Lionel, of course, knew what "help Guy" meant, but the task felt a bit too heavy for him.
Maupassant's tragic "later life" is a famous case in literary history.
He was tormented by syphilis until he went mad, ultimately spending his remaining years in an asylum, dying at the age of forty-three.
The root of all this was Maupassant's licentious and unrestrained lifestyle—
Endless prostitution, alcoholism, and contracting syphilis early (which, of course, he took pride in), ruining his body and his talent.
The dying Flaubert's greatest worry was not his unfinished masterpiece, Bouvard and Pécuchet, but this student whom he regretted.
Lionel, of course, could not tell him how cruel Maupassant's end would be; almost everything he worried about would come true.
But he also couldn't bear to refuse a mentor's entreaty at this moment.
Lionel took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound firm and reliable:
"Sir, please don't speak like that. You will get better.
Guy... Guy just needs some time to grow."
He tried to comfort Flaubert, but his explanation seemed a little feeble.
Flaubert shook his head slightly:
"No, Lionel... I know him, just as I knew myself when I was young... perhaps even worse...
He is more talented than I was, and also more... more lacking in self-restraint. He's like a wild horse that needs someone to rein him in before he charges off a cliff..."
A violent fit of coughing interrupted his words.
Lionel quickly supported him and gave him a small sip of water.
Flaubert's breathing steadied slightly, but the urgency in his eyes remained undiminished:
"You... you are different, Lionel. I have observed you for a long time... you are sober, disciplined...
You don't chase after those superficial and decadent pleasures... you walk the right path. I hope... I hope Guy can spend more time with you.
Your counsel might be more effective than this old man's... Guide him, Lionel, guide him onto the right path, make him cherish his talent...
Let him... live a few more years, write works truly worthy of his talent... Promise me..."
Looking at the despair and hope in Flaubert's eyes, Lionel could no longer utter any empty words to deflect or console.
He slowly nodded:
"I promise you, Monsieur Flaubert. I will do my best to help Guy, to the best of my ability."
This brief promise seemed to possess a magical power.
Flaubert let out a sigh of relief; his taut body instantly relaxed, and his hand slipped limply back onto the sheet.
The anxiety and fear on his face were replaced by an almost serene weariness, and he let out a contented sigh:
"Good... good... Thank you... thank you, my child...
This way... I... can rest a little easier..."
His murmured words grew fainter and more indistinct, and his heavy eyelids slowly closed.
Almost instantly, Flaubert fell back into a coma, his breathing becoming steadier and longer than before.
Outside the window, the Norman countryside was still shrouded in deep night, but a faint grayish-white light was beginning to show on the eastern horizon.
——————
Over the next two days, Flaubert recovered slowly and steadily.
He was able to eat on his own and engage in short conversations.
Dr. Fertin visited daily and expressed optimism about the change in his condition.
This improvement dispelled the oppressive atmosphere in the villa.
Madame Juliette's face regained its color, and Maupassant was no longer dispirited; he even occasionally joked with Lionel.
By the afternoon of the third day, Lionel and Maupassant finally bid farewell to Flaubert.
One had to return to the Sorbonne for classes, and the other to his job at the Ministry of Education.
Before they left, Flaubert sternly called out to Maupassant in front of Lionel:
"Guy, I wandered at the gates of hell this time and understood many things.
Life, health, talent... these are niggardly gifts from God, not to be squandered in the slightest."
Maupassant uncomfortably lowered his head.
Flaubert emphasized his tone:
"You have seen what punishment my youthful recklessness brought me... this ruined body is clear proof.
I absolutely do not want you to repeat my mistakes, or even... be worse than me."
He pointed at Lionel:
"Look at Lionel! He is younger than you, yet he is more sober, more self-controlled!
His life is clean and respectable, free of those filthy vices! In all of Paris, there is no more decent writer than him!
This is the right path, Guy! This is the right path that allows talent to burn longer and brighter!"
Maupassant's cheeks flushed slightly; he seemed to want to defend himself, but ultimately said nothing, nodding sullenly.
Flaubert's voice regained some of its former resounding quality:
"When you return to Paris, you must curb your wayward thoughts! Go to brothels less! Drink less!
Spend more time with Lionel, listen to his advice! He is a trustworthy friend! Do you hear me, Guy?"
Maupassant's face was alternately flushed and pale, feeling somewhat embarrassed and gloomy.
But he understood that these words were his teacher's heartfelt concern, and finally looked up, met Flaubert's gaze, and nodded solemnly...
——————
Dragging his tired body, Lionel finally returned to 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain.
It was already night.
He fumbled for his key to open the door, thinking Patty and Alice must already be asleep.
However, the gas lamp in the living room still cast a soft glow.
Alice was not resting; she was sitting at the desk in the living room, typing away.
Hearing the door open, she immediately looked up, her face lighting up with a joyful expression:
"Lionel! You're finally back! How is everything at Croisset?"
Lionel hung up his hat and coat:
"The situation has stabilized; he's temporarily out of danger but still needs rest. Guy and I had to come back first."
Alice crossed herself:
"Thank God, that's a blessing in disguise. We've been on tenterhooks these past few days.
There's soup kept warm in the kitchen. Shall I get you a bowl?"
Lionel smiled:
"Thank you, I could use something to warm me up!"
As Alice turned to go to the kitchen, she suddenly remembered something and tapped her forehead:
"Oh, I almost forgot! You were away these past few days, and some letters arrived. I put them on your desk."
Lionel nodded; shortly after, Alice brought a bowl of hot soup, and after he finished it, he returned to his study.
Indeed, three letters were neatly placed on the desktop.
The topmost letter bore a London address, from Good Words magazine.
Lionel used a letter opener to slit open the envelope and took out the letter paper.
It was a personal letter from the editor, Dr. Norman Macleod.
He enthusiastically stated that Good Words magazine would reserve sufficient space for Lionel's new work and eagerly awaited the day the manuscript arrived.
He also mentioned British readers' love for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button—they absolutely loved this fantastical romance novel steeped in history.
At the end of the letter, Dr. Norman Macleod inquired whether Lionel preferred his royalties to be paid once per issue, or monthly or quarterly.
This letter undoubtedly gave Lionel a shot in the arm.
Dr. Macleod's response and the success of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button made him even more confident in writing the Sherlock Holmes series.
As for the payment method for royalties, he was not in a hurry to collect them; instead, he instructed them to open an account for him in London to deposit the royalties.
This way, when he went to England in the future, he wouldn't need to exchange francs for pounds in Paris.
Next, he picked up the second letter.
The sender's address was the Edinburgh Medical School, and the sender was, of course, Arthur Conan Doyle.
(End of chapter)
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