Early the next morning, Lionel borrowed the family's gentle packhorse from his father and followed the mountain path from his memory to "Roche Farm."
That was Alice's home.
Lionel was not in a hurry to finish writing "hometown"; he needed to deepen his feelings for this land.
After two hours of riding, the mountain scenery was magnificent, and the air was fresh, but the mountain road was rugged. Lionel also saw abandoned fields and dilapidated farmhouses, which made his mood even heavier.
"Roche Farm" was situated on a sunny hillside, looking more rundown than Lionel remembered.
The stone walls needed repair, the wooden fences were leaning haphazardly, and even a corner of the cowshed roof had collapsed.
Etienne Roche was milking in the cowshed. Hearing the sound of hooves, he looked up, his face filled with surprise: "Lionel? Sorel's son?"
He stood up, wiping his hands on his coarse trousers: "I heard you made a name for yourself in Paris."
Mrs. Roche came out of the house at the sound, her apron dusted with flour. Seeing Lionel, she nervously straightened her hair and clothes, as if a nobleman had suddenly paid a visit.
Lionel dismounted and exchanged a few brief pleasantries, then the conversation turned to Alice—he did not rashly reveal that Alice was with him.
Mrs. Roche's tears fell silently: "It's been over half a year! Not a single word! That damned parish priest!
He said the Virgin Mary had appeared and cured my illness, insisting we send a daughter to become a nun…
We were truly possessed at the time! We thought it was God's will!"
Etienne, meanwhile, painfully clutched his hair: "She must have encountered something bad, otherwise why would there be no news at all… or… or perhaps she's simply…"
He couldn't continue, the thought that his daughter might be dead or have fallen into disrepute made him too afraid to speak.
Lionel comforted them kindly while observing their expressions, then said sincerely: "Mr. and Mrs. Roche, please do not despair completely.
I know some people in Paris, and perhaps… perhaps they can find out some information. I will do my best to find Alice's whereabouts."
These words were like a faint glimmer of light, instantly brightening the couple's gloomy faces: "Really? You… you're really willing to help?"
Lionel nodded solemnly, "I will do my best. However, to make it easier to find her, I need some documents that prove Alice's identity, such as her birth certificate, baptismal records, and so on.
The more detailed, the better. With these, it will be easier to inquire through others."
Etienne quickly said: "Yes! Yes! I'll go get them for you right away!"
He soon came out holding an old wooden box, inside which Alice's birth certificate and baptismal certificate were carefully placed.
Etienne carefully handed these documents to Lionel, as if entrusting his daughter's future.
Etienne's voice was humble and pleading: "I beg you, Lionel…"
Lionel solemnly took the box, nodded, mounted his horse, not daring to look again at those two pairs of expectant eyes, and rode away.
— — — —
Lionel naturally had a great use for Alice's identity documents.
However, his visit to Alice's home today stirred up his thoughts again—not only the dilapidation of the farm, but also the fact that Alice's two elder brothers and one younger brother were all absent from home.
That farm was still fertile, but it could no longer support a family of six.
Several boys had almost all gone to "the city"—the furthest in Lyon, the closest in Gap.
Lionel gained a more concrete understanding of France beyond Paris.
Once they left the plains, the lives of the farmers became exceptionally difficult; these places, as the mayor said, "were dying."
Thus, the tone of "hometown" gradually shifted from the joy of childhood to a more gloomy and somber one—
[My heart was stirred, yet I didn't know where to begin, only managing to squeeze out: "Ah! Luntou!—It's you! You've come…"
I immediately wanted to ask about the old days: the trout, the mushrooms, the badgers, the wild boars, the grapes… But all the words were stuck in my throat, only swirling in my mind, not a single word could escape.
He stopped, a look of both joy and bitterness appearing on his face; his lips moved a few times, but he said nothing.
Finally, his demeanor became respectful, and he clearly called out: "Master…"
A shiver ran through me; I knew then that a sad, thick barrier had already formed between us.
I couldn't say anything else either.]
Although Luntou called him "Young Master" yesterday, in the context of the novel, "I" am older, in my prime, so "Master" is more appropriate and has more impact.
[He turned around and scolded the person behind him: "Pierre, come here, greet the Master!"
Then he pulled out a hiding child from behind him.
That was truly Luntou from twenty years ago, only his complexion was more sallow and haggard, and he didn't have that small copper Virgin Mary statue around his neck.
"This is the fifth child; he hasn't seen much of the world, always so timid and cowering…"]
If there was anything in "hometown" that filled one with despair yet also inspired hope, it was the children.
The older generation instilled strict hierarchical concepts in their children; yet, between children, there was still genuine affection.
That is why we must "save the children."
In France today, even in Paris, where republican ideals are strongest, many still yearn for aristocracy.
And in rural areas, gentlemen with "de" in their names still hold many important positions.
Only through the gradual influence of one generation after another can these notions slowly fade.
[Luntou just shook his head silently; the deep wrinkles etched on his face by the stove fire, mountain wind, and sorrow were like stone.
He probably just felt bitter, but couldn't find any words to describe it.
After a long silence, he pulled out the small clay pipe from his waist and silently began to smoke.
…
Luntou left with the child. Mother and I couldn't help but sigh at his situation.
"Alas… children are born one after another, but the land is only so much, divided thinner and thinner; last year's rye harvest wasn't good to begin with, and the mill's loan interest is frighteningly high; government tax bills come one after another, with more and more categories; I heard new recruits are being conscripted again, who knows if it will be his eldest son's turn… And that new tax collector, he's even harsher than the previous one… These things, one after another, truly torment him like a soulless puppet."
Mother whispered, her eyes filled with pity and helplessness.]
What caused Luntou's suffering were precisely those "Masters" in Paris—they were arrogant, haughty, incompetent… then lost the war and messed up the country.
But in the end, it was these silent farmers who bore the consequences.
Lionel sighed, then suddenly thought of the education bill that had just passed, and the ongoing debate over the free compulsory primary education bill, as well as Alice, whose eyes lit up at the mention of women's normal schools…
He suddenly felt that the future was not so bleak after all.
But how long would the night last before the dawn arrived?
Lionel moved his quill, writing the last few lines of text—
[In a haze, a terraced vineyard on a hillside unfolded before my eyes, with a golden full moon hanging in the deep blue sky above.
I thought: Hope is neither existent nor non-existent. It is just like roads on the ground; in reality, there were originally no roads on the ground, but when many people walk, a road is formed.]
— — — —
Early the next morning, Lionel took two envelopes to Lalagne, intending to send them by the fastest postal express to Paris.
One thick envelope was for Alice at Médan Villa; he believed that after copying its contents, she would feel much relieved;
The other, thin envelope was for Sophie, who was still working at Orby Trading Company; she would surely be happy when she saw it…
As for Lionel, he hired a guide to take him to a remote place where Lalagne's oldest abbey, Our Lady of Lourdes, was located.
That was where Alice had originally "entered the monastery."