"Do you know Caroline? His niece! Her husband, that scoundrel Ernest Commanville, completely went bankrupt in business and incurred massive debts... almost going to jail!
For the past few years, the Master has almost used all his savings to fill that hole! A full 250,000 francs! Lion, 250,000! It's almost all his family fortune!"
Maupassant began to roar again, but this time, it was pure rage!
Lionel was greatly shocked to hear this.
He knew Flaubert wasn't particularly wealthy, mainly relying on his parents' inheritance to live a respectable life.
Flaubert's writing speed was extremely slow; he might spend an entire day pondering a single punctuation mark.
Thus, he only left behind four novels and one collection of novellas in his lifetime.
Therefore, royalties were not his primary source of income; rather, it was his parents' inheritance and the proceeds generated from it.
But 250,000 francs was almost his entire fortune.
Lionel also sighed:
"I've never heard him mention it. Every time I saw him at the salon, he always..."
Maupassant's voice was bitter:
"He's always laughing and chatting, isn't he?
That's just the kind of person he is! Lion, he's incredibly proud, never willing to show the slightest vulnerability in front of others!
Especially to us young people, he always wants to be that strong, omnipotent protector."
Soon, his voice became agitated:
"But who knows how terribly he's been tormented by these things? Money is just one aspect! His body... his body is already riddled with ailments!
Syphilis, epilepsy, neuralgia, insomnia, and that damned stomach illness and indigestion... He often suffers so much that he can't sleep all night, only propping himself up with tobacco, morphine, and coffee!"
Lionel was filled with emotion.
The composed, introverted, quiet, and benevolent Flaubert he knew from the salon was completely different from the poverty-stricken, ailing old man Maupassant described.
Maupassant's voice grew lower:
"He's been desperately writing recently, Bouvard and Pécuchet is progressing slowly, and he's very dissatisfied, often falling into despair...
He told me he feels his energy is far from what it used to be, and it's hard to concentrate for long... Lion, he's only 58!
Yet he often says he feels like an old man..."
Just then, the carriage abruptly stopped at an inn.
The coachman and inn workers shouted loudly, then began to hastily change horses.
The noise interrupted Maupassant's outpouring.
After the horses were changed, the carriage once again sped into the darkness at an even faster pace.
Once back on the road, Maupassant became a little calmer, but still dejected:
"He's my teacher, Lion, but more like my second father... Without him, I wouldn't be who I am today.
He taught me to observe life, to refine language, to treat literature with the same reverence as faith... He introduced me to Turgenev, to Zola, to Charpentier...
He paved the way for me... but I... I always worried him with my absurdities... I've never truly been able to do anything for him..."
Lionel said nothing, only patted his shoulder.
For the rest of the journey, the two were mostly silent.
Maupassant seemed to have exhausted all his strength, leaning against the carriage wall, eyes closed, seemingly asleep or lost in thought.
Lionel himself had no desire to sleep; he gazed at the endless night outside the window, wondering what he was thinking.
Every change of horses, every brief stop, felt incredibly long, tormenting them both.
Time slowly passed with the turning of the wheels; the pitch-black sky gradually faded, turning deep blue, then a faint pre-dawn white...
Finally, the dim winter morning sun barely pierced through the clouds, illuminating the frost-covered Norman fields.
The distant Seine River, like a gray ribbon, meandered through the desolate landscape.
When the coachman finally shouted,
"We're almost at Croisset!"
The two almost simultaneously straightened their bodies, their exhausted faces filled with tense anticipation.
The carriage drove past a quiet little village and finally stopped in front of an unpretentious two-story villa by the river.
This was Croisset, Flaubert's "ivory tower."
Maupassant almost stumbled out of the carriage, his stiff, numb limbs causing him to fall directly, but he quickly struggled back to his feet.
Lionel paid the remaining 60 francs and gave the coachman another 10 francs, telling him to rest at the inn and not return to Paris yet, as he might need the carriage later.
Then, the two even hurried towards the villa's front door.
The door was ajar, as if awaiting their arrival.
Maupassant pushed the door open violently and rushed into the familiar front hall.
Inside, a strong smell of medicine, charcoal, and blood intertwined, assailing them.
A middle-aged woman was quickly walking out of the bedroom, holding a white porcelain basin with a blood-stained cloth draped over its rim.
Her eyes were red and swollen, her face sallow, and her apron was also stained with blood.
Seeing Maupassant and Lionel following closely behind, her tears immediately welled up.
"Guy! My God, you've finally arrived!"
Maupassant's tone was urgent:
"Juliette! Where's the Master? How is he?"
Lionel then realized this woman was Juliette Hébert, whom Maupassant had mentioned on the way, saying she was Flaubert's only maid and unofficial mistress.
Juliette's voice trembled:
"Dr. Feltin is inside... he's bleeding the master..."
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.
A middle-aged man emerged, wiping his fingers with a white handkerchief – it was Dr. Feltin.
He saw the anxious Maupassant and nodded slightly, seemingly recognizing him.
Maupassant dashed forward:
"Monsieur Feltin, the Master..."
Dr. Feltin raised a hand, signaling him to calm down:
"Monsieur Maupassant, you arrived quickly. Please rest assured, the most dangerous time has passed."
He turned to Juliette:
"Madame Hébert, please prepare the leeches I brought."
Juliette quickly put down the blood basin and retrieved a small glass jar from a nearby low cabinet, inside which several slowly wriggling black leeches were kept.
Lionel: "..."
Dr. Feltin led Juliette back into the bedroom, while Maupassant and Lionel stood at the doorway, observing:
Flaubert's large body lay on the wide bed, covered by thick blankets, his face sallow, eyes tightly closed, breathing heavily.
His arm was exposed, his elbow wrapped in white bandages, with faint traces of blood seeping through.
Dr. Feltin skillfully picked up the slippery leeches from the jar and carefully attached them to Flaubert's broad forehead and temples.
The black creatures almost immediately began to work, their bodies gradually swelling and turning dark red and shiny.
Time slowly passed in the oppressive silence.
Finally, Dr. Feltin completed his procedure.
After watching the leeches engorge themselves with blood, either falling off naturally or being removed, he listened to Flaubert's heartbeat and gently lifted his eyelids.
After a while, Dr. Feltin stood up, walked out of the bedroom, and closed the door.
His tone was grave:
"Gentlemen, Monsieur Gustave Flaubert suffered a severe epileptic seizure!
I have already bled him twice, yesterday and just now, each time a full 400 milliliters, which finally calmed him down!
The leeches were just used to reduce cerebral congestion and inflammation, which is currently the most effective treatment.
Now, he has fallen into a coma, and his heartbeat is more stable than last night. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.
He must remain absolutely quiet; no one can disturb him. I will return this afternoon!"
Maupassant's body swayed as if all his strength had been drained.
Lionel thanked the doctor on Maupassant's behalf:
"Thank you, Doctor."
At the same time, he took out some banknotes from his pocket:
"If any additional medicine is needed, please buy it; this is an advance payment!"
Dr. Feltin took the money and nodded:
"I will do my best. But for now, it's more about waiting and observing.
Watch over him carefully, and if there are any changes, send someone to find me immediately."
He then gave Juliette a few more instructions, picked up his black medical bag, and left the villa.
Juliette collapsed onto a chair in the hallway, silently weeping.
Maupassant leaned against the cold wall, his gaze blankly fixed on the closed bedroom door.
Lionel suddenly spoke:
"I'm hungry, is there anything to eat in the house?"
(End of chapter)
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