Chapter 23: The Simple Comforts of Mortal Life, The Best Balm for the Weary Soul

With the major deal finalized with Gabriel, a weight was finally lifted from Léonard’s heart. In truth, even if Gabriel had offered only 3,000 francs at the time, he would have accepted—he was simply that desperate for money. It wasn't just that his family, the Sorels, far away in the Alps, were in urgent need of funds to lift their sagging spirits; he himself needed money to leave Madame Martin’s apartment. It wasn't that he minded Madame Martin’s bitterness or the apartment’s squalor, but lately, the sound of coughing in the night had become more and more frequent—a far from auspicious sign.

Every winter, Paris "cleansed" tens of thousands of its residents through influenza and pneumonia. Aside from the homeless, the victims were almost exclusively the poor from the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, 18th, 19th, and 20th arrondissements. By the time the flowers bloomed again the following spring, several times that number of people from the provinces would arrive in this glorious city in search of hope. Léonard did not have much faith in his own immunity.

Although the 1,500 francs in cash were not yet in his hands, he decided to celebrate. This time, however, he had no intention of eating at the "public table." He took a carriage back to the 11th arrondissement, disembarking at the Popincourt Market, located at the intersection of Rue de Popincourt and Rue de la Roquette. It was one of the most famous open-air markets in the district, fully stocked with vegetables, fruits, and meat stalls.

Léonard wandered the market for quite some time before finally purchasing the ingredients he desired: a dressed grey hen, a cleaned oxtail, several carrots, onions, turnips, a bunch of celery, a bag of mushrooms, a packet of assorted spices, a kilogram of macaroni, and a bottle of pepper—Madame Martin was notoriously stingy and never allowed them to use such expensive seasonings. He then stopped by a small shop selling tableware and kitchenware to buy bowls, plates, forks, and knives—though he failed to find any—and most importantly, a soup pot. These items cost him 12 francs, a price that made his heart ache slightly. Yet, when he thought about not having to share his breath with Madame Martin’s tenants or the other diners at the public table, he felt the expense was entirely necessary.

It was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon when he returned to the apartment. Madame Martin was clearing the dining table. Seeing Léonard return with a large sack, she uncharacteristically refrained from sarcasm, offering instead a blank, polite, "Good afternoon, Monsieur Sorel." Léonard could tell the "Monsieur Sorel" this time lacked its usual mocking tone, so he responded in kind, "Good afternoon, Madame Martin." Their conversation clearly stirred the residents upstairs; Léonard felt the usually noisy apartment fall quiet for a moment, and several pairs of prying eyes appeared in the stairwell and corridors. Thanks to Léonard’s lavish behavior that morning, the social status of the mysterious noblewoman rumored to be keeping him had already been elevated from a merchant’s wife to a baroness.

Upon reaching the third floor and arriving at the door to the attic, he heard the door creak open. Petit appeared, her pale face illuminated by two sparkling, star-like eyes: "You’ve returned, Monsieur Sorel." Léonard nodded, stepped into the room, and opened the sack, laying out the items one by one. With each addition, Petit’s eyes grew brighter.

Léonard asked, "Have you eaten?"

Petit shook her head. "Mother said that since I am now your servant, I can no longer eat with them at Madame Martin’s table, so she asked Madame Martin for a refund of this month’s remaining meal fees. But Madame Martin said you haven't paid my board yet, so I cannot sit at the table..."

Léonard sighed, "What can I say?" He asked Petit, "Do you know how to cook?" She shook her head; her family had always relied on meal plans, so naturally, she did not.

Léonard selected a few items from the floor and, carrying the new soup pot and a ladle, took Petit downstairs to find Madame Martin. "Madame Martin, would it be possible for me to use your stove to cook for myself from now on?"

Madame Martin hesitated, glancing at the ingredients and tools in Léonard’s hands, and frowned. "Charcoal and coal are not cheap..."

"Deduct the cost from my meal fees, how about that?" Léonard suggested.

Only then did Madame Martin’s brow relax. She nodded and led him into the kitchen. The kitchen was equipped with a small, cast-iron stove featuring a metal door for adding coal and regulating heat. While it didn't compare to the gas stoves of the future, the method of use was much the same. After briefly showing them how it worked, Madame Martin left the kitchen, though she continued to glance in from the dining room from time to time. She simply could not believe that Léonard, a poor university student, knew how to cook, especially using such complex ingredients. That was a craft reserved for professional cooks in restaurants. Even being able to properly stew a chicken was worth at least 150 francs a month!

Léonard didn't care what Madame Martin thought of him. He earnestly began teaching Petit how to peel the carrots and turnips, how to clean the mushrooms, and how to chop the onions. He then had Petit fetch a pot of water, placed the whole grey hen inside, stuffed its cavity with carrots, celery, and onions, and brought it to a boil over a high flame, skimming off the foam and excess fat with a ladle. He then turned the heat to low, added the turnips, mushrooms, and peppercorns, and let it simmer.

Petit stared with her wide eyes, her little brain working hard to memorize these steps, which were not as simple as they seemed. By the time the fire had been reduced and the soup pot covered, emitting a soft "gurgle-gurgle" sound, Léonard finally stopped his work. He looked back to see Petit gazing at him with eyes full of sheer, inexpressible adoration.

Léonard smiled slightly. "This hen is quite large and rather old..." In the dining room, Madame Martin suddenly dropped something with a loud "thud."

Léonard ignored her and continued his instructions: "...it will take about an hour to stew until tender. If you’re hungry, you can take two sous and go to the corner bakery for a piece of bread."

Petit shook her head, pointing to the soup pot to indicate she would watch over the old hen until it was done.

Léonard checked the light outside and said, "Alright, you watch the fire here. I’m going to take a nap; wake me in an hour."

Petit nodded. "Don't worry, Monsieur Sorel!" As she spoke, she patted her chest, looking as though she had sworn to defend the chicken soup with her life.

Léonard cautioned Petit to be careful with the stove and went upstairs, soon drifting into a deep sleep. He slipped into a quiet dream—first, scattered fragments of the Alps and Paris, then he was transported 150 years into the future, to his soul's true home, reuniting with family, classmates, and friends. Everyone was asking where he had been and why he hadn't told anyone...

In his hazy state, Léonard suddenly felt the floorboards tremble slightly. It seemed as if many people were walking and talking. "Why is the apartment so lively?" Léonard woke up, and immediately, a familiar, rich aroma hit his nostrils, rushing straight to his brain. He felt his soul instantly healed. Was this the "warmth of the human world that comforts the weary heart"?

He hurried out of bed, opened the attic door, and looked down through the stairwell. The corridor was already packed with people, each one craning their necks, mouths half-open, nostrils flared, their eyes filled with intoxication.

From the first floor, a voice drifted up: "Just a taste, just one taste. Monsieur Sorel isn't awake yet..."

Then came Petit’s childish but firm refusal: "No! This is Monsieur Sorel’s soup! No one is allowed to touch it!"