The steam train travels all the way after making a detour between the mountains. The steel front of the car smoked and roared head-on. The poplar trees on both sides of the railroad swept backwards one by one, and on the distant hills, the fading twilight shrouded in a faint white mist. Gradually, the train picked up speed and sped forward like a lightning speed.

The vast plain appeared in front of the speeding train, and the moonlight suspended in mid-air sprinkled a silvery white light on the ground.

Garion stared out the window at the setting sun, put down his notebook, and wrote the end of the book. Then he looked up at Zola, who was walking opposite, and he was wearing a gray Clough coat, leaning against the wall of the carriage, and fell into a deep sleep.

He suddenly remembered a sentence before.

"Writers don't retire, we either die of alcoholism or give ourselves a bullet."

In this era when communications were not yet developed, he could only guess by imagination how lively Paris was now. This was not only a contest between the literati, but also a pen war between the republicans and the royal literati. But now he can only choose to stay out of the situation and wait and see.

The way Molotov's cocktails were made in 1984, and how to make improvised bombs out of saltpeter, charcoal, sulfur, flour, and iron nails were all deliberately instigated by Garion, and his supporters would inevitably go to extremes after the humiliation of Mérimée and other royal literati.

"Thoughts are not afraid of bullets."

The corners of Garian's mouth curled, he didn't expect "1984" to wake up many people in a short period of time, just one or two would be enough. Let Mérimée and others feel scared and frightened, and no longer dare to use news censorship to suppress them at will, and the goal has been achieved.

Garian leaned back in his chair and slowly closed his eyes.

"I hope Paris in a month will surprise me."

After dark, the newspaper building was empty, and the crowd on the street gradually became full, only an inconspicuous young man sneaked out of the uninhabited alley, looked left and right for a while, and only after confirming that there was no one came to the gate quietly, and then pulled out a short axe and smashed the lock directly.

Click.

The abrupt voice still echoed in the quiet and deserted corridor, and he quickly walked in, lit the candle in his hand, and slowly walked to the door of the office.

Then he pulled out three bottles from his bag and brought the candle in his hand close to the kerosene-soaked strip of cloth.

Suddenly a dazzling firelight illuminated a small area of the dark hallway, and he raised his hand and threw the burning wine bottle into the Herald office.

The sound of glass shattering smashed against the solid marble floor, and the flammable liquid inside came into contact with the burning cloth strips, and the flames spread out in all directions of the office, engulfing everything around them.

The wooden tables and chairs were surrounded by flames, and the paper placed on the table was set on fire, and the fire developed very quickly, and soon it scurried up to the table and set everything on fire.

However, he didn't stop, and continued to throw the remaining two bottles into his office.

The fire was a little stronger, and the arsonist's face turned red.

Seeing the growing fire slowly engulfing the office, he sneered and said, "This is a greeting from Molotov!" You will no longer be able to oppress the people of Paris! ”

He picked up the bag that he had at his feet, and there were eight other bottles of the same Molotov cocktail in it.

During the day, all the newspapers against Garian were written down by him, and he wanted to burn this group of official mouthpieces, the government's public opinion eagle dogs, with a blazing fire!

Soon the flames spread from the office, enveloping the entire building, and the flames that erupted from the windows reflected the dark and uninhabited streets.

By the time the patrolling police found the newspaper office on fire, they were no longer able to stop the intense fire.

They could only stand outside, helpless and waiting for the firefighters to slowly extinguish the terrible fire.

Marcus, the editor-in-chief of the Herald, was suddenly awakened by a sharp knock on the door while he was still asleep, and he had had the privilege of having a hearty dinner with Mérimée this evening, and had drunk two glasses of wine, and he felt a pain in his head that he had never felt before.

Marcus opened his eyes in a daze, and instead of stopping, the irritating knocking on the door became more urgent.

"Damn, is there anything you can't wait until tomorrow? I have to come now. ”

He swore and lifted the covers, impatiently grabbed the candlestick, and lit it.

The faint light of the fire dispelled the darkness, and he fumbled his way down the stairs with his handrail.

Apparently very annoyed by the guy who disturbed people's dreams in the middle of the night, he walked to the door and asked loudly, "Who?" ”

"We're the police, Mr. Marcas."

Hearing the police, Marcas was a little more conscious, and he finally opened the door, and the night breeze blew on his face, fading the drunkenness a little.

The smell of alcohol made the two policemen on patrol pinch their noses, and they said impatiently, "I'm sorry, Mr. Marcus, please come back to the police station with us immediately." ”

Marcas, who was wearing thin pajamas, was reluctant to go out, yawning and saying impatiently, "What's going on?" Looking panicked, is there anything you can't talk about tomorrow? ”

However, what the police said next made Makaston stunned.

The policeman said helplessly, "Your Herald newspaper office has been set on fire!" The entire building burned down. ”

By this time Marcus had fully awakened from his wine, and his eyes widened in disbelief, and he asked repeatedly, "What did you just say, that my newspaper office was burned down?" ”

The policeman nodded, "Yes, the newspaper office was burned, and not only the Herald, but also the newspaper offices of Le France and the Imperial Journal were also caught in the same fire tonight, we suspect that someone deliberately set the fire, but the target of the suspect has not yet been clarified......"

However, the editor-in-chief of Marcus could no longer listen to what he said, and when years of hard work were burned, he felt that the whole human soul had been stripped away from his body, leaving only an unconscious shell.

Then Marcus knelt down, and for a moment it was as if the sound of the whole world had been absorbed into the sponge.

Silence.

In the final scene, consciousness is being expelled from Marcas's mind, and he only sees the police shouting something in a panic, and then the vision slowly becomes blurred, and the whole person is unconscious.