I couldn't just sit still. Throughout the day, I kept running to the restroom, purging the miasma—no, the toxins—from my body. I tried to phrase it delicately, but let's be honest: I had diarrhea.
The dilemma was whether to keep the window open or not. The air in this room was surely filled with my bodily effluvia. Normally, opening the window would be the answer... but outside smelled just as bad, if not worse.
Paris...
Honestly, London seemed better. The Seine had the Thames beat by a mile.
Knock, knock.
Someone rapped at the door—Berlioz, obviously. How did I know? A carriage had arrived.
"Ah, yes."
"How are you fee—... Huh? Why do you look so haggard?"
"Ahaha. Just detoxing."
"Oh... That happens. I had a rough time in Austria too."
So Austria isn't much different, huh?
Broad generalizations are dangerous, but in this era's Europe, exceptions were rare. The whole continent might as well be hell.
"Anyway, shall we go?"
"Yes, but..."
Stepping outside just made the stench worse. This couldn't be normal. Even for the hardier folk of the 19th century, this was extreme.
"Does the Seine always smell like this?"
"Ah. No. Well, it does, but it's been worse since yesterday."
"Since yesterday?"
"Oh, right! Dr. Liston gave the police a tip, and they caught a serial murderer who'd already killed several people. They say it sparked a kind of celebration."
Why is Liston involved?
Wait—since I was technically part of this, my interest piqued.
"Oh... really?"
"Yes. The new king needed to boost public morale, so he's showered the city in food and wine. You know what they say: the more you eat, the more you..."
"Ah." This is the cause?
Back in Korea, this wouldn't have made sense. Since when does human waste just flow straight into the river?
But shockingly, the 19th century was that era.
And worse—that same river water flowed directly into the drinking supply.
"Let's go. The mood's lively, so the concert should be a success. That Chopin fellow is lucky too."
"Good for him."
"Lucky" undersold it. Chopin was brilliant.
Chopin!
I was already a fan of Seong-Jin Cho... Now I'd meet the real Chopin.
The only question was whether he'd play anything I recognized, given he couldn't be older than 20. But any Chopin was good Chopin. The excitement was electric—though my stomach still ached too much to fully enjoy it.
And when you think about it, everyone I'd met here—Berlioz included—was extraordinary.
Maybe coming here was the right choice.
Sure, I'd been horrified by the mortuary exhibits and streets paved with filth... yet even in this squalor, artistic passion burned brightly.
Clip-clop.
Between the lingering nausea, the river's miasma, and the exhaustion from expelling my own toxins, my mind was foggy, but the carriage rattled on unfazed. Passersby vomited everywhere, though thankfully, most seemed drunk.
At least it's just alcohol sickness...
...Which is technically still sickness.
"Ugh—!"
"Move it, slowpokes!"
Some even staggered into the carriage's path, then had the audacity to yell at us.
Pot calling the kettle black, huh?
At least we weren't driving slowly. If anything, the speed was deadly enough to guarantee fatalities on impact.
Soon, we arrived at a stately, old-world building. Looking at Berlioz's profile, you'd think he was gazing upon the divine.
"This is the Paris Conservatory."
"Ah, here it is."
A surge of emotion hit me. Given the chance, I would've loved to study music. Instead, I'd settled for mere appreciation—but this place still felt sacred.
Berlioz, Debussy... even Seong-Jin Cho studied here.
Who knew I'd walk these halls before them?
"You truly love music, don't you?"
"Ah, yes. A gift from the gods."
A tad dramatic, but not wrong for the era. In a time when medicine was just as likely to kill as cure, music was one of the few genuine comforts left.
Now, it might be the only one.
"Marvelous! Shall we head in?"
"Yes."
Despite feeling "warm" compared to London, the weather was objectively chilly. My shabby coat did little to help, so within minutes of stepping out, the cold seeped in.
Thankfully, the interior was cozy. As expected of Paris—no expense spared for art. An orchestra rehearsed, their melodies a balm for the senses.
"You've heard, yes? This is Dr. Pyeong. A noble from Joseon."
"Ah... A pleasure. I'm Chopin, from Austria."
"I've heard so much about you."
And so, Chopin was introduced.
Truthfully, I'd only ever known his music, not his face. My mental image of "Chopin" had always been Seong-Jin Cho—enough said.
He's so thin... about 170 cm.
Short by modern standards, but towering for the 1800s. Schubert, who'd died two years prior, was barely 150 cm.
Liston, meanwhile, neared 190 cm with a hulking frame—he was the real monster.
"You seem lost in thought?"
Oops, busted.
"I couldn't help noticing how thin you are."
"Huh?"
"Ah, this gentleman is a renowned physician from London."
"Oh!"
Few statements are as paradoxical as "Don't take this the wrong way"—yet Chopin blinked, absorbing Berlioz's words before nodding awkwardly.
I pressed on, scrutinizing his face.
No symptoms yet.
Early death was common in this era. Berlioz would live past 60, but Chopin wouldn't make it to 40.
Why?
Tuberculosis.
Effective TB treatments wouldn't arrive until the mid-20th century.
I'd try my best—TB was one of history's deadliest diseases—but for now, prevention was our only shield.
"Thinner individuals are more susceptible to TB. The coughing, the blood... you've heard of it?"
"Ah... A dreadful illness. You're saying I'm at risk?"
"Yes."
Honestly, everyone here was a potential victim. But Chopin was a confirmed case in history.
"Eat well... avoid crowded places. And if symptoms appear, contact me. Reach out to the London Medical College, or Dr. Liston. He'll relay the message."
"Ah, yes. I'll remember."
"Remember" didn't mean "follow."
At 20, "health advice" tends to go in one ear and out the other. People only value their well-being after falling ill.
After more small talk, we headed to the concert. The orchestra took center stage, while Chopin—not yet famous—played a few piano pieces, including Etudes Op. 10.
My spirits lifted...
Until the ride home.
"Bleeegh—!"
"Huuuaaaghh!"
Vomit everywhere. More than before.
All of it trickling into the Seine.
Soon, that same water would flow through pipes into homes again.
It's just drunk people...
I tried to stay optimistic, but unease lingered.
The drunk crowds had thinned... yet the vomiting hadn't.
And now, in the shadows—were those people defecating openly?
Even for 19th-century shamelessness, this was extreme.
"A-are you alright?" Berlioz asked, catching my grimace.
We're seeing the same thing—how are you not disturbed?!
But I'd long since resigned myself to such sights.
"Just concerned for those people. They seem ill."
"Ha! Drunkards, that's all. Parisians are romantic, you see? Drinking by the Seine at sunset—it's tradition!"
"Ah, of course."
Finding romance while watching sewage?
Only in 19th-century Europe.
My 21st-century brain couldn't fathom it.
For a fleeting moment, I relaxed—if this is normal, no need to panic.
That relief lasted until we reached the hotel.
"Ah, Pyeong! Perfect timing—today was hilarious," Liston grinned, reeking of hashish from Pierre's stash.
"What happened?"
"These French fools insisted Seine water was fouler than the Thames—decided to prove it by drinking it."
"Ah..."
National pride is one thing, but this is ridiculous.
"Half of them are vomiting or shitting themselves now. Confirmed: miasma levels are higher here."
"How many drank it? How many got sick?"
"Who's counting?! The French are shitting in front of me!"
"Ah."
...Should I check on them?