Night fell, and the kerosene lamp cast a warm glow over the old wooden table in the Sorrell family's dining room.
The table was laden with the results of Mother's and Ivana's afternoon's work: tender stewed lamb with local herbs, golden and fragrant roasted potatoes, rye bread, homemade cured ham, and a small jar of precious butter.
Compared to the delicate dishes of Paris, this country dinner seemed simple, yet it was filled with the most authentic flavors in Lionel's memory.
His mother continuously used her knife and fork to place lamb and potatoes onto his plate:
"Eat, Léon, you certainly can't get such authentic lamb in Paris."
His father, Joseph, sipped his homemade wine, and after a good while, finally spoke:
"Paris... is everything alright? What the newspapers say... is it all true? Did you really speak with such important officials and counts?"
Lionel put down his knife and fork, carefully choosing his words, and briefly described the literary salons of Paris and his interactions with several literary giants.
However, he omitted the treacherous struggles and complex interpersonal relationships, only sketching a picture of glamour and success.
His mother made the sign of the cross on her chest:
"God bless... I knew our Lionel would make something of himself."
Ivana had been silently eating, and even after hearing all this, her eyelashes only trembled slightly.
The atmosphere was silent for a moment.
Lionel saw that the time was right, cleared his throat, and spoke softly:
"Regarding that swindler, Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve... oh, he used the alias 'Émile'..."
His mother immediately grew tense, his father put down his wine glass, and Ivana suddenly looked up, her face turning pale instantly.
Lionel's tone was very cautious:
"He received his due punishment, a very severe one."
He did not describe the horrifying scene that took place in Notre Dame, believing that his family had already heard the news and there was no need to repeat it.
Lionel simply said:
"He confessed to his crimes and is now imprisoned, awaiting the final verdict. He can no longer harm anyone."
Ivana's lips trembled slightly, her voice as thin as a thread:
"Did he... in court, mention... us?"
Lionel's tone became even gentler:
"No, sister. His cases are too numerous and involve too many people; the Montiel matter is only a very small part of it. He probably doesn't even remember it much."
Ivana seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, but her eyes remained vacant as she slowly lowered her head.
Father Joseph sighed, but he was more concerned with practical matters:
"And... the money he swindled away..."
5,000 francs, decades of the family's savings, had weighed them down, making it hard to breathe.
Lionel immediately replied:
"The police seized his assets, but he used most of the ill-gotten gains to buy 'Panama Canal five-year bonds'.
These bonds will be forcibly sold once he has been tried and convicted in courts across all regions where he committed fraud.
The money obtained will be proportionally returned to victims like us.
Although it may not be possible to recover the full amount, at least a portion will be returned."
This news clearly brought a great sigh of relief to his parents.
Even if not the full amount, getting back a portion was enough to alleviate the heavy burden of guilt and financial pressure in their hearts.
His mother murmured:
"That's wonderful... truly wonderful..."
His father also nodded heavily, a look of relief on his face, and even voluntarily poured Lionel a little more wine.
During the latter half of dinner, the atmosphere visibly lightened considerably.
His parents began asking about trivial details of Parisian life: what prices were like, what he usually ate, and what kind of house he lived in.
Lionel picked out some interesting, innocuous anecdotes to share, which still drew gasps of admiration from them.
After dinner, Ivana silently helped her mother clear the dishes, still speaking very little.
Lionel wanted to help her, but his mother firmly pushed him away:
"You go rest, you're tired from the journey. Your room is all ready."
Returning to his familiar room, it was indeed spotlessly clean.
The sheets and duvet cover were clearly freshly washed, carrying the scent of sunshine and soap.
The desk had also been carefully wiped, and there was even a small clay vase with a few wild flowers in it.
Everything was almost the same as before he left for Paris, yet everywhere revealed careful and thoughtful preparation.
He lay on the familiar bed, listening to the faint chirping of insects from the quiet countryside outside the window, and smelling the cool air mixed with pine and hay.
This was utterly different from the hustle, bustle, and stench of Paris.
A deep weariness and a strange tranquility simultaneously enveloped him, lulling him into a deep sleep...
————
The next morning, Lionel was awakened by the familiar bird song outside his window and the faint sound of cowbells in the distance.
The crisp, sweet mountain air dispelled the last vestiges of sleepiness.
After breakfast, Lionel sat at his desk, gazing at the familiar yet unfamiliar mountain scenery outside the window.
Yesterday, Rentu's call of "young master" and the child's timid bow surged back into his mind like a cold mountain spring.
He spread out his manuscript paper, dipped his quill pen full of ink, and a strong impulse urged him to write down the title: My Old Home.
Immediately, words poured out like a flowing stream:
[I braved the heat, leaving the stifling warmth and clamor of Paris, and returned to my old home, hundreds of kilometers away and ten years departed.
Although it was the height of summer, as I neared my old home, the weather grew cooler. Mountain wind howled into the train carriage.
Looking out from the window, under a sky as clear blue as if washed, several solitary mountain villages lay scattered near and far, huddled in the vast shadows of the mountains, as if forgotten by time.
My heart couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow.
Ah! Was this really the vibrant old home I remembered?
...
The old home I remembered was not like this at all.
My old home was much better, full of vitality.
But if I were to specifically point out its beauty and advantages, I found myself without clear images, without suitable words.
As if what I saw before me was everything.
So I explained to myself: perhaps my old home was always meant to be this way—though not progressive, it wasn't necessarily as sorrowful as I felt it to be at this moment; it was merely my own state of mind that had changed.
For I returned this time with many burdens weighing on my heart.]
Lionel did not confine the era to his immediate present and himself, but rather looked at the immense changes in French rural society—especially marginal villages like Montiel—throughout the 1860s and 1870s.
After all, he was writing a novel, not a non-fiction essay.
The land inheritance system under the Napoleonic Code caused the fields of independent farmers to be fragmented into smaller and smaller pieces, like broken porcelain, making it increasingly difficult for new generations of farmers to make a living.
After the Franco-Prussian War, to repay the 5 billion francs in war indemnities, the French government imposed heavy taxes on agriculture, leading many to bankruptcy or indebtedness.
Heavy taxes and exploitation by usurers were like two nooses around the necks of French peasants at the time, suffocating them.
In 1870, railways were not yet developed enough, and roads to markets were rugged and long, meaning quality agricultural products and timber often could not fetch their deserved value.
And the Church, while providing some education and relief, also hindered the introduction of new ideas and technologies, trapping people in tradition and poverty.
All of this bore a striking resemblance to the near-total bankruptcy of rural society in southeastern China 40 years later.
This was also why Lionel felt compelled to write My Old Home, and not just because of Rentu's "young master."
As he wrote, "Runtu" was about to make his appearance—
[At this moment, a strange and vivid image suddenly flashed in my mind: In the deep blue sky hung a golden full moon, beneath which were terraced fields on the hillside, all planted with endless vineyards.
Among them was a boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a small bronze Madonna around his neck, gripping a steel fork tightly in his hand, trying his best to stab a badger.
But the badger twisted its body, and escaped right from between his legs...]
At this moment, a commotion came from the front door; guests had arrived.
(End of Chapter)
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