Lionel stiffly turned his head, and the person who had arrived was none other than Oscar Wilde.
His tall figure blocked the ward's doorway, casting a deep shadow on the ground.
First to enter was a giant, pale bouquet of lilies in his hand; immediately after, Wilde himself elegantly stepped in sideways.
He wore a deep jewel-green velvet coat, with exaggerated lace shirt frills showing at the collar and cuffs;
A slightly loose tie hung casually around his neck, and he wore light-colored gloves on his hands.
Every detail was out of place with the plain environment of St. Thomas' Hospital.
Wilde walked to Lionel's bedside:
"Poor Sorel, I knew it, I knew it! This rude beast called London is ultimately not suitable for your delicate French soul."
He placed the enormous bouquet of lilies into an empty water jug on the windowsill:
"Look, only it is worthy of consoling an artist wounded by ugly reality."
Lionel's face was paler than when he was admitted:
"You're too kind—I merely unfortunately fell ill and will be well soon. There's really no need for such a fuss..."
He could only secretly pray in his heart that this talented man with peculiar tastes would end his visit soon.
Wilde seemed completely oblivious to Lionel's discomfort, gracefully sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, and began his characteristic, incessant monologue:
"Trouble? No, this is my inescapable duty."
"Do you know? When I heard the news of your collapse, the first thing I felt wasn't surprise, but a... sadness of a premonition come true!"
"The first time I saw you in Paris, I knew you wouldn't adapt here—London? Oh, London!"
As he spoke, he made a gesture as if warding off a foul smell:
"The people here worship the luxury of carriages, the height of chimneys, the length of numbers in bank accounts.
They build their physiques with steak and beer, but let their souls starve.
Their artistic taste... God, forgive my bluntness, is still at the level of putting bow ties on dogs."
He sighed:
"Never mind the air, the food here... Oh, that's another long torment for the senses, best not to mention it. I truly feel for you, my dear friend, you are like a canary thrown into a coal mine."
You're the canary, your whole family are canaries!
But this was merely an internal grumble.
The current Lionel could only weakly nod, occasionally echoing with "Indeed" or "You are right."
In his heart, however, he desperately wished that Miss Nightingale or some doctor would suddenly appear and politely escort this overly enthusiastic aesthete out.
The lilies in the ward emitted an overly strong fragrance, mixing with Wilde's perfume and the original antiseptic smell of the ward, making Lionel almost suffocate.
Wilde was completely immersed in his own world, delivering a "speech" for a full twenty minutes before suddenly seeming to remember Lionel's condition.
He stood up and elegantly adjusted his coat:
"My dear Sorel. An artist's body is a temple, and must be carefully cherished. Please get well, Paris needs your wisdom, the world needs your stories."
He extended his hand, seemingly intending to kiss it, but realizing the occasion was inappropriate, he changed it to a gentle wave:
"May you escape from here soon. Goodbye, my dear friend. I will pray for you! Tomorrow, or the day after, I will return."
With that, he floated away, leaving the room filled with silence and strong fragrance.
Lionel frantically rang the bedside bell as if for help.
As soon as the nurse entered, he pleaded:
"Quickly take this bouquet of lilies away—and open the window. The smell in this room is more terrible than the River Thames! Also, please quickly call Dr. Joseph Bell over, I want to be discharged, I want to be discharged..."
----
Lionel's request did not receive support from Joseph Bell, who believed Lionel needed at least another week of recuperation.
However, he thoughtfully issued a "visiting ban" for Lionel to the hospital, preventing the constant stream of visitors over the next two days.
Two days later, Lionel felt much of his energy restored, so he took a short walk in the hospital's small garden.
The garden was not large, with neatly trimmed hedges surrounding a central lawn and a few benches.
Although the air was still not ideal, it was much fresher than the streets.
Lionel slowly paced, enjoying his long-lost "freedom."
On one of the benches, he saw a familiar figure—Dr. Joseph Bell.
He was wearing only a waistcoat, leaning back in the chair reading The Times, seemingly taking a nap.
Lionel quietly walked over.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Bell."
Dr. Bell looked up:
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sorel, how are you feeling?"
Lionel sat down at the other end of the bench:
"Much better, thank you. The air here is very helpful."
After a brief silence, Lionel couldn't help but ask curiously:
"Dr. Bell, please forgive my presumption... I hear that not only are your medical skills superb, but you have also assisted the police in solving cases. For example... last year's Chantrell murder case? Is that true?"
Dr. Bell's face showed a smile:
"Oh, that case. Yes, the police at the time believed that poor Mrs. Elizabeth Chantrell died of accidental gas poisoning. But they overlooked some details."
His tone was as calm as if he were analyzing a case:
"The gas valve in the room was indeed open, but the concentration was not immediately fatal. More importantly, I noticed traces of vomit on the deceased's pillowcase—gas poisoning does not cause vomiting.
I leaned closer and smelled it; the scent was sweet with a bitter undertone—that was laudanum... Well, the rest was up to Scotland Yard."
Lionel praised: "That's incredible! Relying solely on observation and... smell. You are more astute than the police!"
Dr. Bell shrugged slightly:
"Scotland Yard... they rely too much on experience and lack systematic training in observation. They are always prone to overlooking details, or being deceived by appearances."
There was a hint of helplessness in his tone.
Dr. Bell looked at Lionel:
"Actually, a good detective and a good doctor require almost the same qualities.
We both face seemingly chaotic appearances—for the police, it's crime scenes and testimonies; for doctors, it's the patient's symptoms and self-reports.
Many external symptoms of diseases are very similar, but their root causes can be entirely different.
A headache might be due to eye strain, a tumor, or even poisoning... A cough might be a cold, tuberculosis, or even a heart problem..."
Dr. Bell put The Times aside:
"Patients' descriptions are often vague, subjective, and sometimes even conceal or distort information out of fear or ignorance. Just as witnesses might omit key details or lie due to nervousness.
Our job is to find that sole 'truth,' hidden deep within, from these intricate and seemingly plausible 'clues' through careful observation, logical reasoning, and professional knowledge—for the police, it's the killer and motive; for doctors, it's an accurate diagnosis and etiology."
Lionel looked at Joseph Bell's calm narration and suddenly understood who the prototype for "Sherlock Holmes" was.
----
A week later, Lionel finally received his discharge papers and walked out of the hospital gates feeling refreshed.
Then, without notifying anyone—he didn't want to be persuaded to stay for another two days—he went directly to Charing Cross Station, bought a connecting ticket to Paris Gare du Nord, and left this city that had left a deep impression on him.
The journey home was also smooth.
Lionel stepped through the door of 64 Rue Laffitte at 8 PM.
The building manager on the ground floor saw Lionel and immediately came to greet him:
"Welcome home, Mr. Sorel. I read about your troubles in the newspaper—those damned Englishmen! It's wonderful you've returned safely!"
Lionel thanked him for his concern and then asked:
"During my absence, were there any letters or messages from visitors?"
The manager thought for a moment:
"Indeed there were—on the third day after you left Paris, someone did come looking for you here."
Lionel: "Oh? Who was it?"
The manager scratched his head:
"There were two people, very haughty. They only asked if you were home, didn't say who they were, and left no message.
But I thought they looked like church people, even though they were in plain clothes..."
(End of this chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon