Van Gogh, Don't Cut Off Your Ear! Your Top Trader Is Here

Chapter 6 First Meeting with Emily

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 nurse's dress was facing away from him, busy in front of an almost half-empty medicine cabinet.

She wore a patched dark apron and was carefully sorting dried herbs with gentle, focused movements.

Hearing the door, she turned around.

The kerosene lamp cast an amber haze of light, illuminating the girl's soft profile.

She was about eighteen or nineteen years old, with delicate features.

A few strands of chestnut hair had loosely fallen from her updo, but fatigue and worry clouded her eyes.

"Good evening, sir?" Her voice was gentle as she placed the herb jar in her hands on the counter. "Do you need help? Are you injured?"

Her gaze quickly swept over Marcel's coat covered in wall dust and the hand covering his head.

Marcel leaned against the doorframe and managed to speak: "Yes. Sorry to disturb you so late... I hit my head against a wall..."

A wave of dizziness struck, and he swayed.

"Careful!" She immediately stepped forward and supported his arm.

Her hands were stronger than they appeared.

She helped Marcel sit down on an old wooden chair.

"I'm Emily Dupont," she said gently. "Father is out on a house call. Let me take a look at you."

She leaned closer and parted the hair at the back of his head.

When her fingertips touched the swollen, painful spot, Marcel couldn't help but cry out "Ah!"

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" she said softly with genuine sympathy.

"It's quite swollen, but fortunately the skin isn't broken. Do you feel dizzy? Can you see me clearly?"

Marcel nodded.

"It might be a mild concussion. Wait a moment, I'll apply some herbal ointment to relieve the pain and swelling."

She turned back to the medicine cabinet, crouched down, felt around the bottom shelf, and took out a small clay jar.

She opened the small clay jar, and the cool scent of mint and lavender spread out.

Marcel recovered slightly and carefully observed the clinic.

The medicine cabinet was meticulously organized but unusually sparse, with many glass bottles containing only thin layers of powder or medicinal liquid at the bottom.

In the corner of the counter sat a crude wooden donation box with only a few small-denomination coins scattered inside, even including a couple of pennies.

His gaze returned to Emily—her apron worn shiny at the elbows, and the old leather shoes beneath her skirt hem showing obvious repair marks.

Everything spoke of silent poverty.

Emily walked over with the ointment, used a clean wooden stick to take some dark green salve, and carefully applied it to his injury with focused, gentle movements.

"Made with arnica and lavender, very effective for bruises and swelling," she explained softly, as if comforting him, then skillfully bandaged it with slightly worn but clean cloth strips.

"Don't let the wound get wet, and it would be best to come change the dressing tomorrow. May God bless you."

She gave a shallow smile.

Marcel instinctively reached into his coat, only touching rough fabric.

He suddenly froze, remembering that his money pouch had been stolen.

A trace of barely concealed embarrassment crossed his face.

"Miss Dupont, thank you very much... it's just that, the consultation f*e..." his voice was hoarse. "I'm afraid I can only pay tomorrow. My money... was all stolen just now..."

Emily's hands paused while packing away the medicine jar.

She looked up, saw his embarrassed expression, and smiled slightly.

"No need, sir. It's just some herbs I gathered and processed myself, not worth much money."

She turned to continue organizing the few remaining medicinal materials, her silhouette appearing particularly thin in the lamplight: "These days... everyone has it tough."

Her voice was as light as a sigh.

Marcel was stunned.

He clearly saw her delicate, fragile neck when she lowered her head, those hands sorting herbs with fingertips stained green from the medicines and thin calluses covering the knuckles.

The hardships of life formed a stark contrast with her understated kindness.

Gratitude, shame, and an inexplicable emotion surged in his heart.

"How can this be right? At least let me..."

"Really, no need," she gently interrupted him, her tone gentle but firm, turning back to give him a sincere smile.

"As long as you're safe, that's enough. I'm happy to help you."

Her gaze inadvertently glanced at the nearly empty donation box, then quickly looked away.

Just then—

"Bang!"

A muffled sound suddenly came from the direction of the back yard, like a heavy object hitting a door panel, followed by a series of panicked and hurried footsteps, and the back door being forcefully pushed open and slammed shut!

Emily's expression changed dramatically!

She suddenly straightened up, nearly dropping the medicine jar in her hands.

She clutched her apron tightly, her gaze sharply turning toward the tightly closed small door leading to the back yard, her eyes filled with anxiety.

"Sorry, sir," she suddenly turned around, her tone becoming urgent, her eyes flickering uncertainly.

"I... I have some urgent matters to attend to. Yes, very urgent matters!"

This abrupt dismissal and her barely concealed panic made Marcel immediately sense something was wrong.

The commotion at the back door and her excessive reaction carried an unusual tension.

He vaguely heard sounds coming from the back yard, full of doubt, but didn't feel it appropriate to ask more.

He endured his discomfort, stood up, and thanked her solemnly: "Thank you very much for your help, Miss Dupont. I'm Marcel Duval. I will definitely come back tomorrow to change the dressing.Wish you a Merry Christmas Eve!"

Emily seemed not to have heard clearly at all, just nodding randomly, her gaze still fixed nervously on the back door, restless: "Merry Christmas Eve,Mr. Duval."

Marcel, full of doubts, pushed open the dark green door and walked into the cold night.

At that moment, Marcel felt a strong premonition rising in his heart:

This girl, kind to the point of stubbornness, seemed to be carrying secrets unknown to others.