Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 80 My Uncle Jules (Third update, please vote)

Lionel turned around, and sure enough, it was Guy de Maupassant with his familiar big beard.

This disciple of Flaubert, a renowned Parisian patron of prostitutes, was also on the deck at that moment, fawning over two exquisitely dressed women.

However, the two were clearly not interested in Maupassant and did not accept his invitation, turning around and returning to their cabin.

Maupassant was not discouraged at all; he turned around and began looking for his next target—he soon spotted Lionel.

"My God! My dear Leon! What are you doing here?" Maupassant strode across half the deck and, without a word, gave Leonard a tight hug.

Although Lionel knew that syphilis was not transmitted through such ordinary contact, he still held his breath for a few seconds.

Maupassant was in high spirits, and his voice was particularly spirited: "The waves of fate have swept you onto this wrecked ship too?"

I thought you were hiding in some country castle, or being held back by some muse in a salon!

As she spoke, she glanced at Lionel, a look of envy in her eyes.

Although Lionel didn't know why Maupassant had such an expression, he still smiled and replied, "Yes, fate always has its surprises, doesn't it? France is so big, and we actually met on this ship."

His smile then turned mischievous: "What, you can't stand the Seine either?"

The mention of the Seine ignited Maupassant's anger, and his complaints poured out like a flood: "Damn the Seine! It's not a river at all, but a huge, open cesspool!"

The whole of Paris is suffocating and rotting in its stench! Those idiots in the city hall!

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, waving his arms: "When I went out yesterday, the smell... it was like falling into a pile of rotting entrails! If I had stayed any longer, I would have had to take a perfumed bath!"

Lionel listened for a full three minutes before he had a chance to interject: "It sounds like things are particularly bad where you are?"

Maupassant sighed: "The stinkiest stretch of the river is right outside my window—but when I rented that apartment, I paid an extra 20 francs a month for that view."

The day before yesterday, they even pulled out a dead baby, swollen like a rotten flour sack…it was a nightmare!

Then he started complaining: "Those guys who still live in Paris and refuse to leave. Artists, critics, prostitutes, and politicians, they're all dreamers."

They fantasized that the Seine was only temporarily stinking, that Parliament would vote for the budget they wanted, and that cholera would become literate and avoid the homes of the powerful…

Just as the two were talking, the ship rocked slightly, and footsteps came from the side of the deck.

Lionel turned around and saw Alice and Patty walking over, leaning on the railing. Although they were still a little pale, they had obviously begun to get used to the feeling of being jostled up and down.

"How are you all?" Lionel asked.

Maupassant caught sight of Alice, whose face was half-covered by a veil, and immediately stopped speaking, his eyes fixed on her as if hooked by a fishing hook.

In that instant, even his beard seemed to straighten a little: "Leon... did you bring an angel with you on your trip?" His voice was low, but his eyes were burning.

“Friend,” Lionel replied calmly.

“Then I must thank God for allowing me to take this extra step today.” Maupassant quickly stood up, took off his hat, and bowed to Alice and Petit: “Ladies, Maupassant, Guy de Maupassant, a writer in my spare time, and a dreamer occasionally.”

Alice was still in a daze, only nodding and chuckling; but Patty burst out laughing: "You're so funny! My name is Patty! Young master, I'm much better now."

Maupassant raised an eyebrow shrewdly: "Young master? So my friend is a VIP in your family?"

Petit bluntly stated, "Not a VIP, but the master." "Oh!" Maupassant glanced at Lionel again, his eyes no longer filled with envy, but with jealousy—Lionel had only published one novel so far, how could he afford a maid and travel with such a beautiful girl…

it is more than words.

Alice forced a smile and took Petty's hand: "My name is Alice, and I'm from Leon's hometown—Petty, let's go to that deck over there so as not to disturb Leon and Mr. Maupassant."

Maupassant quickly extended his hand: "We were just chatting, it's alright—Léon, let me treat the three of you to oysters!"

Lionel glanced at Patty and Alice, who had just vomited up their lunch, and nodded.

Maupassant was overjoyed and took the lead, heading to the other end of the deck.

In one corner, there was a stall made of rough wooden planks, where an old sailor with a wrinkled face and a hunched back was using a rusty knife to pry open oysters.

His knife was very skillful; with a gentle turn at the thread, it clicked open, revealing the moist, slippery flesh.

Right now, a lady is eating oysters with her male companion—she eats them very elegantly, holding the oyster shell with a delicate handkerchief, her mouth sticking forward to avoid soiling her robe; then, with a quick, slight movement of her mouth, she sucks in the juice and oyster meat, and finally throws the oyster shell into the sea.

This sophisticated way of eating attracted Alice and Petty—the former curious about the posture, and the latter curious about the taste.

After the people in front of him finished eating, Maupassant stepped forward and said, "Give me a dozen oysters!"

The old sailor didn't even look up: "Two francs a dozen, sir."

Maupassant tossed the old sailor a silver coin worth 2 francs and another 10 copper coins as a tip.

The old sailor then said gratefully, "God will bless you, generous sir!" He became even more careful with his oyster-opening movements, making sure his blackened fingers didn't touch the tender white oyster meat.

Maupassant and Lionel each ate only one piece as a token gesture. Maupassant then began to complain again: "Léon, my life now is like a stagnant pool—writing reports, copying documents, and listening to old men spout nonsense about 'fiscal restraint' all night long..."

I'm going crazy. Mr. Flaubert asked me to write a novel, but writing requires a source, and I've looked all over the office—besides pencils and ledgers, where's my source?

Lionel glanced at Maupassant, then at the old sailor beside him shucking oysters, and suddenly had a flash of inspiration: "Do you know Rodin?"

Maupassant was taken aback: "Rodin? You mean that sculptor? He often appears in Mallarmé's salons, doesn't talk much, and has a look of disdain for everyone... I know him, but I'm not familiar with him."

Lionel said earnestly, "Rodin once said something that I think is very true—'Life is not lacking in beauty, but in eyes that can see it!'"

Maupassant looked puzzled: "Did that guy really say something so philosophical? But what does that have to do with my lack of material for a novel?"

Lionel sighed, silently repeating to himself, "I didn't mean it... I didn't mean it..." He walked over to the old sailor and asked, "Sir, is your name Jules Darmans?"

The old sailor's oyster-opening knife stopped in mid-air. He looked up at Lionel and said, "Of course not, sir. My name is Anthony Matthew. You've mistaken me for someone else."

Lionel gave a confident smile, then pulled out 10 sous and handed them to him: "No, your name is 'Jules Darmance,' and your home is in Le Havre, but you just returned from America not long ago..."

The old sailor was stunned for a moment, but quickly recovered, took the copper coin, and continued shucking oysters: "Call me whatever you like, sir. I am Jules Darmans, from Le Havre, and I have just returned from America..."

Lionel nodded in satisfaction: "Okay, now you're my uncle..."

Seeing Lionel's move, Maupassant, Alice, and Petit were all baffled, and the three Louis XVIs were completely confused.

(End of this chapter)