Croisset is a small place near Rouen in Normandy, located on the banks of the Seine River, about 120 kilometers from Paris.
Flaubert's father had bought a small villa there during his lifetime, and Flaubert spent most of his life there.
Important works such as Madame Bovary and Salammbô were almost all completed in the villa at Croisset.
He only came to Paris when he had to attend salons or meet with publishers and friends.
Flaubert eventually died in Croisset.
"A telegram! I saw it lying on the hall floor when I got home!"
Maupassant pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his coat's inner pocket and handed it to Lionel with trembling hands:
"It's from Juliette Herbert! Teacher... Teacher suddenly fainted while taking a bath! Dr. Fertain is trying to save him, but the situation... is very bad!"
Lionel took the telegram and quickly scanned it under the dim gaslight in the hall.
The message was brief and horrifying, and its content, just as Maupassant described, conveyed the sender's terror and helplessness between the lines.
Lionel felt a chill:
"My God..."
If he remembered correctly, Gustave Flaubert, this giant of French literature, died in 1880.
As for the specific month, he couldn't quite recall.
Could it be this time?
He hastily pressed,
"When did this happen? What time was the telegram sent?"
Hearing this, Maupassant showed a look of vexation:
"It was this afternoon! Look at the time!
When it was delivered to my apartment, I was at 'Le Rosier'… I just got home and saw it!
Several hours have passed!
There are no trains now, Lion, not a single one!
The earliest one isn't until tomorrow noon!
We must hire a carriage immediately! Immediately!"
Maupassant was practically roaring, filled with urgency and despair.
Lionel completely understood his feelings.
Flaubert was more than just a literary mentor to Maupassant.
They were family friends; Gustave Flaubert had known Maupassant's mother, Laure de Le Poittevin, and her brother since childhood, and they were like family.
Even Laure de Le Poittevin's husband was named Gustave...
Flaubert had practically watched Maupassant grow up, guiding him in reading and writing, introducing him to the world of literature; their emotional bond was incredibly deep.
Lionel remained calm.
He tightly gripped Maupassant's cold hand:
"I understand, Guy, I understand. What do you need me to do? Money? Is that right?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Maupassant's face, but it was quickly submerged by more intense anxiety.
He nodded heavily:
"Yes! Money!
To Rouen, at this hour, we can only hire a private carriage, the fastest light phaeton!
The journey is long, the price doubles for traveling at night, and we'll need to change horses frequently along the way; the coachman will also need extra payment... And once we get there, who knows how many expenses there will be, medical fees, or... or..."
He couldn't continue, his eyes slightly red:
"I'm... I'm very short on cash lately, Lion. You know... it's nowhere near enough to pay for such a trip."
Lionel certainly knew.
Maupassant's lifestyle—frequenting expensive cafes, restaurants, brothels, and pursuing widows—was notoriously extravagant.
Although Boule de Suif had brought him immense fame a while ago, it hadn't yet been converted into immediate income.
As for the thousand francs advance that Georges Charpentier had paid him earlier, it was probably long spent.
Lionel patted his shoulder:
"Money isn't a problem, Guy. Wait for me."
Without a moment's hesitation, he immediately turned back to the study, opened a secret compartment under the desk, and counted out a thick stack of large-denomination banknotes.
Then he grabbed several handfuls of gold and silver coins of various denominations and stuffed them into a leather purse.
A rough estimate put the total at nearly a thousand francs.
This was a considerable sum for a carriage trip, but he had to be well-prepared; no one knew what they might encounter in Croisset.
Lionel tucked the money into his coat's inner pocket, quickly put on his coat, hat, and gloves, grabbed a thick scarf, and returned to the hall.
"Let's go, Guy! We'll go to the 'Imperial Carriage Company'; they should have the best carriages and the most experienced coachmen for night travel!"
The two rushed out of the apartment, plunging into Paris's cold late night.
The streets were empty and silent, with only the gaslights casting faint yellow halos on the ground.
The cold wind cut across their cheeks like a knife.
The "Imperial Carriage Company" naturally had an office in a commercially prosperous district like Boulevard Saint-Germain, and it offered 24-hour service.
They practically jogged all the way there.
In the brightly lit office, a sleepy manager greeted them.
Upon hearing that they immediately needed to hire the fastest two-wheeled light phaeton to Croisset in Normandy, the manager's sleepiness instantly vanished.
He quickly calculated:
"Gentlemen, at this hour, a long night journey, near Rouen... this is a very special request.
We need the best horses, the most experienced coachman, and we'll need to change horses at least three to four times along the way.
Each horse change and night service will incur additional charges..."
Lionel impatiently interrupted him:
"Money is not an issue! Just the fastest! And the safest!"
The manager quoted an astonishing figure: the one-way fare was estimated to be at least 120 francs, possibly even higher.
This was almost more than a month's income for an ordinary working-class family.
Lionel didn't even frown, directly counting out 60 francs from his inner pocket:
"This is the deposit; the rest will be settled upon arrival. Please arrange it immediately, as quickly as you can!"
The power of money was immediate!
In less than a quarter of an hour, a well-maintained light two-wheeled carriage was already parked at the company's entrance.
In front of the carriage, two tall Norman horses snorted thick white vapor, their hooves restlessly pawing the ground.
The coachman was a sturdy middle-aged man, wrapped in a thick fur coat, looking seasoned and experienced.
Lionel and Maupassant squeezed into the narrow compartment, adjusting themselves into a comfortable position, sitting close together.
The coachman cracked his long whip, and with a crisp "Whoa!" the carriage lurched forward, galloping northwest out of Paris.
The carriage quickly left the still-lit streets of Paris, plunging into the suburbs completely enveloped in darkness.
Outside the window, there was an endless, deep night.
Only the two windproof oil lamps hanging on the front of the carriage ploughed a beam of light through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead.
The sound of wheels, hoofbeats, and wind intertwined, the only accompaniment on this long night journey.
Inside the carriage, there was a deathly silence at first.
Maupassant huddled in the corner, his body swaying with the bumps of the carriage, his face hidden in shadow, his expression indiscernible.
Lionel didn't know how to comfort him, so he just silently accompanied him.
After an unknown period, Maupassant finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse.
"Lion... I'm scared... I'm really scared..."
"Teacher... he can't have anything happen to him... he absolutely cannot have anything happen to him..."
Lionel tried to reassure him:
"The telegram said a doctor named Fertain is already attending to him. Maybe he'll be smiling at the door to greet us when we arrive! Guy, pull yourself together!"
Maupassant shook his head, his voice choked:
"You don't understand, Lion... Teacher... he's suffered too much these past two years... truly too much..."
Lionel was somewhat surprised:
"Every salon, he always seemed so energetic..."
Maupassant sighed and began to recount Flaubert's terrible circumstances over the past year.
(End of Chapter)
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