For Alice and Petty, their days at Médan Villa were like a stolen period of tranquility.
Compared to the stuffy and noisy Lafitte Street, this place felt like another world.
The villa was surrounded by a lush garden, and the air was filled with the scent of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass.
Zola's cook was a kind, plump woman from Normandy who daily prepared delicious apple tarts, stewed lamb, and fresh vegetable soup for those staying there, varying the menu.
Petty was like a bird released from its cage; she chased butterflies in the garden, helped the gardener pick beans, and even assisted the cook with meal preparations.
Her talent in cooking, not surprisingly, also astonished the cook.
Alice, meanwhile, enjoyed this rare leisure.
She would sit under an oak tree with a book in the morning, reading, and in the afternoon, she would practice writing in the cool living room.
Here, no one questioned her past; she was just an ordinary girl from the Alps, temporarily staying there.
That afternoon, the butler brought a letter: "Miss Alice, from Mr. Lionel Sorel in the Alps region."
Alice excitedly took the thick envelope, and Petty curiously leaned in: "Is it a letter from Young Master Sorel? What did he say? Is the Alps fun?"
Alice carefully tore open the seal, revealing a thick stack of manuscripts inside. With a touch of curiosity, she began to read "hometown."
Initially, she was only drawn by the familiar mountain scenery Lionel depicted, but as she read deeper, the experiences of the Luntou family, the decline of the small town…
That pervasive sense of estrangement and powerlessness surged into her heart like a tide.
She seemed to see her parents, her neighbors, the perpetually clear sky of the Alps, and the snow that never melted on its peaks…
Every detail in Lionel's writing touched the softest part of her heart.
When she read Luntou's respectful yet distant "Sir," and the "pathetic thick barrier," Alice's vision completely blurred.
Tears silently streamed out, dripping onto the manuscript paper.
She wasn't crying for herself, but for all the people on that land, like Luntou, like her parents, who were crushed by the weight of life and forgotten by their era.
Lionel's words outlined the desolation beneath Montiel's tranquil surface and also released her long-suppressed homesickness.
Petty was frightened, dropped her handkerchief, and hugged Alice's arm: "What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell somewhere? Or did something happen to Young Master Lionel?"
Alice shook her head, choked up and unable to speak, just holding Petty tightly in her arms.
After a long while, she slowly calmed down, wiped away her tears, and smiled at Petty: "I'm fine, Petty. I just… I just miss my hometown.
Lionel is fine too; he… he's doing very well."
A strong urge rose in her heart.
This novel shouldn't be seen only by her; it should reach readers sooner.
Parisians would know that in the distant Alps, there was still such a world, such a group of people.
This time, her transcription was not just for Lionel or herself, but for her hometown…
— — — —
August in Paris was only suffocating with its intense heat and stench.
The "Colonial Communications Office" on the first floor of the "Orby Trading Company" was even more stuffy and hot, with its only window half-open to keep out mosquitoes, flies, and dust.
Sophie Denave wore a high-necked, long-sleeved shirt and an ankle-length skirt, her back already soaked with sweat.
Although it was almost time to leave work, she was still buried in organizing a batch of cargo manifests from Algeria, and the constant harassment from flies made her somewhat agitated.
Just then, the mailroom clerk delivered a letter to her.
Seeing the bold handwriting on the envelope, Sophie's heart suddenly skipped a beat, as if a crisp mountain breeze instantly dispelled the stuffiness of the place.
She carefully opened the letter and read it greedily.
Lionel vividly described the scenery of the Alps:
[…The sky here is as clear and bright as a sapphire; in comparison, the sky of Paris seems to be forever covered with a layer of gray haze.
In the morning, the valley is filled with milky white mist, like a fairyland… At night, the stars hang low, as if one could reach out and pluck them… The mountain air is cold and pure, carrying the scent of pine and wild flowers; every breath feels like cleansing the lungs…]
Sophie seemed to be able to see the continuous green mountains through the words and feel the refreshing coolness.
Sophie's lips curved into an unconscious smile, happy that he could temporarily escape the hustle and bustle of Paris, and attracted by the vast and vibrant world he depicted.
She thought of Lionel's popularity in high society, knowing that he was steadily entering Paris's elite cultural circle, and she felt immense pride.
Just then, the unrestrained chatter of two male colleagues, who had just returned from coffee, came from outside the office door; they probably thought Sophie, like other colleagues, had already slipped away.
"Honestly, Miss Denave's eyes, when she looks at someone, are like they're filled with ripples, capable of enchanting one's soul…"
"Oh, come on, she is indeed a beauty, no doubt, but that's all. Think about it, with both her parents gone, how much dowry could she have?
She probably can't even put together a decent set of silver cutlery!"
"Tsk, what a pity… Such beauty and intelligence, if she had been born into a wealthy merchant's or judge's family…"
"Then it wouldn't be our turn to covet her! At most… hehe, being a mistress to some gentleman would be about right. Haha…"
The smile on Sophie's face instantly froze; the cold reality immediately extinguished her earlier joy.
Lionel was rapidly rising, and what about her? She only had a worthless, dilapidated old house, still in the Tenth Arrondissement; her savings were a mere 500 francs.
She thought of the diamond necklace worth at least 40,000 francs, the subtle smile on the lips of the esteemed Mrs. Rothschild, the naive young lady from Count Rohan's family…
She had almost no "capital" to match a promising young talent like Lionel—beauty was not valuable in high society.
Wealthy people in Paris, if they wished, could have an unlimited number of mistresses.
Sophie Denave suppressed the fear and inferiority that arose, took a deep breath, and forced herself to calm down.
She was Sophie Denave, a woman capable of establishing herself in Paris through her own abilities.
Looking at Lionel's letter again, Sophie's gaze became firm once more.
— — — —
Mr. Paul Pigout, the editor-in-chief of Le Petit Parisien, also received a letter from Lionel.
He had been in a rather good mood recently.
The newspaper's sales had steadily increased due to "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button," and the novel's novel setting and dramatic plot appealed to the public.
So when he received Lionel's letter, he was very surprised.
Previously, Lionel had submitted two weeks' worth of serializations at once, saying he was returning to the Alps—how could he be back so soon?
He curiously opened the envelope, which contained a neatly and elegantly transcribed manuscript titled "hometown."
With a touch of doubt and expectation, Paul Pigout began to read.
After reading the first few paragraphs, he was captivated by the calm, powerful, realistic style.
This was completely different from "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button," which he was familiar with and had an urban, fantastical flair.
As he read deeper, the expression on his face changed from curiosity to surprise, then from surprise to solemnity, and finally to deep admiration.
"Jean-Malo, quickly take down that novel by Maupassant and replace it with this one! Our 'Plutus' has sent a new manuscript!"