Chapter 7: Crisis

The next morning, to avoid the nagging from Mrs. Martin about raising the rent, Lionel left the house at half past seven. Today, he planned to walk to the Sorbonne, determined to save his meager funds.

After all, five sous could buy half a kilo of baguette, with enough left over for a bottle of milk!

The winter sky over Paris was always shrouded in a layer of gray haze, tinged with the scent of coal smoke. The eleventh arrondissement lay downwind, making the air even more oppressive.

Barely a block away, Lionel narrowly avoided being hit by a horse-drawn cart darting out of a narrow alley. The driver cursed, “You brat, watch where you’re going!” before whipping the horse’s flank and disappearing down the street.

Only then did Lionel notice the cart bore the emblem of a golden fleur-de-lis, marking it as property of the city government—no wonder the driver was so arrogant.

But it was just an ordinary freight wagon, piled high with goods covered by a black tarp, forming a small mound. Upon closer inspection, a few blackened feet protruded from beneath the cloth.

“Roadkill…” The thought sprang unbidden from the depths of his Eastern soul.

These were likely the homeless or mentally ill who had frozen to death overnight on the streets.

Though winter temperatures in Paris were not the harshest among European capitals—usually hovering above freezing during the day and dropping below zero at night—the rampant pneumonia made life excruciating for the poor, let alone the homeless.

This grim reality was why, after realizing his family would soon cut off financial support, Lionel was desperate to earn some quick money.

One hundred and ten francs might stretch over a month in Paris, or even two if he scrimped and saved—but only if he had no unexpected expenses. In other words, no buffer against risk.

Reborn in the 19th century with almost no money, Lionel’s priority was not fame or glory—it was survival.

There was no social security system here; even a student from a prestigious university like himself had no health insurance. Living in the eleventh arrondissement, where the poor clustered, meant constant exposure to pneumonia, influenza, E. coli, and even cholera and tuberculosis.

Coupled with a meager diet, his immunity was weak.

Even if he could afford hospital care, without the discovery of penicillin, the prognosis was grim. During Paris’s great cholera outbreaks, hospitals teeming with patients and lacking proper sanitation and quarantine had mortality rates higher than those who stayed home and endured.

The thought sent a chill down Lionel’s spine.

If he couldn’t improve his financial situation soon, forget building a successful career—any illness could leave him dead in the streets or coughing his last breath in some attic.

Even sending a telegram home for help would take a week to yield any results, assuming everything went smoothly.

Adding to this burden was the ongoing fraud crisis facing the Sorel family far away in the Alps.

Suddenly, Lionel felt the crushing weight of life settle heavily on his shoulders.

Passing Saint-Martin Avenue, he veered into the nearby post office.

Peering over the tall iron fence, he told the clerk, “I’d like to open a poste restante account.” This service allowed the post office to hold mail until the recipient came to collect it.

“Anonymous?” the clerk asked without looking up.

“What difference does it make if it’s real-name or anonymous?”

“Real-name is free and mail is held for 15 days. You just need to show ID and give a password to collect. Anonymous holds mail for 30 days but costs two francs a month, and you must provide your registered name and password upon pickup.”

Considering the risqué nature of his submissions, Lionel didn’t hesitate and opted for the anonymous service, reluctantly handing over two francs.

The clerk promptly handed him a registration form to fill out.

Within minutes, Lionel completed the form and returned it. A yellowed piece of thick paper was passed back through the window, sealing his anonymous poste restante contract with the Saint-Martin branch of the French Post.

He then appended his registered pseudonym and the post office address to the end of the manuscript he had penned the night before, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it with a stamp, and dropped it alongside the letter to his family into the mailbox.

Having handled this important matter, he looked up to see it was already 8:20. Not wanting to be late again, Lionel hurried from the post office.

Crossing the Place de la République, turning onto Rue de la Sainte-Chapelle, and then over the Pont Saint-Michel—where the spires of the old Notre-Dame Cathedral stood faintly in the distance—he reached the Left Bank of the Seine.

After passing two more blocks, he finally arrived at the Sorbonne gates just before 8:50.

Other students and teachers had already begun to gather, making the school entrance bustling and lively.

Elegant four-wheeled carriages, nimble two-wheeled carts, and public omnibus vehicles all jostled together, churning the yet-unpaved ground into a muddy quagmire.

Lionel immediately spotted a familiar face—Albert de Lyon.

Albert was gracefully stepping down from a small four-wheeled carriage pulled by a single horse, casually tossing the reins to the school porter, and flicking a few copper coins his way.

The porter thanked him and eagerly led the horse to the school’s communal stable.

Albert’s sharp eyes caught sight of Lionel and the white mist rising from his head, along with the mud splattered on his trousers.

He couldn’t help but sneer, “Looks like Mr. Sorel’s legs are more reliable than the horse’s hooves! Next time, we should harness you in front of the carriage—then no one taking the omnibus would ever be late.”

Raising his voice deliberately, Albert attracted the attention of many nearby.

Several noticed Lionel’s disheveled state; those with better manners merely curled their lips, while others burst into loud laughter.

Yet Lionel felt no embarrassment; his expression remained unchanged. “Mr. Lyon, why have you come to school today without your pacifier?”

Albert was taken aback, his face turning pale, then flushing crimson. “You… you…”

Nearby students laughed even louder, some shouting, “Well said!”

The commotion drew the gaze of even the teachers.

Albert’s carriage was called a “bajot,” a popular choice among Parisian dandies—small enough for a single horse and easy to handle, reasonably priced yet still respectable.

Because of its size, the slang also dubbed it a “baby carriage” or “pram”—a double entendre that Lionel cleverly exploited in his retort.

His comeback was far more refined than Albert’s blatant classist taunts and won the cheers of the university crowd.

Not only did Lionel’s remark mock Albert’s childishness, but it also exposed his reliance on family connections and lack of actual funds.

Furious but constrained by the public setting, Albert could only spit out one last threat, “How dare you insult me? Do you know who my father is?!”

Lionel feigned surprise. “What, your mother never told you?”

His words silenced the crowd instantly.