The next morning, to avoid Mrs. Martin, who was incessantly nagging about raising the rent, Lionel left at 7:30.
Today, he would walk to the Sorbonne to save his meager funds.
After all, 5 sous could now buy a whole half kilogram of baguette, plus a can of milk!
Paris's winter sky was always shrouded in a gray haze, permeated by the smell of coal smoke.
The 11th arrondissement was downwind, so the air was even worse.
Just one block out, Lionel was nearly hit by a carriage that darted out of an alley.
The coachman cursed,
"You brat, can't you watch where you're going!"
Then whipped his horse hard and sped off.
Lionel then noticed that the carriage bore a golden iris emblem, indicating it belonged to the city government.
No wonder it was so arrogant.
However, it was just an ordinary flatbed delivery cart, piled with something covered by a black cloth, forming a small mound—looking closer, several blackened feet were visible beneath the cloth.
"Roadside dead..."
A term from the soul's homeland in the East immediately came to Lionel's mind.
These must have been the homeless, the mentally ill, and the like, who froze to death in the streets and alleys last night.
Winter temperatures in Paris weren't considered cold among European capitals, usually above 0°C during the day, but dropping below freezing at night.
With pneumonia rampant, it was extremely tough not just for the homeless, but for the poor in general.
This was also why Lionel was anxious to earn some "quick money" after realizing his family was about to cut off his funding.
110 francs seemed enough to live in Paris for over a month, or even two months if he lived frugally—but that was on the condition of no extra expenses, meaning no ability to withstand any risks.
But having been reborn into the 19th century with little money in his pocket, was the most important thing how to become famous?
Of course not—it was to ensure his survival!
There was no social security system here like in later times.
Even a student from a prestigious school like him had no student health insurance.
Living in the 11th arrondissement, where the poor gathered, meant constantly being surrounded by pneumonia viruses, influenza viruses, E. coli, and even cholera and tuberculosis.
Coupled with a simple diet, his body's resistance was even weaker.
And even if he had the money to go to a hospital, in an era before penicillin, the situation probably wouldn't be much better—during the Great Cholera Epidemic in Paris, due to the concentration of patients and the lack of disinfection and isolation measures in hospitals, the mortality rate was even higher than enduring the illness at home.
Thinking of this, Lionel couldn't help but shiver.
If he couldn't improve his economic situation quickly, let alone becoming successful and achieving glory, any illness could leave him dead on the street or coughing himself to death in his attic.
Even if he sent a telegram home at the first sign of needing help, under ideal circumstances, it would still take about a week to receive concrete assistance.
Coupled with the fraud crisis facing the Sorel family far away in the Alps...
Lionel instantly felt "the weight of life" pressing down on his shoulders.
As he passed Boulevard Saint-Martin, he turned into a post office by the roadside.
Through the tall iron bars, he told the post office clerk,
"I need to open a poste restante."
This was a service where the post office held mail until the recipient came to collect it.
"Anonymous?"
The clerk asked without looking up.
"What's the difference between registered and anonymous?"
"Registered is free, and we'll hold your mail for 15 days.
You just need to provide ID and a service password when collecting;
Anonymous holds mail for 30 days but requires a fee of 2 francs per month.
You'll need to provide the registered name when collecting, and a password is also mandatory."
Considering the explicit nature of the submission he had written, Lionel unhesitatingly chose the "anonymous poste restante".
After reluctantly handing over a 2-franc note, the clerk quickly provided a registration form for Lionel to fill out.
Lionel quickly completed the form and handed it back; in less than 3 minutes, a yellowish thick card was passed out from the window, and his "anonymous poste restante" contract with the French Post Office's Boulevard Saint-Martin branch was established.
Next, he directly attached his registered pseudonym and the post office address to the end of the manuscript he had written last night, then put it into an envelope, sealed it with glue and a stamp, and dropped it into the mailbox along with the letter to his family.
After completing this important task, he looked up and it was already 8:20.
Not wanting to be late again, Lionel quickly left the post office.
Passing through Place de la République, turning onto Rue du Temple, and then onto Pont Saint-Michel—from the bridge, he could vaguely see the iconic Gothic spire of Notre Dame Cathedral... scratch that... Notre Dame—he arrived at the Left Bank of the Seine.
After walking through two blocks, he finally stood at the entrance of the Sorbonne just before 8:50 AM.
By then, other students and teachers had also started arriving, and the school entrance was bustling.
Elegant four-wheeled carriages, light two-wheeled buggies, and public coaches dropping off passengers were all crowded together, trampling the unpaved ground into a muddy mess.
Lionel immediately spotted his "old acquaintance," Albert de Rohan.
He gracefully dismounted from a small, one-horse, four-wheeled buggy, then casually tossed the reins to the school caretaker waiting at the gate, throwing him a few copper coins as well.
The caretaker thanked him and eagerly led the horse to the school's public stable.
Albert also spotted Lionel immediately, noticing the white mist coming from his breath and the mud splatters on his trouser legs.
He couldn't help but scoff,
"It seems Mr. Sorel's legs are more reliable than a draft horse's hooves! Next time, we should tie you to the front of the carriage, then public coach passengers wouldn't be late."
Albert deliberately raised his voice, immediately attracting much attention.
Many people also noticed Lionel's "distress" at that moment.
Those with better manners merely curled the corners of their mouths slightly, while those with worse manners burst into laughter.
Lionel, however, felt no embarrassment, his expression not even changing:
"Mr. Rohan, why didn't you come to school with your pacifier today?"
Albert was first stunned by this, then his face turned pale, then crimson:
"You... you..."
The sarcastic students around them laughed even louder, and some even shouted,
"Well said!"
This commotion drew everyone's attention, even the teachers glanced over.
It turned out that the type of carriage Albert was riding was called a "buggy", one of the standard accessories for Parisian dandies (another type was a two-wheeled open-top version). It only required one horse and could be driven by oneself; it wasn't expensive yet maintained a certain decorum.
However, because the model was small, the slang term for it also carried the meaning of "stroller" or "baby carriage"—Lionel had used this pun to counterattack.
This was undoubtedly much more elegant than Albert's blatant class discrimination, and it earned him more applause from the university students.
Lionel's remark not only satirized Albert's immaturity but also exposed the truth that he relied on his father's prestige and actually had little money himself.
Albert was humiliated and enraged, but he couldn't possibly assault the other person in public.
He could only menacingly utter,
"How dare you insult me? Do you know who my father is!?"
Lionel showed a look of surprise:
"What, didn't your mother tell you?"
With that sentence, the entire scene fell silent.
(End of Chapter)
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