Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 90 This is my Leon, the one and only Leonar!
For Lionel, this holiday felt exceptionally long, and he couldn't wait for it to end.

So when the day of returning to school arrived, he was happier than any of his classmates, and he took a public carriage to school on time to register.

The school gate was still bustling, but the atmosphere was different today.

Although the professors and students continued to exchange pleasantries, none of them were in a hurry to enter the campus. Instead, their eyes kept glancing at the public bus stop next to them, as if they were waiting for someone.

When Lionel stepped off the public carriage and came into view, people immediately began to applaud.

First a few people, then a large group, and finally everyone applauded.

Albert stepped forward and slapped him hard on the shoulder: "Hey, Leon, well done!"

Lionel was somewhat bewildered. Could the influence of "Modern Life" really be that great?
How could "Letter from an Unknown Woman" receive such unanimous praise from these self-proclaimed elite men?
At this moment, Dean Henry Patan walked up to Lionel and turned to the crowd: "Aha, look who's here! It's our hero, Lionel!"

Then she turned around and gave him a warm hug: "Well done, Leon! You've worked hard!"

He then shouted to all the teachers and students: "You should learn from Lionel and contribute to the construction of the Sorbonne."

The professors remained relatively reserved, but the students couldn't help but cheer, turning the Sorbonne campus entrance into a sea of ​​joy.

After the simple yet solemn welcoming ceremony, a bewildered Lionel whispered to Albert, "Have you all read 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'?"

Albert was taken aback: "Letter from an Unknown Woman? What's that?"

Lionel: "Hmm?"

Albert immediately revealed an expression of excitement, envy, and even jealousy: "30 francs! A full 30 francs!"
This is the largest single donation the Sorbonne has received in recent years through its "Poetry Festival."

Lionel: "Huh!?"

He immediately frowned. When he spoke with Mrs. Rothschild that day, he had told her not to be too high-profile, and she had agreed.

Why did you change your mind after only two days?

Albert put his arm around Lionel's neck and whispered, "How did you get involved with Baroness Alexievna?"
"Hasn't she only been in Paris for a short time? My God, Leon, you have so many secrets I don't know!"

Lionel: "What?!?!"

Baroness Alexievna? He had absolutely no recollection of the name, and she looked distinctly Russian—at least he hadn't dealt with any Russians before.

However, Albert did not press the matter. He knew that how young artists communicated with their patrons was often an industry secret and could not be easily taught.

For example, the secrets of how his mother sponsored the young "wandering poet" Jean Reichelbrand and the "commoner poet" François Gobert were not even clear to his father.

As the youngest son in the family, he could only inherit a limited amount of property, and the title was not his for the taking. Only by attaching himself to a top noblewoman like Lionel could he possibly turn his life around.

He grinned lewdly: "I've heard Russian women are all tall and imposing..." He sized up the towering Lionel: "No wonder you were able to tame her..."

Lionel was a little angry. What was all this nonsense?!

He would accept any connection he had with Mrs. Rothschild, but where did this Baroness Alexievna from Russia come from?
But he is now speechless, because any denial from Albert or his classmates will be met with a look that says, "You don't need to explain, I understand."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

At the same time, Montmartre was a "good place" full of countryside and vineyards, brimming with pastoral scenery.

A vast estate sits within, surrounded by vineyards, alfalfa, bushes, and small forests, all embracing a newly renovated, 18th-century-style castle. The narrow lookout holes in the castle have been replaced with large glass windows, allowing sunlight to stream in freely, and the rooms are no longer cold and damp.

Atop the arrow towers surrounding the castle, a banner composed of a double-headed eagle, ears of wheat, a plowshare, and crossed swords fluttered in the spring breeze.

At this moment, in the small garden in the center of the castle, a young, tall, and proud figure stands beside a large cluster of blooming irises, seemingly lost in thought, or perhaps grieving.

A beautifully dressed noblewoman was gazing at him with rapt attention—she dared not approach him for fear of interrupting the literary genius's train of thought.

He has just completed a masterpiece like "Letter from an Unknown Woman," and I wonder what kind of thrilling story he is brewing now—it will surely conquer his soft and sensitive heart once again.

His patched coat, worn smooth at the elbows, now possessed a more sacred and magnificent aura than the grand ceremonial robes with gold thread and jewels that the Tsar wore for the Corpus Christi.

Suddenly, the young, aloof figure took a light sniff of the flowers, then gracefully turned around and walked toward the noblewoman.

His dark chestnut hair was loosely styled with a few strands of bangs falling across his forehead, and his indigo eyes were as deep as the Russian winter sea. The aloof, indifferent, and somewhat cynical smile at the corner of his mouth almost made the noblewoman faint.

He stood before the noblewoman, his voice low and indifferent: "Fugia, I think I'll go back to the Sorbonne—even though it's so rigid and boring."

But as a writer, I must have reverence for knowledge itself…

The noblewoman, nicknamed "Fuja," smelled the faint tobacco scent on his breath and the faint "Area 11 odor" on his body, her eyes filled with reluctance: "Leon, are you really leaving?"
"Then I'll take you to the Sorbonne by carriage."

A hint of regret flashed in Leon's eyes as he gently shook his head.

"Fuja" immediately realized she had said the wrong thing and quickly tried to make amends: "I was wrong... You should go and take the public carriage yourself."

However, please be sure to pay attention to safety...

Leon sighed: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so... harsh on you."

"Fugia" quickly pressed a finger to "Léon's" lips: "I understand, I understand everything! From the day you decided to give up attending the Sorbonne's 'Poetry Gathering' for me, to give up pleasing those vulgar Parisian women—"

I knew only you understood me... and only I understood you...

Leon tiptoed and gently kissed the forehead of the half-kneeling Fuka: "Don't rush, the Sorbonne's classes are short, but the nights are long..."

Sometimes, waiting makes wine more mellow and honey sweeter.

"Fujia" nodded obediently, and waves of flesh rippled under her chin, extending all the way to her astonishingly full chest.

Leon turned resolutely and walked toward the open castle gate. "Fugia" couldn't help but call out to him: "You said, those lavender-filled estates in Provence... 100 million francs is enough?"

Leon didn't turn around, but his voice sounded unusually tired: "Why does everything have to be measured in money? I'm not interested in money."

"Fuja" realized she had made a mistake again and covered her mouth with her jeweled hand: "I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure it was enough before I could..."

Leon didn't stop: "That's not just a manor, it's a temple of art, a sanctuary for the soul, a paradise of freedom..."

As his poetic chanting faded into the air, "Foya"—or Baroness Balf Alekseyevna Durova-Sherbatova—slumped onto the grass, her face flushed.

So what if the entire Parisian high society doesn't accept me?

So what if all the artists in Paris don't come to my salon?

I have Lionel, the one and only "Poor Lionel"!
(End of this chapter)