Several people stayed in this Notre Dame Cathedral, which was different from its previous life, until the sunset when the Seine River was soaked by rain.

The rain had stopped shortly before evening, but the air still seemed to be filled with moist water vapor, and the thick clouds broke through several holes, revealing the light and shadow of the sun.

The gorgeous orange-red color, the bright golden light jumping on the Seine, seems to be able to see the shadow of another glorious city from the river water.

Then this group of people who went back a little later than expected because of the scenery were caught by friends who "dropped by" to see what they were doing.

"Kitahara! And Hugo! Drag this guy away quickly - why is Proust's character so like a leech? He can't be pulled off if he sticks to someone!"

The somewhat depressed voice of the Russian Transcendent sounded, and the pair of blue eyes stared at the pitiful Proust hugging his waist with disgust.

Proust sneezed and stared at Turgenev uneasily with his green eyes. He seemed to sense the dissatisfaction that was about to overflow from the other person. He hesitantly let go of his hand and shrank to the other side.

There is no intention of complaining, and it feels so docile that it is almost harmless.

Turgenev raised his eyebrows, and pulled him back to hug him unhappily, "What are you doing? Do you still want to walk alone? I'm afraid you won't be able to walk a few meters before you fall to death on the ground. Then you can frame me for the blame.

, right?”

"No……"

Proust lowered his ears a little guiltily and replied, "Looking wilted."

He knows that as long as he goes out, he is almost like a useless person, and insisting on going alone will only make people feel worried.

But President Li and Kitahara came back a full five minutes later than expected, and I was really uneasy... It was so late, what if something unexpected happened?

Kitahara is just an ordinary person, and the public security in Paris is not particularly good, no matter how bad you think about it.

Turgenev felt angry when he saw the other person's soft appearance and didn't dare to say a word, but it was also a bit funny - could this guy only be so fluent and eloquent at various high-class banquets?

When he attended the banquet of the Paris Commune before, he didn't realize that this guy was so soft-hearted and disabled in life. Although during the whole banquet, Proust basically didn't move much except his mouth.

Hugo pressed his glasses, a light smile appeared in the corners of his eyes, and took the initiative to hug his fellow members, his tone still seemed gentle and tolerant.

"Okay, okay, let's go home together."

Kitahara and Kaede looked at Anthony at home, and then at Turgenev, and laughed softly on the side, until Turgenev suddenly became angry, and he groaned out of his mouth.

A string of innocuous protests and condemnations.

"Don't laugh! This transcendent is willing to take care of this kind of idiot with a second-level disability in life. It's already a big honor, okay! If it weren't for the sake of Hugo, a guy who protects his shortcomings... why are you still laughing! Believe it or not, I and you

Break off the relationship!"

Anthony tilted his head, but he understood what Beihara and Feng meant, so he looked at the adult in front of him with strange eyes, feeling that the other person's interpersonal skills might not be as good as his own.

Well, definitely not.

The little prince hugged the rose in his arms tightly, and then took Dumas' hand, feeling a little proud.

This was the end of that day - and the subsequent impact was not small. For example, Proust suddenly caught a severe cold because he went out in the cold weather, and could only huddle up in his own home.

Due to his severe asthma, he couldn't stand the smell of disinfectant and various medicines in the hospital, so all he could do was stay at home and get through it slowly.

"Ah sneeze!"

Proust sneezed, wet mist filled his eyes, wrapped himself in loose clothes, and his long brown-red curly hair fell softly to the ground.

His clothes were very long, hanging down to just below his knees. When tucked up at the corners, they could wrap up his entire body, giving him a sense of security that he could hide himself.

Because there was only one person, he wore the clothes in a mess, as if he got out of bed wrapped in a thin sheet, and the buttons were tied up haphazardly.

In other words, there are so many of them that few of the buttons that extend all the way to the thighs can be buttoned correctly.

"So hungry..." Proust just hugged himself and huddled behind the door, muttering quietly, looking at the red wine bottle he broke while walking over with a somewhat depressed look.

It got on my clothes. And why did I break the red wine bottle when I was arranging my clothes... I was obviously very, very careful.

Proust shook his head and no longer thought about the matter with his head, which was slightly dizzy due to fever. He buried his face in his arms and worked hard to get into the corner next to the door.

Darkness and small corners help him think and make him feel a rare sense of safety.

"In one hour and twenty minutes, the president should be here. I wonder if Kitahara will come."

Proust lowered his eyes and calculated seriously. He did not tell others about his cold and fever, nor did he want them to worry. "Then... sneeze! Cough cough cough cough!"

Proust, who was choked by dust and was about to burst into tears, subconsciously pressed against the wall, but it had no effect. Instead, his breathing became more rapid, and he could only breathe hard like a fish that landed on the beach.

Chest pain, dizziness, breathlessness, a loss of strength in his hands and feet, and a strong sense of suffocation... typical asthma symptoms, which can be considered an old friend he has known since he was seven or eight years old.

Proust whimpered subconsciously, ignoring the pressing pressure and pain in his chest, stubbornly shivering and shrinking into a ball, trying to sink his consciousness.

——He has no idea of ​​looking for medicine, because he knows that he, who is disabled in life, will definitely not be able to find the medicine he wants. He doesn’t even know where the medicine was thrown by him, so he can only use this terrible escape method.

Avoid the pain of illness.

As for the rest...just bet that this asthma attack won't kill you directly.

Proust skillfully activated his powers and plunged his thoughts into the flowing waves of time. At this moment, it seemed that the physical pain was also much blurred.

The power called "Reminiscing about Lost Time" can bring his consciousness to a corner of the four-dimensional space, witness the endless extension of the past of this world, and freeze it forever in the depths of his memories.

The past of every person, the past of every city, and even the past of this universe, if he is willing, he can trace it back to the extremely distant countless years.

With this power, he can build a Paris in his mind that is exactly the same as it was in history, fill it with everyone he knows, and draw them all vividly.

Proust closed his eyes, but he clearly saw a fragment-like shadow that he intercepted and transformed with his consciousness in the four-dimensional space. He stretched out his hand, pulled it down, and dragged it into his ocean of consciousness.

.

This little fragment belongs to his kingdom.

In this world, there is no fragrance of flowers and plants, no smell of asphalt roads, no smells from people, and no fragrance of food.

That's why he can be free. In reality, a slightly denser tree-lined avenue and a little bit of flying dust may trigger his asthma, leaving him half-dead for several days, basically eliminating the possibility of him traveling alone.

And here, he can curl up in this small kingdom he built and roll in the grass, he can stay quietly outdoors all day, he can go see the people who are engraved in his memory, and even be bold

Go ahead and make unreasonable noises and talk to them about what's on your mind.

Proust gritted his teeth and reluctantly resisted the pain that seemed to become more acute and even spread to the respiratory tract, and forced his attention to other places.

There's nothing to think about, Marcel. You've experienced these pains so many times anyway, and you should be used to them by now. You might as well think about a few interesting things that happened recently.

There seems to be another person whispering in my consciousness, with gentle patience. For example, a new play was staged in Paris a few days ago. Do you still remember its name?

"Black Dominoes".

In intense pain, Proust pulled out the name from the past in a hazy state of consciousness, and murmured his answer.

His thoughts couldn't help but drift away with this name, and he even temporarily forgot about his breathing that was about to stop him.

Proust had not seen this play, but that did not prevent him from thinking about its content based on the name.

Dominoes are interconnected, and can be toppled by a gentle push. Black is a dull and sad color, without bright colors, but it also carries aristocratic elegance.

It should be about the feelings of a noble girl with a sad and dark tone, fragile and delicate, right? It is probably a toss-and-turn and lingering story.

Proust was lost in thought for a while, feeling that he had thought of many, many things. Even the world of thinking reflected the unique brilliance of the collision of thoughts.

He thought of the light that occasionally danced on the silk, and the dazzling lightning formed by the converging clouds. The very short light...and the meteors, and the vast universe that gave birth to meteors, and everything unknown in the universe.

Unknown... Proust's thoughts suddenly paused here, thinking of the traveler who came to Paris.

He cannot see the time passed by that person.

It's as if this person has left no past in the world, and no past he cares about. He just stands alone in the long river of time. Like an egret that mistakenly enters this timeline, he elegantly and sadly

Watch the world.

It makes people curious and makes them want to get closer.

Proust was lost in thought for a while, and couldn't help but start to speculate on what kind of background could cultivate such a person.

But before he started to think deeply, the more severe pain in his chest brought his consciousness back to reality.

"Cough cough cough cough! Huh... ha..."

Proust opened his eyes and held his chest tightly with his hands. His green eyes were like the surface of a lake with broken waves. Tears even appeared in the corners of his eyes amidst the violent coughing.

Even breathing seems to have become the most luxurious imagination. I can only struggle to absorb a little bit of precious air, which in turn aggravates the excessive fatigue of the respiratory muscles. The heart beats faster and faster, further making the pain in the chest worse.

It's getting more serious.

It hurts...

Proust held the hem of his clothes tightly, feeling as if his thoughts were about to freeze on this word, and he could not think of anything else.

Even the thoughts of escaping and asking for help were firmly suppressed by the surging emotions, as if he had become a puppet controlled by pain, and his throat was tightly grasped by illness and fate.

Then……

Then he felt himself being held in someone's arms, and a worried voice sounded, but it was also vague, and he had no extra energy to distinguish it. When it fell into his ears, it was just a noisy and chaotic sound like a bee.

"Is Proust's asthma that serious?"

Beihara and Feng frowned slightly, held the child in their arms, and touched his head a little distressedly. They finally understood why Hugo was always so caring and tolerant towards him.

"Yes. To be precise, he is the kind of little guy who has to worry about his life safety as long as he doesn't appear in everyone's sight for an hour. Otherwise, I wouldn't have brought you here..."

Having said this, Hugo also sighed, as if he hated iron and steel. "Those guys are basically spraying messy perfume on their bodies. If they come, it might make his condition more serious."

He originally planned to go to the Palace of Versailles with Kitahara and Kaede today. But after asking around, he found that no one in the Paris Commune had seen Proust this morning. Hugo, who was accustomed to being a parent, knew what was going on.
To be continued...