At the beginning of March 1860, the cold skies of France had not yet passed.

The wind blowing in the face made the collar of the shirt, and someone rubbed his hands on the platform, craned his neck and looked out, trying to catch the roar of the steam train from the early morning fog.

Before dawn, the platforms of the Tours railway station were crowded with people, ordinary citizens in dark brown flak, and upper classes dressed in blue-purple velvet Rudangot, frowning as far as possible away from the rickety figures that smelled of straw and cow dung.

Under the flickering of two dim lights, the surrounding crowd looked different. One of them, a slightly erect figure, huddled in front of a crowd of gentlemen and commoners, stood out in a particularly abrupt manner, and he pressed his flat hat to cover the well-defined face as much as possible.

"Let it go, let it go."

"This kind gentleman, could you please help me take a look, is this a train to Paris?"

"Bastard, are you blind? What are you stepping on, you don't see my feet here! ”

All sorts of conversations unfolded on the platform, which was lively and complex, but did not attract the attention of the silent figure.

Occasionally, a policeman passed by, and he consciously hid behind the others with his luggage, avoiding the other party's gaze, staring closely at the train that was about to enter the station, rubbing a ticket to Paris in his hand, sweat soaking his palms.

The steel steamer roared, and the smoke windows spewed white mist. Two pillars of light pierced the darkness and flooded the platform. The pitch-black steam locomotive looked like a monster of steel, and as it drove into the platform, it gradually subsided its angry roar. The wind whipped up the yellowed posters on the ground.

Through the transparent glass windows of the train, you can see French people with different expressions, but without exception, they all embark on the journey to Paris with fantasy on their faces.

The doors of the train cars were opened, and the others began to board the train. The tall and thin figure also followed the crowd towards the train car, and the train attendant glanced at the ticket stub he handed over, then glanced at the other party's face, and asked softly, "To Paris?" ”

The young man pressed the brim of his hat, looked away, and whispered, "Yes, to Paris." ”

The conductor didn't say much, but said in a thick southern Toulouse accent, "Come up, lad, welcome to Paris." ”

Garion finally got on the train, squeezed past the fashionably well-dressed gentlemen, and finally found his place in the corner of the third-class cabin full of country accents, stuffed the orange suitcase he was carrying into the luggage rack, and sat down with a sigh of relief.

After waiting for a quarter of an hour, the silence was broken by the hissing of a whistle, and the steel wheels were driven by the axles, and the train slowly moved forward in the direction of the tracks. The people in the carriage poked their heads out and waved goodbye to the people who saw them off on the platform.

Only Garion calmly curled up in the corner, and when he had completely left the Tours train station, his tense nerves eased, and he took off his hat and straightened his messy hair.

Garion, as a hapless guy who crossed over, was far more unfortunate than the others.

One night after reading Hugo's "Les Miserables", he woke up to find himself in the countryside of Indre-et-et-etérical, the original owner of this body, a guy named Galian, was an authentic peasant son, who had taken refuge in Paris to escape the arrest of the police in his hometown because he had injured someone in a bar, but fortunately his friend helped Garián find a job as a customs clerk with a low salary, only 65 francs a month, but he had no choice but to leave his homeland. Travel to Paris.

As the Second French Empire stabilized, the city of Paris had to accommodate a large number of people who came from outside to expand the city every year, and Garion felt like a humble ant who had contributed to the city, curious and anxious about his future.

At this time, Paris was the homeland of European artists praised by Nietzsche, and he said that an artist can only find a home in Europe in Paris.

With a sigh, Garion clenched his pocket. A third-class train ticket from Tours to Paris costs 15 francs, which is a good budget for a man with only 130 francs in his whole body. Cash-shy, he didn't dare to buy meals on the train like everyone else. The staggering price of 1 franc and 10 sous, he silently pulled out a piece of black bread from the bag, the color looked like the nest head he usually eats, and there was no delicate taste, but a sour taste, and it was really hard to swallow without bread sauce or honey.

However, this kind of bran bread, which is popular among lower-class families in Europe, is the first choice of the poor.

He chewed slowly, unpalatable food. While complaining about his bad luck.

Without the assistance of the system, without the background of aristocrats or big capitalists, even the royalist status was enough to make him a fish in water in the complex city of Paris in 1860.

But God seems to have played a big joke on him, a peasant's son, who travels to the drunken metropolis with 130 francs in his arms, not knowing where the future holds.

He doesn't know what he can do, he doesn't have strong capital to do business, and he is easy to be deceived by people who are not familiar with his life. Moreover, the 19th century was the time when the capitalists of Bourchord were shameless to the extreme, and the temperance was even less valuable to them than the lowly ** in the tavern. The French parliament approved the lifting of commercial restrictions, which meant that merchants could not only accumulate raw capital in the form of cheating and abduction, but also create wealth for themselves by desperately squeezing the surplus value of workers.

The workers of this era, under the leadership of Robert Owen, an early utopian socialist, fought for the eight-hour workday.

When neither the workers nor the business seemed to be on the right track, Garrian sighed and wondered how to take the next step, when a commotion in the middle of the carriage caught his attention, and many people got up from their seats and gathered around. Garion was just as curious as he stood up and leaned forward, trying to see what was happening.

However, all I could see was a black pressed back, and a towering top hat.

Garian grabbed the arm of a person next to him and asked curiously, "Dear sir, what's going on up ahead?" ”

The thin man in front of him was loosely dressed in a cheap brown-gray flac, although he tried his best to pretend to be an upper-class posture, but the third-class train ticket betrayed his identity, and from the appearance, the other party was more like Maupassant's poor little clerk, revealing the selfishness and greed of the Parisian burghers.

However, Garion's honorific title sounded like a highly respected social status, and he glanced at the outdated young man, and whispered, "There was a man in front of him who suddenly fell to the ground, and I heard them say that this man is possessed by the devil, and they are going to the priest now." ”

Demon-possessed?

Listening to the other party's ridiculous remarks, Garion frowned, feeling that something was wrong, and quickly pushed the others away and drilled over. When I walked to the front, I saw a man lying on the ground, his eyes were white, his whole body was twitching up and down, his short top hat rolled to the side, the whole person's expression was painful and hideous, and the green tendons on the back of his hands were bulging.

The people around just looked at this scene indifferently, and no one reached out to help.

Looking at the middle-aged man who fell to the ground and the corners of his mouth twitched, only one thought flashed through Garion's mind.

Oops, it's epilepsy.