"Spare Paul!" Van Gogh roared angrily."Armand? Spare Paul Gauguin?" Marcel was stunned."I'm Marcel, here to fix the chimney, not one of Armand's men." Marcel tried to calm this artist on the verge of collapse.Only then did Van Gogh remember that his landlord Marie Ginoux had mentioned yesterday that she had arranged for a worker to come repair the chimney today.①Taking advantage of this moment, Marcel quickly sorted through the situation.From the artist's confused words and previous street rumors, he pieced together the truth:Armand was that burly man who had just arrived from Paris, living at 1 Boulevard Street.As soon as he arrived in Arles, he began asking around for a painter named Pierre.Street gossip said that Armand was a loan shark's enforcer, who had come to Arles to collect a debt—one thousand francs owed by Pierre.And that "Pierre" was Gauguin!Gauguin had used the alias "Pierre" to borrow money from loan sharks in Paris, then fled and hid, with Armand pursuing him

"Sell paintings?" Van Gogh sounded like he'd heard a fairy tale, helplessly spreading his paint-stained hands. "Marcel, you're in Arles! Not Paris! The people here only recognize the stones of the ancient Roman amphitheater and the grapes in their vineyards! My paintings? They can barely be traded for a loaf of bread!"Van Gogh's blue eyes drooped down, dull and lifeless: "Forget it, even if I took my paintings to Paris, no one would care. My brother Theo has tried countless times in Paris, and couldn't even recover the cost of paints!""Vincent, don't lose heart! Your paintings are great works of art!" Marcel couldn't help but step forward to embrace this dejected genius painter, patting his shoulder with the unquestionable confidence of a time traveler. "Now, you have me. Let me be your ace dealer, how about it?""Ace dealer?" Van Gogh widened his eyes, confused by this unfamiliar term, muttering it under his breath."Yes! Ace dealer! You'll gradually understand what that means!" M

Marcel leaned against the cold, rough brick wall and staggered to his feet.A dull pain throbbed at the back of his head, and his ears rang incessantly.He forced himself to stay calm and took a deep breath.The money had been stolen, and his injury needed treatment. In this winter of 1888, without antibiotics, an infection could be fatal.Memory fragments gradually pieced themselves together—near Lamartine Square, the Dupont Clinic.He held his head and stumbled forward.A dark green wooden door appeared before him, with a handwritten wooden sign hanging beside it: "Dupont Clinic."Dim light seeped through the door crack, appearing particularly warm in the cold night.He pushed open the door, and a bell chimed softly.A mixture of carbolic acid disinfectant, alcohol, the fiber scent of linen and cotton, the waxy smell of beeswax and oils, and herbal aromas hit him in the face.The clinic was small but tidy, with a kerosene lamp flickering on the counter.A young woman in a faded gray

Standing at the doorway was none other than Emily, the kind nurse from the Dupont clinic.She was panting heavily, her delicate face flushed red from running and urgency, with several strands of chestnut hair disheveled and clinging to her sweat-dampened temples.She still wore that gray nurse's dress, washed until it was nearly white, with only a thin, old cloak hastily thrown over it—clearly she had chased them all the way here."Sorel! My brother!" She threw herself desperately to her brother's side, using her frail body to shield him from Solang, like a mother bird protecting her chick.She embraced Sorel, her trembling hands gently brushing away the blood and dirt from his face, her voice choked with tears: "My God... Sorel! Why did they bring you here and beat you?"Seeing his sister, Sorel's eyes—swollen to mere slits—flashed with panic and shame. He struggled to push her away, his voice slurred: "Emily... go! Leave quickly! Don't worry about me!"Armand slightly raised his chi

A flash of wariness crossed Van Gogh's eyes—Gauguin's betrayal, Armand's gun barrel, the shadow of his severed ear, all these had left this sensitive artist with lingering fears about any unexpected disturbance.Marcel patted his shoulder, stood up, walked to the door, and asked in a deep voice: "Who is it?"The voice outside carried nervousness: "It's me, Sorel Dupont, Mr. Duval, I... I want to see you..."Sorel Dupont, that young robber?Marcel quickly pulled open the door.Standing before him was indeed Sorel Dupont, his face bruised and swollen.The same youth who had been beaten by the gang enforcer Solang just two or three hours ago.His rough woolen coat was pitifully thin, his forehead wrapped with gauze, and his facial wounds treated with some ointment.His hands were clasped together, head lowered, eyes evasive, not daring to meet Marcel's gaze directly."Sorel?" Marcel was somewhat surprised, stepping aside to let him in. "How did you get here? Where's your sister Emily?"