Hearing Lionel's words, Juliette seemed to come to her senses:
"Oh... yes, there's some bread, cold cuts, and soup, I'll go warm them up right away..."
A simple lunch was soon served on the wooden table in the dining room.
The food wasn't elaborate, but the hot soup warmed them, dispelling the chill and lifting their spirits.
During the meal, Lionel continued to calmly make arrangements:
"We can't all just wear ourselves out. The three of us should take turns keeping watch, changing shifts every eight hours.
This way everyone can get some rest, and we can ensure someone is always awake and looking after Monsieur Flaubert."
Maupassant and Juliette, whose minds were in turmoil and who had almost lost the ability to think, immediately nodded in agreement.
At this moment, Lionel, with his calm and organized mind, became their only lifeline.
After lunch, an extremely exhausted Juliette went to rest first; Maupassant was responsible for keeping watch from the afternoon until late at night; Lionel would take over from early morning until the next day's dawn.
This shift was the hardest to endure, and only Lionel had the energy for it now.
Time slowly flowed on in the silence...
Winter days were short, and night fell early, enveloping the isolated villa by the Seine.
Maupassant guarded his teacher's bedside, a mix of emotions in his heart—regret, worry, and fear intertwined, almost consuming him.
He couldn't forgive his negligence—if he hadn't been engrossed in seeking pleasure, he should have rushed here last night.
Late at night, Lionel arrived punctually to relieve Maupassant.
Maupassant looked even more haggard than before, his eyes bloodshot, and he said in a hoarse voice,
"It's all yours."
Then he dragged his heavy steps out of the room.
Only Lionel and the sleeping Flaubert remained in the room.
The gas lamp was turned down low, emitting a faint glow that outlined the massive shadows of the furniture and the silhouette of the patient on the bed.
The air was filled with the smell of medicine.
Lionel sat on a chair by the bed, attentive to Flaubert's breathing, which was sometimes steady, sometimes hurried.
Outside the window was the boundless silence of the Normandy countryside; occasionally, the sound of the cold wind sweeping across the roof could be heard.
In the dead of night, before the morning light had pierced through the window, Flaubert on the bed let out a faint moan.
His eyelids fluttered a few times, then slowly opened.
Lionel immediately leaned over and asked softly,
"You're awake? How do you feel? Do you need water?"
Flaubert's eyes were initially unfocused and bewildered.
It took him some time to focus on Lionel's face.
Recognizing him, he was visibly surprised, then gratitude filled his eyes, and he nodded ever so slightly.
Lionel quickly used a spoon to feed him a few sips of warm water.
The warm water seemed to restore some of Flaubert's strength, and Lionel then fed him a piece of pre-prepared soft cake.
Flaubert could finally speak:
"Lionel... why are you here?"
Lionel explained softly,
"Guy received a telegram from Madame Juliette, and we hired a carriage and rushed here overnight—do you feel better?"
Flaubert seemed to recall something:
"Oh... thank you... thank you, my boy... it's been difficult for you... Guy... and Juliette?"
Lionel immediately said,
"They watched over you for a long time and just went to rest. Should I wake them?"
Flaubert immediately stopped him:
"No! No... let them sleep... let them sleep... don't disturb them..."
He seemed to gather a little strength:
"You... just keep me company and talk..."
Lionel nodded:
"Alright, sir. Whatever you wish to say, I'm listening."
A brief silence fell in the room, broken only by the faint "hissing" sound of the gas lamp wick.
Flaubert's gaze turned to the dim ceiling, as if reliving the disaster he had just experienced.
He began to speak disjointedly:
"I... I was bathing... the water was very hot... I suddenly... suddenly felt a dizzy spell... the world spun... like falling into a dark vortex... then I knew nothing..."
His voice trembled:
"I thought... I was really going to die this time..."
Lionel listened silently, not interrupting him.
Suddenly, Flaubert's gaze turned back to Lionel's face:
"Lionel... this is retribution... a punishment... for my dissolute life in my youth... for the health I squandered..."
Lionel wanted to offer comfort, but Flaubert stopped him with a look.
He urgently needed to confide:
"The Orient... Egypt... back then... we were all mad... pursuing extreme thrills... thinking that was freedom, that was all of life...
Syphilis... I contracted it then... this damned curse that has plagued me my whole life..."
His voice was filled with bitterness:
"It eroded my brain, my nerves... brought me endless pain and shame... and epilepsy...
Those sudden, uncontrollable moments of terror... made me feel like a monster..."
He began to ramble about some absurd experiences from his youth, those days of debauchery in Paris and the Near East.
His tone no longer carried the old playfulness and unruliness, only a heavy sense of regret.
"I wasted too much energy... on carnal desires and pleasure... If... if I had been as restrained as you, cherishing this body... I might... might have written more..."
Flaubert's voice suddenly turned fearful:
"My works are too few... too few... only a handful... when I die, soon... soon people will forget them...
Like writing on the sand, one wave comes, and there's nothing left... no one will remember Gustave Flaubert anymore..."
Hearing this literary giant speak with such pessimism, Lionel could no longer hold back.
He spoke, his voice filled with sincerity:
"Sir! Please do not say that! You will never be forgotten!"
Flaubert looked at him in bewilderment.
Lionel took a deep breath and slowly said,
"Sir, your works may not be many, but each one has been refined through countless trials, enough to change the current and direction of literature!
The precise, objective, and calm narrative style you pursue, your almost obsessive fastidiousness and polishing of words—'finding the only suitable word'—
This is by no means in vain! You pioneered a whole new aesthetic for the novel!"
Seeing the astonishment in Flaubert's eyes, his tone grew firmer:
"You taught us that the author should be like God, present in the work, nowhere visible, yet everywhere.
You elevated the art of the novel to an unprecedented height, making it no longer a pastime of street gossip, but an art form worthy of serious treatment and meticulous craftsmanship!
You have been a tremendous inspiration to me personally, far beyond your imagination.
And in the future, sir, I firmly believe that future literature, the entire literature of the 20th century, will draw nourishment and inspiration from you!
You are an eternal, unextinguished star in the night sky of literature! Your name, Gustave Flaubert, will surely exist and perish with French literature itself!"
Lionel's voice echoed in the silent bedroom.
He could not directly quote Roland Barthes or other later critics, but he expressed Flaubert's value fully and vividly in language understandable to this era.
Flaubert was completely stunned.
He widened his eyes, looking at the young man before him in disbelief.
These words not only profoundly understood his pursuit and value but were even more thorough and precise than anything his most ardent supporters had said!
After the immense astonishment came an unspeakable sense of gratitude and solace, almost bringing tears to his eyes.
In his most vulnerable moment, the person who understood him best turned out to be Lionel Sorel, whom he had known for less than a year!
And Lionel was no nobody, but one of the brightest rising stars in French literary circles!
Flaubert's chest heaved, and his eyes flickered with shock, emotion, and relief.
After a long while, he suddenly reached out with a trembling hand and tightly grasped Lionel's wrist.
He said in an almost pleading tone,
"Lionel... promise me... if I don't make it... for me... help Guy..."
(End of Chapter)
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