Chapter 173: Paris [3]
The once-friendly coachman had grown quiet. I glanced at him, wondering if he was tired. He did look a bit worn out. But why? He had shown us everything he meant to, and he had even let us see the Morgue from the inside. And we had just proven our expertise to the Paris police, no less.
Well… we’ve been on the move for several days now.
I could not blame him. I was exhausted too. Constant travel, sitting still for long stretches only to be jolted back into motion, was not easy. No wonder wanderers in the past were seen as troubled souls.
“Wow.”
We had just passed Île de la Cité, where the public Morgue stood, and fully crossed the Seine. From there, we continued down a long, narrow road. The condition of the streets was appalling. They were uneven, winding, and yes, littered with filth. But I had gotten used to the stench and grime by now.
Still, I was frustrated.
Seriously… someone might actually die from this road.
Our carriage swayed dangerously as it squeezed through impossibly tight corners. We were not speeding, yet we had already bumped into several pedestrians. None of them even said a word. They just grimaced in pain and kept walking. They were probably vagabonds or the working poor, people too afraid to make trouble. Looking at the soot-colored sky and the polluted river, it was clear the Industrial Revolution was well underway here too. The gap between rich and poor might have been even worse than in London.
“We’ve arrived.”
After a long, rough ride, we finally reached our destination: the hospital where we would be giving a lecture. It was an old European-style building, its stone exterior imposing and dignified.
“The Royal Academy of Surgery of France… The name alone is impressive,” Liston muttered.
Though not fluent in French, he could read it decently. A sharp man like him could pick things up quickly. He had spent the last few days deciphering signs around Paris, and apparently, this was the Royal Academy proper. It looked even grander than I had imagined.
“Welcome. Dr. Liston, it’s been a while.”
A man approached, flanked by several assistants, mirroring our own group. One professor, several aides. Though, from an outsider’s perspective, I might have looked more like the professor than Liston.
“Ah, it’s been some time.”
Thankfully, the man spoke English, albeit with an accent.
“Then I’ll wait out here,” said the coachman. “Once you’re done, I’ll take you to the hotel.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
Liston handed him a tip and followed our host inside. I soon learned his name: Pierre. Jean-Pierre, to be exact. It sounded so quintessentially French that I almost wondered if it was an alias.
As we stepped into the lobby, my eyes were immediately drawn to the opulence.
No matter how much France might fall short of the British Empire, its mainland wealth was on full display. The walls were adorned with portraits and fine art. The one that stood out most was a painting, placed prominently.
“Ah, this is Doctor Pyeong,” Pierre said. “I mentioned him in my letter, didn’t I? A noble from a distant land called Joseon.”
“Indeed. He has a quiet elegance, very different from other Asians I’ve met,” said another professor.
They smiled, then gestured toward the painting I had been examining.
“This is the man who laid the foundation for French surgery.”
Pierre’s pride was obvious. Curious, I asked who he was.
“His name was Sir Félix. He started out as a barber. But one day, he received a royal commission to treat Louis XIV’s hemorrhoids.”
“Ah.”
Hemorrhoids. I remembered coming across this name in my professor’s old files. Félix was something of a pioneer in the field. Before his time, hemorrhoids were simply burned off, causing horrifying damage. Félix changed that by tying them off with thread, letting the blood flow stop before excising them.
“Of course, he couldn’t practice on the king directly. So he experimented on others first. In that process, seventy-five people died. But thanks to that… modern hemorrhoid surgery was born.”
“…Ah.”
So that was how it was. I had wondered how such a dangerous operation could be tested on royalty. It was not. They tested it on commoners, killing dozens in the process. And for this, he was honored with a portrait? If I were French, I think I would have joined the revolution too.
“Anyway, this way.”
Pierre continued guiding us. The hallway grew dimmer as we moved. The flickering gas lamps reminded me that we were about to enter more familiar territory.
“Since we’re at a surgical academy, we must begin with dissection,” he said.
“Yes. Well, I suppose I’m best at that,” Liston replied with a chuckle.
“You’re the best with limbs, perhaps,” Pierre teased. “But now that anesthesia is available, we must explore elsewhere too.”
“Hah. This fellow…”
We were headed to the dissection lab. As always, the professors were subtly competing. Apparently, France had not caught up when it came to limb amputations. If even the French admitted defeat in that area, it spoke volumes. Liston had learned much from me, and there was no one who could surpass him in dissection now.
What interested me more was the hygiene. How clean would a French dissection lab be?
Just then, a rat scurried across the floor.
A real rat.
I blinked, unsure if I had imagined it. Nope. It was real.
“Ah…”
“Why so surprised? It’s natural,” Pierre said casually.
Well, I suppose it was odd to expect this place to be clean. I gave up on that fantasy and stepped inside.
The scene was familiar: flies buzzing, the stench of rot thick in the air, and dissected bodies laid out with little care or order. It was as though someone had gone out of their way to make things look grotesque.
“Pyeong,” Liston called.
“Yes?”
“They say a new body is coming in tomorrow. I’ll show you something then.”
“Ah… I see.”
“Four new bodies, they say. The ones we have now are… substandard.”
“…Understood.”
But as I nodded, something tugged at me.
How do they know for certain four bodies will arrive tomorrow?
Were executions scheduled?
“This is France. Let’s not expect too much lawful behavior,” Liston whispered.
Even Pierre, who understood English, did not argue. It seemed the French were not innocent of their own critiques.
We toured the rest of the building: the classrooms, surgical theaters, and lecture halls. Apparently, some operations were even performed in front of audiences. That might have shocked the old me, but not anymore.
“Ah, time flies…”
Pierre tapped his temple, then turned to Liston with a suddenly bright expression.
“Do you know anything about literature or music?”
That was not curiosity. It was mockery. The friendliness from earlier had shifted. I half expected Liston to punch him, but—
“Well, it’s fine,” Liston replied blandly.
He nodded, clearly uninterested but unwilling to back down.
Pierre grinned.
“Excellent. There’s a club I frequent, where many artists gather. Would you care to join us?”
“I’ll eat first.”
“Of course. They usually drink instead of eat, but… I want to feed my English guests some proper French cuisine.”
Liston relented. When it came to food, he could not hold his ground. British people might be proud, but even they would not pretend their cuisine was edible. And Liston, surprisingly, had good taste.
“I’ll treat you.”
“Ah, thank you.”
Pierre hosted us generously. Poor Brits, I thought, listening to his tone. But as a Korean, I did not take offense. And the food? It was delicious. Not twenty-first-century delicious, not Shin Ramyun-with-milk delicious, but good for the era.
“And…”
“Oh my god…”
“How is this even real…”
That was the others. Their reactions were so exaggerated that it bordered on pitiful. I could tell they were trying to insult the French food somehow, but each bite betrayed them.
Even Liston had succumbed, sipping wine with an elegance I did not know he had.
“It’s delicious.”
“So, better than British food?”
“Our food is garbage.”
“…Are you drunk?”
“I’m just being honest.”
It was treason-level honesty, but fair enough. The meal had been that good.
The trouble came afterward.
“Let’s go to the club now. It changes location every time, but it’s nearby tonight.”
“Alright. What’s it called?”
“The Hashish Club.”
“…How exotic.”
“Yes, it has a desert feel to it. Like the language of sand.”
The two professors, likely tipsy, walked on, laughing. Neither worried about muggers. Even when French thugs showed up, they backed off the moment they recognized Liston.
But I could not stop thinking about the name.
Hashish Club…? That sounds familiar…