Night fell, and the kerosene lamp cast a warm glow over the old wooden table in the Sorel Family dining room.
The table was laden with the results of his mother and Ivanna's afternoon of 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 exquisite dishes of Paris, this country dinner seemed simple, yet it was filled with the most authentic flavors Lionel remembered.
His mother kept placing lamb and potatoes onto his plate with her knife and fork: "Eat, Leon, you can't find lamb this authentic in Paris."
His father, Joseph, sipped his homemade wine and only spoke after a long while: "Paris… is everything alright? What the newspapers say… is it all true?
Did you really talk to such big 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 masters.
However, he omitted the treacherous struggles and complex interpersonal relationships, only sketching a picture of glamour and success.
His mother crossed herself: "God bless… I knew our Lionel would amount to something."
Ivanna had been eating silently, and even hearing this, her eyelashes only trembled slightly.
The atmosphere became a bit silent for a moment.
Lionel sensed the timing was right, cleared his throat, and said in a gentle voice: "About that swindler, Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve… Oh, he used the alias 'Émile'…"
His mother immediately tensed up, his father put down his wine glass, and Ivanna suddenly looked up, her face instantly turning pale.
Lionel's tone was very cautious: "He received his deserved punishment, a very severe punishment."
He did not describe the horrifying scene that occurred at Notre Dame, and he believed his family had already received the news, so there was no need to repeat it.
Lionel simply said: "He confessed to his crimes and is now imprisoned, awaiting his final verdict.
He can no longer harm anyone."
Ivanna's lips trembled slightly, her voice barely a whisper: "Did he… in court, mention… us?"
Lionel's tone became even gentler: "No, sister. His cases are too numerous, and the ramifications too widespread. The Montiel matter was only a very small part of it.
He might not even remember it much."
Ivanna seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, but her eyes remained vacant as she slowly lowered her head.
His father, Joseph, sighed, but he was more concerned with practical matters: "Then… the money he swindled…"
5,000 francs, decades of savings for this family, weighed heavily on them.
Lionel immediately replied: "The police sealed his assets, but he used most of the ill-gotten gains to buy 'Panama Canal five-year bonds.'
These bonds will be forcibly sold after he is tried and convicted in all the regions where he committed fraud.
The money obtained will be returned proportionally to victims like us.
Although it may not be fully recovered, at least some of it can be retrieved."
This news clearly brought great relief to his parents.
Even if not all, recovering 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 immense relief on his face, and even proactively poured Lionel a little more wine.
The latter half of dinner was significantly more relaxed.
His parents began to ask about trivial matters of life in Paris, like prices, what he usually ate, and what kind of house he lived in.
Lionel picked out some interesting, innocuous things to say, but they still elicited gasps of surprise from his parents.
After dinner, Ivanna silently helped her mother clear the dishes, still speaking very little.
Lionel tried to help her, but his mother firmly pushed him away: "Go rest, you're tired from the journey. Your room is all ready."
Returning to his familiar room, it was indeed spotless.
The sheets and duvet cover were clearly freshly laundered, carrying the scent of sunshine and soap.
The desk had also been meticulously wiped clean, and there was even a small clay vase with a few wildflowers on it.
Everything was almost exactly as it had been before he left for Paris, yet it also showed signs of careful, thoughtful preparation everywhere.
He lay on his familiar bed, listening to the faint chirping of insects from the quiet countryside outside the window, and smelling the cool, crisp air mixed with pine and dry grass.
This was completely different from the hustle and bustle and stench of Paris.
A deep weariness and a strange tranquility enveloped him simultaneously, allowing him to fall into a deep sleep…
— — — —
The next morning, Lionel was awakened by the familiar birdsong outside his window and the faint cowbells in the distance.
The mountain air was clear and sweet, dispelling the last trace of sleepiness.
After breakfast, Lionel sat at his desk, gazing at the familiar yet strange mountain scenery outside the window. Luntou's "Young Master" from yesterday and the child's timid bow, like cold mountain spring water, once again surged into his heart.
He spread out the manuscript paper, dipped his quill pen in ink, and a strong impulse urged him to write the title: "hometown."
Immediately, words poured out like a stream:
[I braved the heat, left the stuffiness and noise of Paris, and returned to my hometown, hundreds of kilometers away, after ten years.
It was deep summer; but as I neared my hometown, the weather grew cooler. Mountain winds rushed into the train compartment, whistling. Looking out the window, beneath a sky as blue as if washed clean, several lonely mountain villages lay scattered in the distance, huddled in the shadow of giant mountains, as if forgotten by time. My heart couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow. Ah! Was this truly the vibrant hometown I remembered?
...
The hometown I remembered was nothing like this. My hometown was much better, full of vitality. But if I were to specifically point out its beauty and advantages, I would have no clear images, no suitable words.
It was as if what I saw before me was everything. So I explained to myself: perhaps this is how my hometown was always meant to be—though not progressive, it was not necessarily as desolate as I feel now; it is only my own state of mind that has changed.
Because this time I returned with many things weighing on my heart.]
Lionel did not limit the era to the present and himself, but looked at the drastic 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 land of independent farmers to be fragmented into smaller and smaller pieces, like broken pottery, 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 debt.
Heavy taxation and the exploitation of usury were like two nooses around the necks of French farmers at the time, suffocating them.
In 1870, railways were not yet developed enough, and roads to markets were rugged and long, so 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 high degree of similarity to the near-total bankruptcy of rural society in southeastern China 40 years later.
This was also why Lionel had the impulse to write "hometown," and not just because of Luntou'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:
A golden full moon hung in the deep blue sky, beneath which were terraced fields on a hillside, all planted with an endless expanse of grapes. Amidst them was a boy of eleven or twelve, with a small bronze Madonna hanging 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 from between his legs… ]
At that moment, a commotion came from the door; guests had arrived.