"Fraud!"
Isn't that what people say when they have no real argument?
Especially coming from that Corail, it sounded even less credible.
'How is he still in such good shape after treating so many patients?'
Just look at us.
We're practically on death's doorstep.
Filtering, boiling, distilling that filthy Seine water, cooling it to the right temperature, and forcing patients to drink large quantities of it…
It was…
"You little shit—you won't drink it? You wanna die?"
If not for Liston, we'd have been finished.
A surprising number of patients refused the very water we worked so hard to make safe.
Given that most hospitals taught that diarrhea and vomiting happened because the body had too much fluid, their reaction made sense.
"Shut your nonsense and bleed me!"
Some even demanded bloodletting.
Why?
Because they believed diarrhea was caused by an excess of something.
Some thought it was water—others, blood.
In fact, I heard other hospitals were bleeding cholera patients—those suffering from diarrhea, vomiting, and even fever.
Ha.
"Cholera is a terrifying disease! Once infected, 70% die!"
For reference, the natural fatality rate is 50%.
Left untreated, half would die.
It's a monstrously lethal disease.
Hearing that, I almost blurted out, "Only half would die."
But of course, that's understandable.
Instinct makes people drink water to survive—yet they deny them that.
And then bleed them on top of it?
"Judge this by common sense, Monsieur Guizot! How can only 10% die from cholera? That's absurd!"
"Common sense."
Of course, in this era, that was common sense.
And Corail wasn't called the patriarch of Montpellier for nothing—there was weight in his voice.
Even I, who knew better, felt a flicker of doubt.
"But the records they submitted suggest otherwise."
Yet François Guizot remained unshaken.
He waved our documents like a fan and spoke in a cool, measured tone.
"These aren't just hospital records—cemeteries provided matching numbers. Compared to Montpellier's lack of submissions, this is far more credible, no?"
His voice carried the authority of an academic.
Sharp, intelligent—the kind of voice that makes you want to raise your hand and ask a question while also making your bladder weak.
'How is someone this rational in this era?'
What struck me more was his rationality itself.
For a moment, I wondered if my surroundings were the anomaly.
Then I remembered someone.
'Ah, right—France is the land of Voltaire.'
A man of the 18th century, no less.
Though the quote was added later:
"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
If François was carrying on that legacy, his attitude made perfect sense.
The only thing I couldn't understand was—how could most people be like this when men like him existed?
"Tch."
Corail seemed momentarily flustered by François' words.
Watching him, we smirked.
Liston outright laughed.
Given that—in this era—even the famous and respected could get beaten to death by an angry mob, his boldness was remarkable.
Then again, he had reason to be confident.
If it came to a fight, the other side would be the ones dying.
"Listen well, wise citizens of Paris! These men are English!"
But we'd popped the champagne too soon.
Corail pulled a 21st-century propaganda move:
"If the message is good but the messenger isn't liked, attack the messenger."
It reminded me of Goebbels.
Actually, they even looked alike…
(Though Goebbels was German. But who knows? Even J.K. Rowling had French ancestry.)
"How can we trust the words of the English?! They seek to deceive and oppress France!"
"Ooooh!"
The effect was instant.
All the records we'd painstakingly compiled while saving lives were instantly dismissed.
The crowd, riled up by the word "English", seethed with anger.
Given half a chance, they'd have dragged out the guillotine.
I even saw one guy mimic slitting my throat.
"That's not true!"
Then Jean-Pierre stepped forward, his voice hoarse from exhaustion.
"The people they saved are the proof!"
He pointed at the survivors—those who'd come to our hospital early on and lived.
Seems he'd prepared allies in revolutionary France.
"Had we gone to Montpellier, we'd be dead!"
And they weren't few.
They were furious.
Several made throat-slitting gestures toward Corail.
'No matter how this ends… I shouldn't stay in France too long.'
This place is terrifying.
Is this what happens when you keep overthrowing your leaders in revolutions?
Any gathering here has this vibe.
"Silence! Silence!"
François intervened.
At his signal, the guards he'd brought stomped their boots.
BOOM.
The crowd quieted.
'Good… Crowd assembled, military present.'
What a perfect revolution.
I take back all my complaints about being reborn in England.
Had I been born here, I'd have died long ago.
This was supposed to be an academic debate—about medicine, no less!
And yet, it felt like this…
"Jean-Pierre."
"Yes?"
"Explain first. Are there Englishmen here?"
He's asking that first?
England and France must've been worse off than I thought.
I knew they were rivals, but…
Weren't they allies in the 21st century?
They fought together against Nazi Germany.
Ah.
Maybe that's when they grew closer.
"Ah… Yes. But they're doctors first! They've saved many lives!"
"But they are English."
"Well… I won't lie about that."
"It doesn't invalidate their evidence. But it does raise caution."
François hummed, looking down at the documents he'd earlier waved as definitive proof.
Then he glanced at Corail, his doctors, and the furious mob.
The soldiers had quieted them, but their faces screamed "riot any second now."
Even I could see it—let alone François, who had experience with this.
"Here's my decision."
He smacked his lips, displeased, then continued.
"Montpellier continues its methods. The Royal College continues theirs. And… in ten years, we compare records. Agreed?"
Ten years?
This guy's running away.
It's obvious—but we can't stop him.
I don't know much about the July Revolution's mood, but I know there was street fighting.
How many died in that?
He clawed his way to power, meaning he has plenty of enemies.
Leaving this issue unresolved would skyrocket his death risk.
"Well, this is… acceptable."
Jean-Pierre's face twisted the moment the verdict was announced.
He muttered something in French—probably curses.
Liston, however, was unfazed.
"Is this… good?"
"Yes. Honestly… isn't this theory too radical?"
I'd thought he meant it was good because more Frenchmen would die under their methods.
But Liston, despite appearances, was a better man than that.
He'd surprised me many times—this time, shaming me.
"Yes."
With nothing else to say, I nodded.
Unaware of my thoughts, Liston climbed into the carriage and continued.
Behind us, the mob still shouted, but he paid no mind.
We had our own angry supporters, and after all—a tiger doesn't fear barking dogs.
"Under normal circumstances… spouting these theories in Paris would've gotten you beheaded. Isn't decapitation their hobby?"
"Ah."
That bad?
Just for sharing knowledge…
Glad I was born in England.
"But cholera struck. We proved our methods work… so they accepted our theory—halfway. I bet that François fellow preferred ours too."
"But he gave a ten-year grace period?"
"True. But think. The 'they're English' excuse works now—but will it forever? Look at that river."
His finger pointed at the Seine.
Though slightly cleaner after days of reduced waste, it was still filthy.
The saying goes, "You can know the depths of water, but never the hearts of men."
Ancestors—you wouldn't say that if you saw this.
You can't even see three centimeters down…
"Cholera will keep coming back. It won't improve. They'll realize—no need to wait ten years."
"Ah…"
"And let's be honest—it's the damn frogs who'll keep dying. More can drop dead for all I care."
Liston showed remarkable insight—then cackled at the end.
I laughed too.
It was so Liston.
Leaving our laughter in the empty streets, we returned to the hospital.
Patients still filled the wards, but the staff—now well-practiced—worked like clockwork.
Our presence as academic visitors wasn't needed.
"Sorry. You deserved medals… but 'English' ruined it."
Jean-Pierre scratched his head as we sighed in relief.
Had I not heard Liston's words, I might've been upset.
But now?
It was fine.
Truly.
"Anyway, rest. Oh—right."
Jean-Pierre, about to leave us in our makeshift lodgings, suddenly turned back.
He wasn't looking at Liston—but me.
"Alexandre Dumas mentioned someone he'd like to introduce you to… Are you free tonight?"
Dumas.
The father of genre fiction.
Forget that—I'm a huge fan of *The Count of Monte Cristo.
I even know the scene where they smoke hashish.
Had no idea that came from personal experience, though…
Either way, I had no reason to hesitate.
"Yes. Sounds good."
"Great. I'll have a carriage sent."