Early May 1880, a Saturday afternoon.
Apartment 117 on Boulevard Saint-Germain was vibrant with spring, its living room adorned with many freshly bought flowers.
In the living room, Alice was typing with a "clack-clack-ding"; meanwhile, Patty hummed a tune as she arranged flowers into various vases.
With the opening and closing sounds of the typewriter, Alice handed the freshly typed clean copy of A Study in Scarlet to Lionel for his revisions.
Alice was clearly very interested in the story:
"Lion, this novel is quite different from what you've written before..."
Lionel asked with interest,
"Oh? How is it different?"
Alice thought for a moment before replying:
"It's more... thrilling, more exciting, and more terrifying... I've never read a novel like this before, it's hard to describe. Could there really be someone as clever as 'Sherlock Holmes' in this world?"
Lionel smiled:
"Not only have you never read it, but readers in France, England... all of Europe have never read it either. 'Sherlock Holmes' has a real-life prototype, an English doctor whom you'll have the chance to meet someday."
Alice was about to say something more when she was interrupted by a rapid knocking at the door.
Patty's singing also ceased abruptly, and the sound of her footsteps heading towards the entrance hall could be heard from the living room.
Outside the door was Guy de Maupassant.
He looked even more dreadful than he had on that snowy night a few months ago; sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, his eyes were hollow and lifeless, his lips had lost all color, and he trembled incessantly.
Lionel had already guessed what had happened:
"Guy, is it Monsieur Flaubert...?"
Maupassant abruptly grabbed Lionel's arm, his voice hoarse:
"Lion... master... he... he's gone..."
Lionel remained silent, steadying Maupassant.
He wasn't panicked; he had known that Gustave Flaubert would pass away this year, he had simply forgotten the exact date.
Ever since Flaubert's illness at the beginning of the year, he had been waiting for this day deep down.
Now, the shoe had finally dropped; he felt only profound grief, no sudden shock.
Maupassant's voice was like a somniloquy:
"This isn't an illness, it's not a danger; he's truly... passed away! The telegram... Doctor Feltin... has confirmed it, death."
He fumbled a crumpled piece of paper from his inner coat pocket and handed it to Lionel, his fingers shaking violently.
Lionel didn't take it immediately, just nodded:
"I understand, Guy. Come in, sit down first."
He half-supported, half-embraced the almost collapsing Maupassant into the living room, letting him sink into the soft sofa.
Patty stood by, looking flustered, and worry was etched on Alice's face.
Lionel calmly instructed:
"Patty, pour Monsieur Maupassant a glass of water, and add a little brandy. Alice, please quickly pack my travel bag for me, just a few changes of clothes. I'll be gone for a few days."
Then, he briefly examined the telegram.
The message was extremely brief, sent by the maid Juliette Herbert, confirming Flaubert's death and that Doctor Feltin had signed the death certificate.
The sender's alarm and helplessness permeated between the lines.
Lionel said to Maupassant:
"We must go to Croisset, immediately."
Maupassant abruptly looked up:
"Yes... we must go... we have to... for the last time..."
Lionel didn't waste time consoling him, turning to Patty and Alice, explaining quickly and clearly:
"Look after the house. If there are visitors or letters, Alice, you're in charge—keep the important ones, and for urgent matters, you can try to send a telegram to Monsieur Flaubert's villa in Croisset, though it might be hard for it to arrive in time."
Alice nodded vigorously:
"I understand, Lion. Please accept my condolences, and be careful on your journey."
After a quick tidy-up, Lionel helped Maupassant out of the apartment, took a carriage to Saint-Lazare train station, and bought tickets for the fastest train to Rouen.
————
The train arrived at Rouen station in the evening.
The two didn't linger, immediately hiring a light taxi carriage to Croisset.
Finally, as night fell, they saw the white villa standing by the river.
Juliette Herbert's face was pale and swollen, looking as if she had aged ten years, her eyes unfocused.
She recognized the arrivals, her voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible:
"Guy... Monsieur Sorel..."
The two entered the hall, Maupassant's voice still trembling:
"Master... where is he?"
Juliette didn't speak, but with a trembling finger, pointed towards the study.
Maupassant and Lionel hurried into the study.
In the study, books were still neatly arranged, and manuscript paper and pens were scattered on the desk, as if the owner had only stepped away temporarily.
But in the center of the room, on the backless Turkish sofa, a human figure lay still.
Gustave Flaubert was dressed in his usual casual robe, hands folded across his chest, his expression exceptionally peaceful, as if he had merely fallen into a deep sleep.
His thick eyebrows and beard still carried the dignity he had in life, but his face had lost all color, presenting a waxy, pale pallor.
Most shocking was his neck.
A clear and gruesome purplish-black bruise, like an ugly rope, was wrapped around his throat.
Overwhelming grief shattered all of Maupassant's defenses.
He covered his face and wept, his body convulsing as if his entire world had crumbled before him.
Lionel stood quietly to the side, not attempting to console him.
Although his own eyes felt a sting of sadness, he forced himself to remain calm.
He looked around the study—the place where Madame Bovary, Sentimental Education, Salammbô, and the unfinished Bouvard and Pécuchet, which had consumed Flaubert's heart and soul, were born.
Now, the soul had departed, leaving only a cold husk and a room full of silence.
After a long while, until Maupassant's cries gradually subsided into intermittent sobs, Lionel turned to Juliette Herbert, who had been standing stiffly by the doorway.
He began to direct her with practiced ease:
"Madame Juliette, please prepare hot water, towels, and the most dignified set of clothes Monsieur wore during his lifetime. He should leave clean and neat."
Juliette seemed to have been roused, nodded vigorously, and quickly turned to prepare.
Then, Lionel said to Maupassant:
"Guy, pull yourself together. I need your help. Together, we will see our master off on his final journey."
They, along with Juliette, wiped Flaubert's body and dressed him in a clean, neat outfit, covering the bruise on his neck.
After all this was done, night had fallen deep.
Lionel sent the exhausted Juliette and Maupassant to rest.
He himself sat at Flaubert's desk, spread out letter paper, and picked up the quill pen that still retained the warmth of its owner's hand.
He personally wrote out the telegram drafts, concise and solemn, announcing Flaubert's death.
The list of recipients was long: Zola, Turgenev, Edmond de Goncourt, Alphonse Daudet, publisher Georges Charpentier in Paris... all the important literary friends he could find in Flaubert's address book.
He also specifically wrote a letter to Flaubert's only immediate relative, his niece Caroline Commanville; although Flaubert had been burdened by her during his life, she was, after all, his only family.
Early the next morning, Lionel personally rushed to the telegraph office in Rouen to send out these sorrowful messages.
He needed to inform the world: a literary giant had fallen!
(End of Chapter)