

Sir Charles Warren walked back to the bedside and sat down: "His...his motive for the crime may have nothing to do with Britain."

Lionel nearly jumped out of bed upon hearing this: "Do you think I'm stupid?!"

(End of this chapter)