Although color printing was already very mature in this era, its price remained stubbornly high.
Newspapers, which needed to reach a broad audience, naturally couldn't afford a high-end product like "color lithography," which was time-consuming, labor-intensive, and expensive.
While the 10-sou price of Modern Life was considerable, could it cover the costs after adopting color printing?
Regardless, this newspaper gave Lionel a feeling of being in a different era, as if "yesterday" had reappeared, making him lose track of time.
He flipped through it and found that not only the first, second, and third pages… but all of them were dedicated to A letter from an unknown woman. Modern Life had published it all at once.
He had initially expected this novella, spanning over a thousand lines, to be serialized in at least two parts, "Part One" and "Part Two." He hadn't expected Modern Life to be so bold as to publish it all at once.
However, this also provided an excellent reading experience, as cliffhangers were unpopular with readers in any era.
Before the Easter Holiday ended, the new issue of Modern Life quietly appeared in exquisite newsstands, members-only club reading rooms, and salons with heavy velvet curtains.
What first shocked readers was naturally the color illustration.
The astonishing color saturation, dramatic contrast of light and shadow, and the complex micro-expressions of the characters instantly captivated all eyes.
Naturally, their attention then focused on the novel accompanying this illustration…
— — — —
"'A letter from an unknown woman'?" the Marquise de Luné murmured, softly repeating the words.
She habitually sat in the small living room facing the garden after breakfast, reading the newly arrived newspapers and magazines in the morning light.
When she read the opening line of the letter written by the "unknown woman" to "L," it struck her heart like a cold iron hammer:
[My son died yesterday—for this fragile life, as slender as a reed, I have battled Death for three days and three nights…]
The Marquise's hand trembled, and hot coffee splashed onto her expensive lace cuff, but she didn't notice.
Her breathing became rapid, and her gaze greedily, almost with a masochistic urgency, swept over the hastily written, fervent sentences.
The unknown woman's love, so humble it was in the dust; the countless moments of unspoken longing; the solitary courage of conceiving and raising the child, the symbol of their love; and finally, the immense pain of the child's death…
Every word was like a red-hot needle, searing her already numb heart.
When she read that the woman, at the end of her life, chose to declare her existence, love, and hatred through this long letter rather than through tears and entanglement, the Marquise felt a strong wave of dizziness.
She abruptly closed the magazine and pressed it tightly to her chest, as if to calm her wildly beating heart.
She thought of her own secret stirrings in her youth; she thought of the glances, hidden by her fan, directed at the man she admired, then quickly withdrawn; she thought of countless nights when her husband was absent-minded…
An unprecedented, immense wave of resonance and indignation swept over her…
— — — —
Mrs. Fuli Lian, the wife of pharmacist Mr. Michel, hid in their small, herb-scented compounding room while her husband was at the pharmacy seeing patients.
This was the only place she could temporarily escape from trivial household chores and the children's crying.
She eagerly opened Modern Life—this was one of the great pleasures of her monotonous life.
After being stunned by the color illustration, she read the novel with an almost voyeuristic excitement.
But soon, this excitement was replaced by an overwhelming sense of suffocation.
[You, who never even knew me!]
The opening address of the "unknown woman's" letter to "L" made her heart tremble.
She read how the woman lived like a ghost on the periphery of the man's world, how she remembered every tiny detail related to him, how she burned herself out during countless lonely nights…
Fuli Lian's tears flowed silently, dripping onto the rough paper of the newspaper, even blurring the ink.
She seemed to see herself. Did she love her husband? Perhaps.
But married life had long since smoothed away all passion, leaving only responsibility and day-to-day toil.
Had she ever experienced such fervent, unrequited, even self-destructive love?
Perhaps, in a fleeting moment during her girlhood, there had been a vague shadow of it.
But the woman in the novel displayed her deepest, never-acknowledged, and unspoken humble desires and immense sacrifices in such an extreme, tragic, and naked manner.
When she read about the woman raising her child alone, seeing him as her only bond with her beloved, and then ultimately losing him, Emilie could no longer control herself and began to sob suppressedly.
She thought of her own young child, who was the entire focus and meaning of her life.
Losing him? She couldn't imagine that kind of despair.
And when the woman, on the brink of death, chose to announce her existence through a long letter, rather than like those hysterical women she had seen, Emilie felt a deep tremor and admiration in her soul.
What a desperate dignity this was!
She looked at the man's confused, bewildered, and slightly mocking face in the illustration, and a strong surge of anger and sorrow welled up in her heart…
— — — —
In a crowded, dimly lit tailor shop on Montmartre, the female workers were engrossed in their needles and fabric.
Mrs. Malvina, the proprietress, held a copy of Modern Life—she had initially picked it up to study the latest fashion illustrations but was firmly captivated by the color-illustrated novel.
As lunchtime approached, she uncharacteristically didn't discuss fashion or client gossip. Instead, she hesitated, cleared her throat, and said to the room full of female workers, "Girls, quiet down. I… I'll read something to you."
She opened A letter from an unknown woman.
At first, the female workers were somewhat inattentive, continuing to sew buttons; but as Mrs. Malvina read the opening declaration about the son's death, the sound of the sewing machines gradually stopped, and the needles and threads were put down.
In the small space, only the proprietress's voice remained, along with increasingly heavy breathing.
They heard how a humble woman loved a man who didn't even remember her, how she lived like a shadow, how she alone bore the burden of conception and raising a child…
These plots were too close to their own lives. Many of them had experienced or were experiencing emotional loss and a fate of being ignored.
The unknown woman was like a cruel mirror, reflecting their own shadows.
When she read about the woman writing her letter in despair, just to "be seen" before she died, a young female worker in the corner could no longer hold back. She suddenly covered her face, her shoulders shaking violently.
She remembered the lover who had abandoned her, and the child she had secretly aborted.
No one laughed at her. The entire tailor shop fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, with only suppressed sobs rising and falling.
From time to time, someone would curse under their breath: "Damn it! These men…"
Mrs. Malvina finished reading the last line, her own face already streaked with tears.
She closed the newspaper and looked at the group of women before her, hardened by life but deeply moved at this moment. After a long silence, she said hoarsely, "Everyone… everyone get back to work."
— — — —
Meanwhile, in a cozy, luxurious manor living room, resembling a palace, a group of young, fashionable noblewomen sat together.
The usual lighthearted chatter, art critiques, and political gossip had vanished, because almost every lady and miss who arrived held a copy of Modern Life.
Many had red-rimmed eyes and looked dazed, as if they hadn't yet recovered from the immense emotional shock.
A slightly older noblewoman, with tear-filled eyes, asked, "That child… Oh God, when I read 'My son died yesterday,' my heart… it was gripped by a cold hand.
Why did she start that way? Why?"
Madame Rothschild, who had already read the novel, replied in a calm tone, "Because that was her only 'collateral'! No one can question a mother's words when she loses her only child!
She wants to use this greatest pain to gain a few minutes of listening from that indifferent man… from all of us!"
Upon hearing this answer, the noblewomen's hearts broke again, and their eyes reddened even further.
Madame Rothschild looked at the pained expressions of the others and their adoring gazes towards her, and an infinite sense of satisfaction welled up within her. This secret pleasure almost made her moan ambiguously on the spot.
She almost wanted to have her servants immediately bring Lionel here by carriage and announce to everyone: "This is my boy!"