He cough, cough, and sometimes even all night, bent over in pain curled up next to tall built up the manuscript.Pouring out of his window, light rock in the river Seine and downs, like a shiny Chinese silk.In the evening, it was rowing over from the other side of the village, just between the fields to pick a bunch of lilies on his door, with a note on the bouquet: Dedicated to “small hotel” author.At night, the dew encrusted lily.Morning, he looked up from the manuscript, used to open the door, saw the bunch of flowers lying on the ground, raised his eyebrows seriously.He will note carefully removed from the bouquet, she turned around and directed at the boiling milk in the kitchen wife shouted: Ha, I said, in Meitang I could get the best of royalties!The special royalties made him a full day pleasure in being.After breakfast, he did not return to bed as usual, but again sat down at the table and continue writing later spread to that part of the famous “Nana” around the world.The struggle between the Samaritan and the conscience of Paris prostitute image has tortured him for a whole day and night more than 400.This is comparable to the joy of the day, the first time he leaned over to Flaubert wrote that evening in the Seine river Meitang: the great Gustave (he always called the paper Flaubert ), I bought a house, a rabbit cage-like building, located between the Poissy and El Terry, a charming remote corner of the Seine, the price is 9000 francs.I tell you the price is to let you do not be offended that I used to buy at the country writing this humble abode of.The advantage is that far from all the bustle of residence, and not a bourgeois around.He has maintained the asset who the mocking attitude, this attitude sometimes mild and sometimes acerbic and sometimes angry, throughout his whole life.Another companion of his life attitude is about Flaubert.Feelings between him and Flaubert always hovering between reverence and desire beyond.In his mind, the great “Madame Bovary,” the authors of their own countless sleepless nights writing of lights, is living its own ink deep solemnity of the Holy Spirit, but also dance in their tip lively spirit.However, he was eager to dance the soul of their characters beyond the shadow of Flaubert.Hachette bookstore in that dark room, he lit the desire with which their essence and blood, struggling to get through a literary apprentice initial apprenticeship time.He Flaubert smaller than a full 19 years old, in front of the latter, he always seemed very gentle, reticent, like a shy teenager provinces.Once, when he was halfway across Paris, breathless climb six floors, knocked on the door of Flaubert, he saw Turgenev.That moment, he felt the body a feeling of energized.A man in the days of Tong Mei, he often recalled the scene in a dream when initially see Turgenev: some dim lights.Paris noisy seems far, far away, getting closer than in Paris is that the sound of French people still pure posh voice.Turgenev Yang sat on the couch, gently, with a slightly hesitating a little slowly telling; What did he say?Wood serfs story?Mysterious legends pale prairie?Or in the poetry reading Pushkin’s freedom, love, hope and calm glory, we can not long deceive deceive Meitang always pervaded the fragrance of milk.This is the traditional fragrance of rural France, this fragrance through the dark clouds, passing the heartbeat of Mother France.This fragrance such as fog, like Moonlight quietly rising mist filled the lonely walk Rousseau suburban track, filled in a sea pen Hugo wake up every morning, the smell of this fragrance, he knew that he was really real life in the field under the spirit of the French literary sky.At first he did not decide to settle Meitang.To listen to the Seine as sad tales of waves do not necessarily have to come to this remote place, perhaps, in light of the blurred left bank of the Seine to better understand muttered Millennium flowing.However, it does have a big, noisy Paris, Paris should be my small, quiet.Where to find small, quiet Paris?Paris decided to leave that night, he bid farewell to the endless night that lights literary lights downstairs in Flaubert.At night, the lights lit up one on earth, it is a writer’s conscience for human combustion.He will always remember I said at once with him Flaubert window overlooking the lights of Tudor words.Yes, they put their own lights lit.He clenched his fist, my mind suddenly a flash: my lights should be lit in the Seine in waves!In this way, perhaps Meitang born to wait for his arrival, he might break through from Paris, it is to put into the arms of Meitang.May 1878, the Paris dirt road leading to Tong Mei, the clip-clop broken, 38-year-old widowed mother holding his own pair of wrinkled hands, walked into the house like a rabbit cage.From the moment, Mei Tong, this hick town outside Paris Crossing the threshold of this former local dregs of the backcountry, because he Emile Zola, is this new spirit of another at the French shrine on earth.This is a man in the mortal world suddenly left and right hard to find a soul territory, this is a writer travels to the End of the World in the secular world to seek only souls harbor.As Francois Nulixiai said: house, for a writer, first of all where the home is not, nor is it a symbol of social status, it is above all a fortress, a set, or to protect a hand a pen or a few hours in the morning and in the evening a long time spent in front of the screen.Yes, a person’s Mei Tong, Tong Mei Zola.