Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 83 Living off a woman? Reverse sponsorship!

What Lionel didn't know was that while he was enjoying his time on Jersey, his "patron," Mrs. Rothschild, was right across the island, looking out at him from across the sea.

It was a private and tranquil estate owned by the Rothschild family on the Normandy coast, not far from Rouen, perched on a cliff overlooking the English Channel.

Seine pollution, a seasonal urban ailment, is a disaster that the elegant lifestyle of the upper class must avoid.

She didn't even need to wait for the journalists' scathing satire to appear in the newspapers before she gave the order to lead the procession of more than twenty carriages away from Paris in a grand procession.

The estate itself is a meticulously restored 18th-century building with elegant lines and huge windows that frame the expansive sea view into the interior.

The meticulously maintained garden is evergreen all year round, and the sea breeze sweeps through it year-round, bringing with it the fresh scents of salt, seaweed, and pine. Compared to the filthy city of Paris, it is simply paradise.

Two days before she moved in, the servants had already made all the necessary preparations.

At this moment, the air in the manor is filled with the scents of fine beeswax, dried roses, and freshly mowed lawn.

Here, there is only the ceaseless whisper of the waves and the occasional cry of seabirds soaring across the sky—this is the tranquil life that Mrs. Rothschild needed.

She didn't even let her husband accompany her, leaving him in Paris to continue dealing with that vulgar money.

In the afternoon, sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, casting a warm glow on the smooth mahogany wood floor of the study.

Mrs. Rothschild leaned lazily against a covered reading chair, listlessly flipping through a few newspapers and magazines she had brought with her.

Her head maid, Lia, quietly approached and handed her a thick envelope: "Madam, this is a letter forwarded from Paris, from Monsieur Lionel Sorel."

You said that as soon as you receive a letter from him, it should be delivered to you immediately.

Upon hearing "Lional Soray," Mrs. Rothschild's spirits lifted immediately. She took the envelope, opened it, and waved for Lydia to leave the study.

Unfolding the letter, one finds a neatly handwritten manuscript of a novel.

"Letter from an Unknown Woman..." the lady read the title softly, a hint of curiosity flashing in her emerald eyes.

She was deeply impressed by Lionel's talent. The compassion and cold insight into the outcasts of the era in "The Old Guard" deeply moved her, even leading her to interpret metaphors about the fate of women that went beyond the author's original intention.

The very first sentence made her pause slightly:
Years later, when facing the woman in his bed, the novelist "L" will recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from a stranger.

“What a peculiar sentence structure…” she murmured to herself.

This narrative style, which intertwines the future, present, and past, presents an almost magical tension in time and space when expressed in French.

It is not like a traditional linear narrative, but more like a premonition of fate, a shadow cast on the river of time.

Although Mrs. Rothschild's literary knowledge was not enough to decipher its deeper meaning, she was instantly captivated, sensing that this would be an extraordinary story.

She continued reading and soon became immersed in the desperate confession written by the stranger with the last of her life.

When Mrs. Rothschild read the woman's opening declaration of her son's death—"My son died yesterday"—she felt a sharp pang in her heart.

This abrupt and heavy opening was like a cold dagger, instantly piercing through all the psychological barriers this woman had built up, reaching straight to the most primal grief in her heart.

Although she had no children, as a woman, she fully understood what Lionel emphasized in his narrative: "This is not a lie."

When a mother loses her only child, her words carry an undeniable, almost cruel truth and moral weight.

This became the sole foundation upon which the long, humble, passionate, yet utterly ignored life story that followed was built.

As the letters unfolded, Mrs. Rothschild witnessed how a soul could burn out in a hopeless love.

The woman's lifelong, selfless, almost religious devotion to the writer L; her humble, almost humbly demeanor; her countless lonely nights of waiting and disillusionment; her unwavering commitment to raising her child alone and seeing him as the only link between her and her lover…

Every detail was like a fine needle, pricking Mrs. Rothschild's sensitive heart. However, what truly shook her soul was not the woman's devotion and sacrifice, but rather the astonishing dignity she displayed at the end of her life.

Unlike the women in those vulgar love stories who beg for pity in the most humiliating way, only to be stripped of their dignity and roughly dragged away—

The woman in Lionel's story endured endless neglect, oblivion, and being treated as one of many fleeting affairs, yet she never disturbed L's life.

In the absolute solitude of the shadow of death, she chose to use her pen rather than her voice, and her calm words rather than uncontrollable cries, to issue her final and most powerful accusation and declaration to the man who never truly knew her.

She asked for nothing—except to be "seen" or "known," even if only through this letter after her death.

She transformed her tragedy into an invisible yet incredibly sharp sword, piercing precisely into the depths of L's cold, forgetful, pleasure-loving soul, leaving behind an eternal, unhealable wound.

“This is… true revenge. No, it is redemption… the redemption of her own soul.” Mrs. Rothschild put down the manuscript, took a deep breath of the sea-salty air, and tried to calm her turbulent emotions.

“Lionel…Lionel…how can you understand women so well…understand love so well…truly noble love…”

She murmured to herself, the image of Lionel's tall, handsome figure and his powerful, resounding words flashing through her mind:
"Madam, if I may be so bold, compared to the 'sponsorship' that excellent works bring to the human spirit, 'bread and a quiet room' are nothing!"

So arrogant, so confident, and so charming, as if he were her patron, not the other way around.

……

The head maid, Lia, saw her mistress again after hearing Mrs. Rothschild let out a soft "Ah" from inside the study.

The dutiful Liya immediately opened the study door and rushed in. She found Liya slumped in the reading chair, her face flushed, her eyes filled with tears, one hand clutching her chest, the other clutching a stack of manuscript papers.

Liya asked with concern, "Madam, should we call the doctor...?"

Mrs. Rothschild then realized she had been somewhat out of line, quickly straightened her disheveled skirt, and sat up straight again: "I just... read a masterpiece."

Liya was somewhat shocked and couldn't understand what kind of masterpiece could make her mistress lose her composure like this.

An idea was quickly forming in Mrs. Rothschild's mind. She sat down at her desk, spread out the letter paper with the family crest, and picked up a dip pen.

Dear Leon:

You win! You say that literary masterpieces contribute far more to the human spirit than bread and a quiet room; I originally thought it was just armor for you to maintain your dignity.

But after I finished reading "Letter from an Unknown Woman" with indescribable excitement, I realized that you were upholding my dignity.

Please allow me to be frank, but it moved my soul far more than The Old Guard, even though the latter is already quite outstanding.

The "unknown woman" in your writing, her story... Oh, Leon, you created a soul that etched humility into its very bones, yet blossomed with dignity amidst the dust! She is a star rising from the mud, stained with blood and tears.

She reminded me of many people, but mostly of myself.

……

Please allow me to retract my statement that "art needs fertile ground"; on the contrary, it is a great honor for me to have read such a masterpiece before it was published in the newspaper.

I have complete faith that your future novel will be an undisputed masterpiece, and I will dedicate everything I have to its publication.

……

Your sincere appreciation,
Eleonore Adelaide de Rothschild

After she finished writing, she put the letter in an envelope, handed it to the head maid, Lia, and told her, "Please send the letter to Paris as soon as possible, to Monsieur Sorel."

If he replies, please send it to me as soon as possible.

(End of this chapter)