What Lionel did not know was that while he was enjoying his leisure time on Jersey, his "sponsor," Madame Rothschild, was directly opposite Jersey, separated from him by the sea.
That was a private and tranquil estate of the Rothschild family on the Normandy coastline, not far from Rouen, perched on a cliff overlooking the English Channel.
The pollution of the Seine River, a seasonal urban malady, was naturally a disaster that people of the upper class had to avoid for their elegant lives.
She didn't even need to wait for the journalists' scathing satire to appear in the newspapers before issuing instructions and leading a convoy of over twenty carriages, grandly departing from Paris.
The estate itself was a meticulously renovated eighteenth-century building with elegant lines and large windows that framed the vast seascape indoors.
The meticulously maintained gardens were evergreen all year round, and the sea breeze, which constantly swept through, brought the fresh scent of salt, seaweed, and pine, making it a paradise compared to the dirty Paris.
Two days before her arrival, the servants had already prepared everything.
Now, the air in the estate was filled with the scent of high-quality beeswax, dried roses, and freshly mown lawn.
Here, there was only the ceaseless whisper of the waves and the occasional cry of seabirds sweeping across the sky—this was the tranquil life Madame Rothschild needed.
She didn't even let her husband accompany her, instead leaving him in Paris to continue dealing with vulgar money.
In the afternoon, sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, casting warm light on the polished mahogany floor of the study.
Madame Rothschild leaned languidly in a reading chair, idly flipping through several newspapers and magazines she had specially brought.
Her chief maid, Lia, silently approached her and handed her a thick envelope: "Madam, this is a letter forwarded from Paris, from Mr. Lionel Sorel.
You said that any letter from him should be given to you immediately."
Upon hearing "Lionel Sorel," Madame Rothschild's spirits immediately lifted. She quickly took the envelope, tore it open, and didn't forget to wave Lia out of the study.
Unfolding the letter, it was a beautifully handwritten manuscript of a novel.
"'letter from an unknown woman'…" the Madam murmured the title, a hint of curiosity flashing in her emerald eyes.
She was deeply impressed by Lionel's talent; the compassion and astute insight into the outcasts of the era in "the old guard" had deeply moved her, even allowing her to interpret metaphors about women's fate that went beyond the author's original intention.
The very first sentence made her pause slightly:
"Many years later, facing the woman in bed, the novelist 'L' would recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from an unknown woman."
"What a peculiar sentence structure…" she murmured to herself.
This narrative style, intertwining future, present, and past, presented an almost magical spatio-temporal tension in French expression.
It was not like traditional linear narrative, but more like a fateful premonition, a shadow cast upon the river of time.
Although Madame Rothschild's literary cultivation was not enough to fully grasp its profound meaning, her attention was instantly captivated, and she had a premonition that this would be an extraordinary story.
She continued to read, and soon became immersed in the desperate confession written by the unknown woman with the last vestiges of her life.
When she read the woman's opening declaration of her son's death—"My son died yesterday"—Madame Rothschild felt a sharp pang in her heart.
This abrupt and heavy opening, like a cold dagger, instantly pierced through all the psychological defenses of this woman, reaching the most primal grief deep within her heart.
Although she had no children, as a woman, she fully understood what Lionel emphasized in his narration: "This is not a lie."
At the moment a mother loses her only flesh and blood, her words themselves possess an irrefutable, almost cruel, truth and moral weight.
This became the sole cornerstone supporting the long, humble, ardent, yet utterly ignored life's outpouring that followed.
As the letter unfolded, Madame Rothschild saw how a soul was consumed by hopeless love.
The woman's lifelong, unrequited, almost religious devotion to the writer L, her humble posture to the dust, her countless lonely nights of waiting and disillusionment, her persistence in conceiving and raising her child alone, seeing him as her only link to her lover…
Every detail was like a fine needle, pricking Madame Rothschild's sensitive heart.
However, what most shook her soul was not the woman's infatuation and sacrifice, but rather her astonishing dignity at the end of her life.
Unlike the women in vulgar romance novels who beg for a shred of pity in the most abject ways, ultimately losing all dignity and being brutally dragged away—
The woman in Lionel's writing endured endless neglect, oblivion, being treated as one of many fleeting affairs, yet she never disturbed L's life.
She chose to, in the absolute solitude of death's shadow, use a pen rather than a voice, calm words rather than uncontrolled wails, to deliver her final and most powerful accusation and declaration to the man who never truly knew her.
She asked for nothing—except to be "seen," to be "known," even if only after her death through this letter.
She transformed her tragedy into an invisible yet incredibly sharp sword, precisely piercing L's cold, forgetful, pleasure-seeking soul, leaving an eternal, unhealing wound.
"This is… true revenge. No, it's salvation… it's her salvation of her own soul." Madame Rothschild put down the manuscript, took a deep breath of the sea-salty air, trying to calm her surging emotions.
"Lionel… Lionel… how can you understand women so well… understand love so well… truly noble love…"
She murmured to herself, Lionel's tall and handsome appearance coming to mind, along with his strong, resonant words:
"Madam, with all due respect, compared to the 'sponsorship' of the human spirit by excellent works, 'bread and a quiet room' are not worth mentioning!"
So arrogant, so confident, yet so charming, as if he were her sponsor, and not the other way around.
…
Chief maid Lia saw her mistress again after hearing Madame Rothschild let out a soft cry of "Ah" in the study.
The dutiful Lia immediately opened the study door and rushed in, only to see her slumped in the reading chair, her face flushed, eyes brimming with tears, one hand covering her chest, the other clutching a stack of manuscript paper.
Lia asked with concern: "Madam, should I call a doctor…"
Madame Rothschild then realized she had lost her composure, quickly tidied her disheveled skirt, and sat up straight again: "I just… read a masterpiece."
Lia was somewhat shocked, unable to understand what kind of masterpiece could make her mistress so flustered.
And an idea was rapidly forming in Madame Rothschild's mind. She went to the desk, sat down, spread out a letterhead bearing the family crest, and picked up a dip pen.
"Dear Lionel:
You won! You said that literary masterpieces sponsor the human spirit far more than bread and a quiet room. I originally thought that was just your armor to protect your dignity.
But after I finished reading 'letter from an unknown woman' with inexpressible excitement, I realized that what you were protecting was my dignity.
Please allow me to say directly, the shock it brought to my soul far exceeded 'the old guard,' although the latter was already outstanding enough.
The 'unknown woman' in your writing, her story… Oh, Lionel, you have created a soul whose humility is etched into her bones, yet she blossoms with dignity in the dust! She is a star, rising from the mud, stained with blood and tears.
She reminds me of many people, but even more so, of myself.
…
Please allow me to retract the statement 'art needs soil'; on the contrary, it is my great honor that you allow me to read such a masterpiece before it is published in newspapers.
I fully believe that your future long-form works will become undeniable masterpieces, and I will spare no effort for their publication.
…
Your sincere admirer,
Éléonore Adélaïde de Rothschild"
After writing, she put the letter into an envelope, handed it to chief maid Lia, and told her: "Please send the letter to Paris as soon as possible, to Mr. Sorel.
If he has any reply, send it to me immediately as well."