Petty was right; Paris in August was like a giant, airtight pressure cooker, maddeningly hot.
As soon as the sun climbed above the eastern rooftops, the asphalt began to melt, and carriages left deep ruts, mixing with horse manure to emit a suffocating stench.
The Seine River had only been clear for a little over two months; now, its water level had dropped to its lowest point of the year, with exposed riverbeds showing a bluish-black hue. Rotting water plants and garbage fermented under the scorching sun, and the stench spread throughout the city with the wind.
Lionel opened the window, hoping to get some fresh air, but was immediately choked by a strong ammonia smell, coughing repeatedly—
The stables across the street hadn't been cleaned in time, and thick horse manure had piled up onto the sidewalk, with green-headed flies buzzing loudly above.
"This awful weather," Alice said, bringing a basin of cool water and wiping Petty's forehead with a towel. The little girl's cheeks were already covered in heat rash.
Newspapers were once again filled with reports about the "Stench of Paris."
Le Figaro published a joint letter from doctors, warning that "high temperatures and filth could trigger cholera" and advising citizens to "avoid going out before sunset."
Almost all salons, balls, and plays in Paris had been canceled. Everyone who could leave had already done so—this year they left a few days late, due to that exorcism ritual.
Artists, on one hand, needed to escape the heat, and on the other, the scorching weather also made them suffer from the symptoms of syphilis.
"Flaubert's Sundays" had gone silent as soon as August began.
Gustave Flaubert had returned to the small town of Croisset near Rouen, hiding in his villa and battling his persistent illness.
His condition was particularly bad.
When Maupassant visited him in Rouen, the great writer was lying in the shade of his country villa, with a cloth soaked in medicine covering his legs.
He grumbled, "Those damned pustules, I can't write properly in Paris at all."
Manuscripts of Bouvard and Pécuchet were scattered on his desk, the handwriting shaky and messy.
But his student, Guy, also had his lower body covered in swellings, and his legs and entire backside had turned blue from applying mercury iodide.
Flaubert suggested, "Guy, try leeches and enemas; I find them quite effective… If not, try bloodletting…"
…
Émile Zola also left Paris, taking his family to Marseille.
He described in his letter to Lionel:
"At least the sea breeze here is clean, unlike Paris, where even breathing feels like swallowing carrion."
He also mentioned that most of the young members of the naturalism literary group had gone to Normandy or Brittany.
"Only that eccentric Huysmans prefers to stay cooped up in Paris, studying medieval manuscripts."
The "Thursday Dinner Parties" and "les soirées de médan" naturally came to an end.
Without these people, "Charpentier's Tuesdays" obviously couldn't be held.
Paris's 1879 social season had concluded, and it would only reopen in the cooler autumn.
The coachman's curses came from outside the window; probably the carriage wheel had gotten stuck in the melting asphalt again.
Lionel picked up his quill and began to reply to two invitations—no matter where, leaving this stinking Paris was the top priority.
His gaze turned to the hazy, heat-distorted Parisian skyline outside the window.
Go to Count Rohan's castle? That would mean endless socializing, false flattery, and possibly getting caught in deeper political whirlpools.
Accompany Mrs. Rothschild to her villa in Italy? That ambiguous hint would only complicate their relationship further.
A clearer, more urgent thought rose in his mind: go home, to the small town of Montiel at the foot of the Alps.
There, he would find cool mountain breezes, clear streams, familiar accents, and his family whom he hadn't seen for a long time—his parents, who were downcast from being deceived, and his sister Ivanna, who was deep in heartbreak.
Although the swindler had suffered a punishment far beyond imagination, the trauma he inflicted on the victims could not be healed overnight.
Lionel couldn't hide from his family forever, and now was the perfect time to return.
Having made up his mind, he immediately began to plan.
First, how to arrange for Alice and Petty. Alice's identity was sensitive, and Petty was not suitable for long journeys; neither could come along.
But leaving them in this stuffy apartment would be both miserable and unsafe.
He thought of Émile Zola.
The Zolas had gone to Marseille to escape the heat, but his Médan Villa should still have a cook and servants staying there.
That location, being in the suburbs, was quiet and much more comfortable and safe than downtown Paris.
He immediately went to the post office to send a telegram to Mr. Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting permission to temporarily house Alice and Petty at Médan until he returned to Paris.
Lionel believed that the generous and hospitable Mr. Zola would not refuse.
Next, he sent another telegram to the Lalagne post office, informing his father that he would be returning home in a few days.
After doing all this, he announced his decision to Alice and Petty.
"Return to the Alps?" Alice's eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again.
Of course, she missed the air and scenery of her hometown, but she was more worried about causing trouble for Lionel.
Lionel's tone was gentle: "You and Petty aren't coming. I've already written to Mr. Zola, asking you both to stay at Médan for a while.
There's a garden and shade there, much more comfortable than here. When I return from the Alps, I'll come pick you up."
Alice opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, she just nodded, her eyes full of gratitude, and a hint of disappointment.
Petty, hearing that she could go play at a country villa, became excited, temporarily forgetting the itchiness of her heat rash.
Zola's reply came quickly via telegram, brief and enthusiastic:
"Médan welcomes the two ladies. I have instructed the housekeeper to prepare. Have a pleasant journey. Émile Zola."
The day after receiving the telegram, Lionel personally took them to Médan Villa, then returned to the "Saint-Lazare train station" and bought connecting tickets to the Alps.
— — — —
There was no direct train service from Paris to the Alps; a transfer was required in Lyon.
The train to Lyon departed at seven in the morning. Lionel carried a simple suitcase into the first-class carriage, where the seats were made of leather, covered with starched linen slips.
Each compartment had four seats, which felt like paradise compared to the third-class carriage.
Especially, the first-class carriage also had two separate restrooms—this was very important for a long journey of over 10 hours.
Due to the increased distance between stops, situations where one couldn't hold it were common.
Passengers in third-class, regardless of gender, could only go to the connecting section at the rear of the carriage, hold onto the railings, stick out their buttocks mid-air, and "fly freely."
If the train encountered a sharp turn, it would give passengers in the front and rear carriages a full view.
First-class had no such concerns—though the ticket price was as high as 60 francs.
Across from Lionel sat an old gentleman wearing the Legion of Honor medal, meticulously peeling an apple with a small silver knife, the peel forming a continuous thin line.
"Going to Lyon?" The old gentleman offered half an apple, a smile on his face.
Lionel was flattered and took the apple: "Further, to the Alps—thank you."
The old gentleman narrowed his eyes: "The Alps are a wonderful place. I served in Savoy when I was young; the air there can cleanse the soul.
Unlike Paris, where even the pigeons are coughing."
The train whistled as it pulled out of the city, and factory chimneys gradually gave way to fields.
Lionel leaned back in his seat, watching the scenery rush by outside the window.
The wheat fields had already been harvested, leaving neat stubble, and grapevines spread along the hillsides, heavy clusters of purplish-black fruit hanging low.
In this scorching summer, the French countryside presented a lazy abundance in the high temperatures.
Twelve hours later, the train arrived at Lyon station.
Lionel did not wander into the city but rested for a night at a hotel next to the train station.
The next morning, Lionel boarded the branch line train to the Alps.
This train had only five carriages, and the white mist sprayed from its engine refracted rainbows in the sunlight.
As the train slowly climbed through the winding valleys, the altitude increased, and the air became cooler.
Outside the window, exposed rocks, vast forests, and veil-like clouds began to appear.
Lionel opened the train window, and the cool mountain breeze rushed in, dispersing the stale air in the carriage and also blowing away the irritation in his heart.
Eight hours later, the train arrived at Lalagne station. It was a station with only a platform and a small wooden cabin, where the stationmaster and ticket agent was wiping the station sign with a rag.
As soon as Lionel stepped off the train, he was stunned by the sight before him—a red banner hung on the large tree at the station entrance, with crooked, large letters that read:
"Welcome our pride, the renowned writer Lionel Sorel, returning home in glory!"