Médan, Émile Zola's villa, the atmosphere in the living room was as heavy as an approaching storm.
When Albert arrived, Maupassant, Daudet, Huysmans, Paul Alexis, and others were already there, a cloud of gloom hanging over everyone's faces.
Sophie and Alice sat on the corner sofa, gripping each other's hands; Patty curled up next to Alice, her large eyes filled with unease.
No one was in the mood to talk, everyone looked towards the door from time to time, but hours passed, and that figure never appeared.
Huysmans was the first to break the silence:
"Where exactly did Lion go?"
Maupassant habitually reached for his beard, only to find his hand grasping at air, so he scratched his head instead.
His face was full of vexation:
"Damn it! Our original plan was to act in the dead of night, when those little brats were most exhausted!
Who knew... who knew a carriage would suddenly rush out and mess everything up!"
Albert took a large gulp of coffee, trying to calm his anxiety:
"I've inquired, the Young Guards were also in chaos last night, and they didn't catch Lion either.
It seems Lion really did manage to escape. But why didn't he come here as planned? The police also said they haven't seen Lionel."
Zola frowned:
"Escaped successfully but didn't come to rendezvous? Villeneuve is a complex area, riverbanks, roads, woods... could he be lost?"
Sophie looked up:
"He isn't injured, is he? Or... encountered other trouble?"
Silence fell again in the living room, various ominous conjectures silently spreading through the air.
Patty buried her small face in Alice's skirt, whimpering softly.
Time passed slowly in anxious waiting.
As noon approached, hurried hoofbeats and knocking sounds came from outside the villa.
A servant led a uniformed postman in.
The postman pulled out a telegram:
"May I ask who Mr. Émile Zola is? There's an urgent telegram that needs to be delivered to him immediately."
Zola immediately stood up to take it, quickly tore it open, and everyone's gaze focused on his face.
Zola announced with relief:
"It's Lionel! Sent from Calais! He's fine!"
He then quickly scanned the general content:
"He says he's safe and sound, has successfully left France for London. Tells us not to worry."
Maupassant exclaimed:
"London? What's he doing in London?"
Zola continued to read:
"He says if we want to contact him during this time, we can send a telegram to the 'Good Words' magazine, to be forwarded by Dr. Norman Macleod."
The news certainly brought relief; Lionel was at least safe.
But everyone had a question – why did Lionel suddenly go to London?
————————
Meanwhile, in Paris, at Madame de Rothschild's private residence.
The expensive perfume scent in the air could not disperse the icy atmosphere.
Madame de Rothschild sat upright in a gilded armchair, asking calmly:
"Sophia, why did you suddenly move ahead with the plan last night?
My people were rushed, and didn't even clearly identify Lionel."
A look of grievance and indignation crossed Sophia's face:
"Madame, you can't blame me! Last night, a suitor of mine – an officer – specifically told me the news.
He said someone in the Young Guards would take 'drastic action' in the dead of night! I had no choice but to act early! Who knew... who knew we'd catch the wrong person!"
Thinking of Maupassant, whom she had thrown from the carriage, she felt a burst of annoyance.
Madame de Rothschild gave a cold laugh:
"Drastic action? Everyone seems to have secret information these days!"
She slowly stood up and walked over to Sophia, looking down at her:
"I don't care what methods you use, immediately, right now, find me Lionel's exact whereabouts.
If anything untoward happens to him because of this... I won't hesitate to completely void all the 'tacit understandings' we've had between us."
Sophia's face paled, she pursed her lips, and finally lowered her head:
"I understand, Madame. I will do my best to investigate."
————————
Jules Ferry listened to the report from Minister of Interior Ernest Constans, his tightly furrowed brows relaxing slightly.
He specifically confirmed:
"So, it seems that Lionel Sorel is very likely no longer in Paris, at least not in Villeneuve?"
Constans cautiously replied:
"Yes, the Young Guards lost track of several carriages, the scene was chaotic, and our people haven't found any trace of Sorel.
He seems to have disappeared. I suspect he might have gone to his friends, or to those influential figures willing to shelter him..."
Jules Ferry seemed to breathe a sigh of relief:
"Disappeared? Good, very good."
His biggest concern was Lionel actually standing in the dock, earning him the notoriety of persecuting intellectuals.
By now, he saw clearly that those "fervent supporters" were either trying to use this to bring him down or were merely incited fools.
Now that Lionel had "disappeared," he could use this as an opportunity.
He turned to Count Edmond de Rohan, who stood silently beside him:
"Rohan, please immediately issue urgent official documents to educational institutions in Paris and other regions, strictly asserting discipline!
Demand that they must discipline their students well, and absolutely not allow incidents like 'Lyon Primary School' or 'Young Guards' to happen again! Students should be in their classrooms!"
Count Rohan bowed slightly:
"Yes, Mr. Prime Minister."
Jules Ferry then said to Ernest Constans:
"Also, the local police chief of Villeneuve has seriously neglected his duty; he is to be replaced immediately!
Constans, personally oversee this, and find out Lionel Sorel's whereabouts as soon as possible – at least provide a credible explanation to the public."
Ernest Constans stood up:
"Yes, I'll attend to it immediately."
Jules Ferry walked to the window, looking at the Parisian sky outside, which was still azure.
This storm seemed to be able to temporarily come to an end.
——————————
While Paris was stirred by Lionel's disappearance, he was already shrouded in the fogs of London.
In Calais, after in-depth discussions and deliberation with Paul Lafargue, he finally accepted their arrangements, taking a fishing boat to cross the channel.
At this moment, he was sitting in a carriage heading towards central London.
In his ears, the city's sounds were even more boisterous than Paris; under his nose, was the rather familiar smell of the River Thames.
The carriage finally stopped on a street near Regent's Park.
The coachman, also acting as a guide, led him to knock on the door of an inconspicuous residence.
A maid came out and opened the door.
After a few instructions, the guide bid farewell to Lionel.
The maid then led Lionel inside the house, to the living room.
The living room was simply furnished, with books and newspapers piled everywhere.
A faint fire burned in the fireplace, dispelling the damp chill peculiar to London.
In an old sofa, sat an old man.
He had a large, half-white, half-black beard, like a lion's mane, almost covering the lower half of his face;
His hair was mostly black, but his temples were almost completely white, yet neatly combed; a pipe was clenched in his mouth, emitting wisps of smoke.
Seeing Lionel, he stood up, revealing a kindly smile:
"Ha, look who it is? The best young writer on both sides of the Channel these days!
Welcome, Lionel Sorel!"
Seeing that it was this old man, Lionel couldn't help but be a little surprised:
"It's you?"
The old man laughed heartily:
"Why couldn't it be me? Well, please sit down, Lionel.
Don't be formal, just call me Friedrich!"
(End of Chapter)