The next morning, to avoid Mrs. Martin’s incessant demands for a rent increase, Lionel left at 7:30 AM. Today, he planned to walk to Sorbonne to save his meager funds.
After all, five sous could buy a whole half-kilo baguette and a can of milk!
The winter sky in Paris was always covered in a gray haze, permeated with the smell of coal smoke. The Eleventh District was downwind, so the air was even worse.
Lionel had barely walked a block when he was almost hit by a carriage that darted out of an alley. The coachman cursed, “You brat, can’t you watch where you’re going!” then whipped the horse and sped away.
Only then did Lionel notice the golden iris emblem on the carriage, indicating it belonged to the city government. No wonder it was so arrogant.
However, it was just an ordinary flatbed cart, piled with something covered by a black cloth, rising into a small mound—looking closer, a few blackened feet were visible beneath the black cloth.
“Roadside corpse…” The term from his Eastern soul’s homeland instantly came to Lionel’s mind.
These were likely the homeless, mentally ill, and others who had frozen to death in the streets and alleys last night.
Winter temperatures in Paris were not considered cold among European capitals; daytime temperatures were usually above 0℃, but would drop below freezing at night. Coupled with rampant pneumonia, it was extremely difficult, not just for the homeless, but for the poor as well.
This was also why Lionel was anxious to make some “quick money” after realizing his family was about to cut off his support.
110 francs seemed enough to get by in Paris for over a month, or even two months with extreme frugality—but only if there were no extra expenses, meaning no ability to withstand any risks.
But, having been reborn in the 19th century with little money in his pocket, was the most important thing how to become famous? Of course not—it was to ensure he could survive!
There was no social security system like in later generations, and even a prestigious student like him had no student health insurance. Living in the impoverished Eleventh District meant constant exposure to pneumonia, influenza, E. coli, and even cholera and tuberculosis.
Coupled with a simple diet, his body’s resistance was even worse.
And even if he had money to go to a hospital, in an era before penicillin, the situation probably wouldn't be much better—it was known that during the Great Cholera epidemic in Paris, due to the clustering of patients and the lack of disinfection and isolation measures in hospitals, the mortality rate was even higher than staying at home and enduring it.
Thinking of this, Lionel couldn’t help but shiver.
If he couldn’t improve his financial situation quickly, let alone growing stronger and achieving new glories, any minor illness could leave him dead in the street or coughing himself to death in his attic.
Even if he telegraphed home for help at the first sign of trouble, under the best circumstances, concrete assistance would still take about a week to arrive.
Plus, the Sorel family in the Alps was facing a scam crisis…
Lionel felt the “burden of life” pressing on his shoulders almost instantly.
As he passed Saint Martin Boulevard, he turned into the post office by the roadside.
Through the tall iron railings, he told the post office worker, “I need to open a ‘poste restante’ account.” This was a service where the post office held mail until the recipient picked it up.
“Anonymous?” the worker asked without looking up.
“What’s the difference between named and anonymous?”
“Named is free, and your mail will be held for 15 days. You just need to provide identification and the service password when picking it up.
Anonymous mail is held for 30 days, but requires a fee of 2 francs per month. You need to provide the registered name and the password is also required when picking it up.”
Considering the explicit nature of his submissions, Lionel unhesitatingly chose “anonymous poste restante.” After reluctantly handing over a 2-franc note, the worker quickly handed him a registration form to fill out.
Lionel quickly filled it out and handed it back; in less than 3 minutes, a thick, yellowed paper card was passed through the window, and his “anonymous poste restante” contract with the Saint Martin Boulevard branch of La Poste was established.
Next, he directly appended his registered pseudonym and the post office address to the end of the manuscript he had written last night, then slipped it into an envelope, sealed it with glue and a stamp, and put it into the mailbox along with the letter to his family.
After finishing this important task, he looked up and it was already 8:20 AM. Not wanting to be late again, Lionel quickly left the post office.
He passed through Place de la République, turned onto Rue du Temple, then onto Pont Saint-Michel—from the bridge, he could vaguely see the iconic Gothic spires of Notre Dame Cathedral—then arrived on the Left Bank of the Seine River, and after crossing two blocks, he finally stood at the entrance of Sorbonne before 8:50 AM.
By then, other students and teachers had also arrived, and the school gate was bustling.
Elegant four-wheeled carriages, nimble two-wheeled carriages, and public carriages dropping off passengers were all jammed together, treading the unhardened ground into mud.
Lionel spotted his “old acquaintance,” Albert de Rohan, at a glance.
He gracefully jumped down from a small, one-horse, four-wheeled buggy, and then casually tossed the reins to the school attendant waiting at the gate, throwing a few copper coins to him as well.
The attendant thanked him and happily led the horse to the school’s public stables.
Albert also saw Lionel at a glance, as well as the white mist rising from his head and the mud splatters on his trousers.
He couldn’t help but mock, “It seems Mr. Sorel’s legs are more reliable than a draft horse’s hooves! Next time, we should tie you to the front of the carriage, then public carriage passengers would never be late.”
Albert deliberately raised his voice, immediately attracting a lot of attention.
Many people also noticed Lionel’s “disheveled” state at that moment; those with good manners merely had their mouths slightly upturned, while those with poor manners burst into laughter.
Lionel, however, felt no embarrassment; his expression didn't even change: “Mr. de Rohan, why didn’t you come to school with your pacifier today?”
Albert was first stunned upon hearing this, then his face turned pale, and then flushed red: “You… you…”
The sarcastic students around them laughed even louder, and some even shouted, “Well said!”
The commotion immediately attracted everyone’s attention, even the teachers looked over.
It turned out that the carriage Albert was riding in was called a “buggy,” one of the standard vehicles for Parisian dandies (another type was a two-wheeled open-top). It only required one horse, could be driven by oneself, was not expensive, and maintained a certain level of dignity.
However, because the model was small, the slang term for it also carried the meaning of “pram” or “stroller”—Lionel had used this double entendre to counterattack.
This was undoubtedly far more elegant than Albert’s blatant class discrimination, and it was more likely to win the applause of university students.
Lionel’s remark not only mocked Albert’s immaturity but also exposed the reality that he relied on his father’s influence and actually had little money of his own.
Albert was enraged and humiliated, but in public, he couldn’t actually go forward and hit the other party, so he could only angrily retort, “You dare to insult me? Do you know who my father is!?”
Lionel showed a surprised expression: “What, didn’t your mother tell you?”
With that one sentence, the entire scene fell silent.