The news that Lionel Sorel, the rising star of French literature and the "conscience of the Sorbonne," had been struck down by London's "pestilence" triggered a chain reaction far beyond his imagination.
In London, The Times published an editorial titled "The Fall of a French Gentleman: An Indictment of Our City's Filthy State!" with fiercely worded rhetoric:
"...We pride ourselves on our civilization and progress, inviting Mr. Lionel Sorel, one of France's most talented young writers, to visit. And what was the result?
Our capital treated him to its signature, nauseating 'pea-souper' and successfully sent this guest into St. Thomas Hospital!
Mr. Sorel's experience is by no means an isolated case; it is the daily torment afflicting countless poor and infirm individuals in London every day! His high fever is his body's most direct and vehement reaction to our entire municipal system's shameful dereliction of duty in public health!
This is not an accident, gentlemen; this is a chronic, ongoing public health crisis! It is a disgrace to all of us!
We must act immediately to push for stricter 'Purification Acts' and expand the sewage system, rather than waiting until cholera and typhoid once again reap lives like a scythe before we regret it!"
This report sparked a widespread response, as not everyone had the money or leisure to escape to seaside or country villas during this period.
Even the British upper class—the Members of Parliament—were considering working in Oxford this season.
This was the first time since the "Great Stink" of 1858 that London had once again become the focus of attention due to its dire environmental sanitation problems.
However, not all British media liked The Times' tone. The Standard newspaper unequivocally hit back, attributing Lionel's illness to the "frail physique of a French fop"—
"It is reported that a man of letters from Paris fell ill due to an inability to adapt to the local climate. What else does this news tell us, other than that the nervous systems of certain continental individuals are overly delicate and fragile?
London's air, while uniquely 'distinctive,' is precisely the breath of the British Empire's strength and prosperity! We have built the 'Empire on which the Sun Never Sets' by breathing such air.
Must our robust Anglo-Saxon physique change for the sake of a foreign gentleman who cannot adapt to the vitality of our city?
If one cannot even endure the air of London, we find it difficult to imagine how these people will face truly severe challenges—
Such as German cannon fire.
Perhaps some people are better suited to discussing art in salons than to experiencing the real world."
Soon, tabloids followed suit, beginning to mock France:
"Gentlemen in Paris should first take care of the dead fish and faeces in their own Seine River before lecturing us! At least our fog doesn't have so many romantic bacteria!"
These words quickly traveled across the sea and reached Paris.
The French media were all furious—although Parisians themselves complained about the smell of the Seine River, they absolutely could not tolerate the English using it as fodder.
Le Petit Parisien, Lionel's best partner, launched a counterattack the very next day, publishing an article titled "London's 'Fog'? Satan's Fart!":
"...Londoners seem to have grown accustomed to living in toxic gas and have lost their sense of smell! Please allow us to correct the terminology of our London counterparts—that is not a romantic 'fog,' but the exhaust of Satan and all the devils of hell releasing their intestinal waste in London!
The Thames River is a veritable 'demon's large intestine'!
And our Seine River, despite occasional temperaments, still flows with the light and shadow of poems and paintings!
Londoners seem to have long since had their sense of smell dulled by toxic gas, mistakenly taking this numbness for resilience. What a pathetic delusion!"
As a civic newspaper, Le Petit Parisien's language was uninhibited and full-throttle.
Le Figaro, as a conservative newspaper, would, of course, not be so crude. It countered its London counterparts with a cartoon—
A thin British gentleman in a top hat, with his nose smoking like a chimney, pointed at a Frenchman on the opposite bank, who was pinching his nose, and mocked, "Look, he can't stand fresh air!"
The caption read:
"Gentlemen of London, perhaps you should first teach the eels in the Thames River not to swim happily in excrement before mocking our strollers by the Seine River?
We suggest that the London Regatta Association add a new event: 'Breaststroke Across the Thames River,' as we believe this would better embody 'British spirit' than boat races!
Congratulations, London, on successfully defending the title of 'Europe's Filth Capital'!"
After these newspapers reached Britain, this cross-channel war of words quickly escalated.
The media on both sides spared no effort in their sarcasm, ranging from air quality, river cleanliness, sewage systems, and waste disposal, eventually even escalating to the level of national character and the superiority of civilizations.
London newspapers mocked Parisians as flashy but insubstantial, their bodies unable to bear their excessive vanity; Parisian newspapers retorted that Londoners were rude and dull, having lost their basic aesthetic and sensory abilities in the toxic fog.
This public opinion battle was later referred to in the history of journalism as the "Great Sewer War" and the "Battle of the Filth Capital"—of course, unlike other "battles," London and Paris were vying to pin the "Filth Capital" label on each other.
The intensity of this battle, the viciousness of its language, and the shrewdness of its angles directly refreshed the perceptions of media and readers across Europe.
It gradually subsided only after the first heavy rain of autumn fell on both cities, temporarily washing the streets, settling the dust, and flushing away the strong odors.
— — — —
However, the media's bickering did not affect the British literary world's concern for Lionel.
Not only did Harold Thompson of "The Nineteenth Century" Magazine and Norman Macleod of Good Words visit him at the hospital, but many writers and artists also graced his ward.
Although French writers who were friends with Lionel knew about the news, given previous precedents, no one dared to come to London and could only send letters of condolences (condolence).
What shocked Lionel the most was that Empress Eugénie, the wife of Napoleon III, even sent an envoy to visit him.
He was a solemn gentleman in a black suit, who introduced himself as Empress Eugénie's private secretary.
He conveyed Her Majesty the Empress's condolences to Lionel.
He stated that although the Empress lived a secluded life and was heartbroken, she still took notice of the news of Mr. Sorel's illness.
Her Majesty the Empress was particularly grateful for Mr. Sorel's deep care for the old soldiers loyal to the Empire and the Napoleon family in "the old guard."
Lionel knew that Empress Eugénie had been living in seclusion in Chislehurst, in the southeastern suburbs of London.
A few months prior, her only son, Napoleon IV (Prince Louis-Napoleon), had tragically died in the Zulu War at the age of 23.
This, it could be said, almost completely extinguished the hope of the Napoleon family rising again.
The secretary finally conveyed the Empress's command: all of Lionel's expenses during his stay at St. Thomas Hospital would be borne by the Napoleon family.
Furthermore, to ensure he received the best possible recuperation, he would immediately be transferred to a quieter, more comfortable luxury private ward within the hospital.
Lionel was stunned by this sudden "imperial favor" but politely expressed his refusal—he didn't want to get involved in any strange public opinion battles after returning to Paris.
Due to Lionel's repeated insistence, the Empress's private secretary could only leave with regret.
Just as Lionel was about to get some good rest, a voice softly echoed from the doorway of his ward: "Lionel, why didn't you tell me you were coming to London?"