Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 636 You are surrounded! (Second update, please vote!)

February 10, 1884, 9:00 AM, in front of a newly dug grave at Ifry Cemetery.

The clouds hung low in the sky, and the wind blowing from the Seine carried a damp chill that sent shivers down one's spine.

Lionel leaned on his cane, his expression serious; Sophie stood to his right, wearing a black veil; Alice stood to his left, dressed in a black dress, her eyes red-rimmed.

Petty stood a little ahead, wearing a black wool coat, her hair neatly tied back, her lips tightly pursed, and holding a bouquet of flowers in front of her chest.

Her younger brother, Leon, stood beside her, also holding flowers. The boy was only twelve years old, thin, pale, and looked sad and lost.

Beside them was a priest in a black robe, holding a holy water brush and an incense burner, muttering incantations.

A simple coffin had already been placed beside the grave. The planks were thin and made of cheap pine wood, without any decorations.

But compared to the corpses wrapped in coarse burial cloth and thrown into the pits in the public cemetery where the poor are buried in the distance, this is a world of difference.

Petty looked down at the rough wooden plank beneath which lay her father and mother. She didn't cry, but remained silent for a long time.

Four days ago, they were still alive in that dilapidated apartment on Obercamp Street. The father was drinking, the mother was cursing, just like countless days for the past decade.

Then cholera came, then they were taken away, then they died… Petty had imagined many scenarios of saying goodbye to her parents, but this one had never happened before.

The priest began by reciting the final prayer in Latin: "May the angels lead you into Paradise."

He shook the incense burner, and the smoke of frankincense rose up, wafting and dispersing in the gloomy light.

"May the martyrs meet you when you come and lead you into the holy city of Jerusalem."

The priest began sprinkling holy water, and the glistening droplets fell onto the coffin lid, forming a dark water stain.

May all their sins be forgiven, may all their transgressions be pardoned. Amen.

He then turned to Lionel and nodded slightly: "Mr. Sorel, you may now give your speech."

Lionel stepped forward, stood at the edge of the tomb, looked at the coffin, and remained silent for a few seconds. Then he spoke.

"Gaspar Millais, Mathilde Millais. I'm not going to say they're good people, because they really aren't."

While they were alive, they cursed, beat, drank heavily, were greedy, and even tried to sell their daughter into a ballet school. They did many wrong things.

Hearing this, Petty's eyes finally welled up with tears.

"But I have no right to say they are bad people. They are just living, living in the dirtiest, most crowded and poorest neighborhoods in Paris."

They did the hardest work, earned the least money, drank the muddiest water, died the fastest, and were buried the most hastily.

Lyon began to sob softly.

"They have nothing to boast about in their lives. They haven't saved any money, acquired any property, or provided a good life for their children. 'Living' is all they have in their lives."

They eventually died of cholera, narrowly escaping being thrown into the depths of a public cemetery, piled upon hundreds of strangers, their names never even being recorded.

Leonard paused, turned to look at Petty, and then at Lyon.

"But now they lie here, in this coffin, with a priest reading absolution prayers for them, and their daughter and son standing beside them."

They will be buried in a respectable grave, with a plaque bearing their names, and someone will know who is buried here. All because of their daughter.

Just then, a gust of wind swept through the cemetery, ruffling Patty's hair.

"Gaspar Millai, Mathilde Millai. May you rest in peace."

Lionel stepped back.

The priest stepped forward, sprinkled holy water one last time, and made the sign of the cross one last time.

May they rest in peace. Amen.

The gravedigger came over, lifted the coffin, and slowly lowered it into the grave.

Petty and Leon stepped forward and placed the flowers they were holding on their chests on the coffin.

The gravedigger began filling the grave, the priest put away the holy water brush and incense burner, and everything proceeded in an orderly manner.

Sophie walked over to Petty and gently put her arm around her shoulder; Alice comforted Leon.

Because they both died of cholera, a thick layer of quicklime was laid in the tomb, and a layer of quicklime was also sprinkled on the coffin.

As a result, the dust quickly rose up, making people cough.

Lionel put on his hat: "This can't go on any longer. I'm going to find Pubert."

------------

On the same morning, Belleville, 17 Rue de Arles.

This is an old, six-story apartment building, nestled between several pubs and a coal shop. The walls are mottled, the windows are crooked, and the door is rusty.

But at this moment, the iron gate was tightly closed, and several overturned wooden tables and empty wine barrels were piled up at the entrance, completely blocking the entrance.

Through the crack in the iron gate, I could see several wary faces, holding long poles, ready to poke anyone trying to enter the apartment.

Outside the iron gate, several policemen in gray uniforms were gathered, and the sergeant leading the group, Alphonse Legrand, was pacing back and forth impatiently.

Behind the police, a black carriage was parked, and next to it stood three health department personnel wearing white smocks, their faces covered with medicated cloths, and carrying spray cans.

Across the street, a large crowd had already gathered: middle-aged men in work clothes, women in aprons, and elderly people carrying children, all intently watching the police and health officials. Alphonse Legrand walked to the black carriage and asked in a low voice, "How many people are inside?"

The health department staff member flipped through his notebook: "Seven new cases were reported last night. Five people have died in the past two days, all of them after being taken to the hospital."

Alphonse Legrand frowned: "Then what are they making a fuss about? Wouldn't taking them away help them?"

The health department staff member curled their lip: "They've been misled by that Sorel. They think going to the hospital is just suicide, so they might as well treat themselves according to Sorel's methods!"

Alphonse Legrand scoffed, "Treat themselves? What do these poor bastards know about treating illnesses?"

He walked to the iron gate, cleared his throat, and raised his voice, shouting, "Listen up, you inside! You're surrounded! I'm Sheriff Alphonse Legrand!"
"According to the Department of Health's order, all cholera patients must be taken to a hospital! Blocking the door like this is illegal! If you don't open the door, we will have to take enforcement measures!"

There was no response from behind the iron gate, only a few pairs of dark eyes staring at them.

Alphonse Legrand waited a minute and called again, but there was still no response.

He turned around and waved to the police behind him: "Two of you, pry the door open!"

Two young policemen immediately grabbed crowbars and went forward. But just as they reached the door, a third-floor window suddenly opened, and a flowerpot crashed down, shattering at the policemen's feet with a loud bang.

The two young policemen were startled and quickly took a step back.

A head popped out of a third-floor window. It was a woman in her forties, with disheveled hair and a flushed face, yelling down at the window:
"Get out! You uniformed lackeys! My man was dragged away and killed by you! Come back? If you do, I'll pour boiling water on him!"

Alphonse Legrand looked up: "Madam, calm down! A hospital is a place for healing, not—"

"Treatment?" the woman interrupted him, her voice shrill, like a knife scraping against his eardrums—

"What kind of illness are you treating? Bloodletting? Enemas? My husband could still talk when he was taken away, but he died the next day! Is this treatment? This is murder!"

The crowd across the street began to stir, and several young men prepared to move forward, each with an unfriendly expression.

Alphonse Legrand quickly shouted to the policemen, "Don't move! Don't move! Back up!"

The young policeman, feeling as if he had been granted a pardon, retreated back into the crowd, dragging his crowbar.

He took a deep breath and turned to the health department personnel: "Are you sure you want to force me?"

The health department staff shook their heads helplessly: "Mr. Legrand, we can't force our way in. Cholera is spreading; if there's a conflict, people inside will rush out, and people outside will squeeze in."
If things get chaotic like this, the whole neighborhood could be ruined. You'd better try to persuade them.

Alphonse Legrand blushed, but couldn't utter a rebuttal.

He'd been a policeman for thirty years; what hadn't he seen? But cholera was different; it was a plague!

This thing is unreasonable and doesn't respect authority. The higher you climb, the more likely it is to pounce on your face.

He cursed angrily, turned around and walked back to the black carriage, took out his pipe, and took a deep drag.

Just then, a young policeman ran over: "Chief, a reporter has arrived."

Alphonse Legrand looked in that direction and sure enough, several people in overcoats appeared on the street corner, carrying notebooks and pens.

In less than half an hour, a dozen reporters had gathered across from 17 Rue de Arles. Some even set up their cameras.

Everyone stared at the police and the tightly closed iron gate. Alphonse Legrand's face turned completely ashen.

He walked up to the people from the Department of Health and said impatiently, "I can't handle this. Go back and report to your superiors, let those officials make the decision."

The health department staff nodded, climbed into the driver's seat of the black carriage, and the driver flicked the reins, causing the carriage to slowly depart.

Alphonse Legrand waved to his men: "Guard the intersection, don't let anyone in or out. Nobody move. Wait for my orders."

After saying that, he left. He also needed to "report" to his superiors.

Behind the iron gate, in the window of the stairwell, those wary faces were still there.

The woman was still lying at the window on the third floor, staring at the police below, motionless.

----------

In Eugène Pubert's office in Paris, Lionel sits opposite the Sena official who promotes waste sorting.

Before them lay a thick stack of papers, all containing information about how British physician John Snow stopped the spread of cholera in London in 1849 and 1854.

“Mr. Pobel, the history and data are right here, what are you still hesitating for?” Lionel couldn’t help but ask.

Eugène Pubert crossed his arms and did not respond immediately. His face remained expressionless, but his heart was beginning to waver.

As the first official in Europe to promote waste sorting, he certainly had his own insights into public health and was not entirely superstitious about "miasma".

If Lionel's suggestions can effectively control the cholera outbreak in Paris, it will enhance his reputation and build public support for his future rise to higher positions.

But this is also a huge adventure...

At that moment, the secretary knocked on the door and came in: "Mr. Puber, Mr. Henry Monod from the Department of Health is waiting outside. He says he has something urgent to report to you."

Eugène Pubert quickly said, "Let him in."

Lionel sighed inwardly and got up to leave.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Sorel. Henry is probably here to talk about cholera too; you might as well listen in.”

(Two chapters finished. Thank you everyone, please vote with your monthly tickets!)
　I'm truly speechless at some people. This cholera outbreak wasn't made up for the sake of the plot. 1884 was the first peak year of the fifth global cholera pandemic, and its origin was still India, as mentioned in the previous "James Bond writes a letter" episode.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)