Chapter 171: Paris [1]
Paris.
During World War II, France surrendered to the Nazis under the pretext of sparing their beautiful capital from destruction. That decision gave birth to Vichy France, a stain on history they had tried hard to forget.
When I first learned that, I wondered just how beautiful the city had to be for people to choose surrender over seeing it ruined.
That must have been what those cowardly bastards told themselves.
“This is Paris. The country’s too big anyway. Should’ve trimmed it down a bit.”
“Exactly. Way too much land for the French.”
“You’re right.”
The hatred toward France was especially strong among my current companions—Dr. Liston, Joseph, and Alfred. Their distaste ran deep. Naturally, I developed a bit of a bias myself.
And yet—
I was stunned.
It was beautiful. Truly, breathtakingly beautiful.
How did they build a city like this back then?
Even the sky seemed clearer than in London. The sun was shining. The streets were lined with wide boulevards, ornate buildings, and elegant façades.
“Why are you looking so amazed?”
“Oh, nothing. Just… things have been rough lately.”
“Sure. But still, don’t you think we should cut it down a bit?”
Still, I kept my admiration to myself. I had picked up on the tension for a while now, but it was clear: England and France had the kind of relationship Korea had with Japan—or maybe China. Complicated. Resentful. Deeply bitter. Definitely not friendly.
France, after all, was Britain’s closest neighbor, and historically, its greatest rival on the European continent. Even now, the British Empire might rule the seas, but France still held enormous sway on land. Interaction between the two was inevitable, though usually begrudging. The complaining never stopped, but regardless, our carriage was rolling into Paris.
Ah…
Now that I was seeing it up close—
What the hell… is that?
It was filthy.
That black, sludgy stuff stuck to the wheels? Yes. That was human waste.
Right… I remember hearing that people in old Paris wore high heels to avoid stepping in poop…
I thought that was just a joke. A gross exaggeration. But no. It was real.
Goddamn it. Is this really the nineteenth century?
“No way…”
I took it back. I used to think London was the filthiest city in the world. But no. Paris was worse.
“Why are there so many kids?” I asked.
“Kids? Oh, orphans, probably,” someone said.
There were hordes of them. Half-naked children running wild through the streets. And it was not about showing skin. They literally had nothing to wear.
“Yeah. Orphans. The French are like that. Especially since the Revolution. Don’t know why they’re so obsessed with revolting all the time.”
Liston clicked his tongue. Joseph and Alfred did the same. Sure, I had seen orphans in London too, but not like this. It was overwhelming.
Still, I did not have time to dwell on it.
Because the smell hit.
“This is the famous Seine River,” the coachman announced proudly.
“Uh…”
The Seine?
I remembered a book titled The Han River Divides North and South, the Seine Divides East and West. I did not remember the content, just the title. And wasn’t Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte set near here?
But this?
This was a sewer.
Was it the Seine? Or was that the Thames?
Either way, this was worse. Much worse.
“Uh, huh?”
“What is it?”
“Look at that guy… Is he okay?”
Someone wearing goggles, of all things, had jumped straight into the river. At first, I thought he was swimming. But no.
“Oh, he’s retrieving a body,” the coachman explained casually.
Wait. What?
“A what?” Liston asked.
“A corpse,” the coachman said with a shrug. “Lots of people die here.”
“Drowned?” I asked.
“No, no. Suicide. They jump.”
The answer hit hard. I did not even have time to ask why they did not hang themselves instead. The implication was clear: too many people were dying for anyone to care.
This was a time of unrelenting despair. In our hospital’s obstetrics and gynecology ward, the windows were installed two meters high, not for privacy, but to stop mothers from jumping. Of course, that also meant poor ventilation. And while the doctors blamed it on miasma, it was real pathogens killing people.
In London, people hanged themselves. Here, they jumped.
“I don’t know why,” the coachman added. “They just do. That’s why work like his pays well.”
“In water this dirty? How do they even find the bodies?”
“Well… they usually don’t. So many people jump in that a lot of the corpses are never claimed. He just collects whatever floats up.”
“So they don’t even get paid?”
The coachman chuckled. Even knowing how dangerous Liston could be, he seemed genuinely amused.
I ran into a robber on the way here…
It felt like ages ago now. May that robber rest in peace. You really should not have tried attacking the Sword Master. If we had not been doctors, we would all have died. As it was, only two of them died.
Thanks to me.
“I can see it up ahead.”
The coachman pointed toward an island just off the bridge. It was larger than I expected. Then the smell hit.
“Is that a dissection lab?” someone asked.
No. It was worse.
It was the stench of rot. Of decomposing human flesh.
The coachman laughed at Blundell’s question.
“That’s the Morgue.”
“Morgue?” Liston asked. “Like… a morgue?”
“Well, yes. But more like an exhibition.”
“An exhibition? What do you mean?”
We were all baffled. Even Liston. Even the locals looked unsure, which meant I did not stand a chance of understanding.
“I’ll show you,” the coachman said. “Normally, I wouldn’t take ordinary folks, but you’re doctors. It’s quite popular.”
“Popular?” someone echoed, incredulous.
Our skepticism only grew as the carriage pulled to a stop. The building ahead looked more like a research facility than a place for grieving. People walked around in blood-stained aprons, hands bare, faces calm.
London or Paris, the nineteenth century was still the nineteenth century.
I was not shocked anymore. Not like I used to be.
“All right. Time to get off. And pay.”
“Pay?”
“It’s an exhibition, after all.”
“You’re not lying, are you? That’d ruin the fun.”
“Me? Lie to a professor? I’d rather lie to the Pope!”
Liston laughed. He had the most relaxed attitude toward fraud anyway, so he probably was not too worried. We paid and stepped inside.
“Uh…”
Blundell gasped. He was always the most serious when it came to the grotesque, and even he looked rattled.
It was hard to see at first because of the crowd. But then I caught a glimpse through the glass: a marble slab and a corpse laid out for public display.
“Looks like a busy day,” the coachman said.
“What do you mean?”
Blundell looked shaken. Even for someone used to London’s horrors, this was something new.
They were displaying a corpse.
Behind glass.
Like a painting.
“And people pay for this?”
Apparently, yes. I remembered reading about a recent dismemberment case. Now it made sense. When a rare or grotesque body showed up, people came in droves to gawk, speculate, and be entertained.
The country of revolution, huh.
The country of the guillotine.
Of course they would turn corpses into public exhibits.
And then—
“Oh. It’s real.”
Liston, towering over the others, exhaled sharply. The crowd parted around him like the Red Sea. And there it was: a mutilated, miserable corpse.
A murder victim.
Displayed like a museum piece.
“That’s the work of an amateur,” Liston said.
“What?”
“A beginner. Look at the cross-section, Pyeong. Take a good look.”
“…Uh, yes?”
Why are we analyzing this like it’s a class exercise!?