For Lionel, this holiday was exceptionally long, and he wished it would end quickly.
So, when the return-to-school day arrived, he was happier than any of his classmates, taking the public carriage and reporting to school right on time.
The school gate was still bustling, but today's atmosphere was a little different.
Although professors and students were still exchanging pleasantries, none of them were in a hurry to enter the campus; instead, their eyes kept glancing at the public carriage station nearby, as if waiting for someone.
When Lionel stepped down from the public carriage and appeared in everyone's sight, someone immediately started applauding.
First a few people, then a large group, and finally everyone began to applaud.
Albert even walked forward and slapped him hard on the shoulder: "Hey, Lionel, well done!"
Lionel was a bit bewildered. Was the influence of Modern Life really that great?
Could letter from an unknown woman actually receive such unanimous praise from these men who considered themselves elites?
Just then, Dean Henri Patin also walked up to Lionel, turned to the crowd, and exclaimed: "Ah ha, look who's here? It's our hero, Lionel!"
Then he turned and gave him an affectionate hug: "Well done, Lionel! You've worked hard!"
He then shouted to all the teachers and students: "You should learn from Lionel and contribute to the construction of Sorbonne."
The professors were still relatively reserved, but the students couldn't help but cheer, and the entrance to the Sorbonne campus became a sea of joy.
After this simple but grand welcoming ceremony, a bewildered Lionel quietly asked Albert: "Have you all read letter from an unknown woman?"
Albert was stunned: "letter from an unknown woman? What is that?"
Lionel: "Hmm?"
Albert then showed an excited, envious, and even jealous expression: "300,000 francs! A full 300,000 francs!
This is the largest single donation Sorbonne has received through the Poetry Society in years."
Lionel: "Ah!?"
He then frowned. When he communicated with Madame Rothschild that day, he had said not to be too high-profile, and she had agreed.
Why did she go back on her word within two days?
Albert put his arm around Lionel's neck and whispered: "How did you hook up with Baroness Alekseyevna?
Didn't she just arrive in Paris? My God, Lionel, you have too many secrets I don't know about!"
Lionel: "What!?!?"
Baroness Alekseyevna? He had no impression of that name at all, and it clearly sounded Russian — at least, he hadn't dealt with any Russians yet.
However, Albert didn't press the matter. He knew that how young artists and patrons communicated was often an industry secret, not easily divulged.
For example, how his mother had supported the young 'dandy poet' Jean Recherblanc and the 'commoner poet' François Gobet back then; even his father wasn't very clear about the secrets involved.
As the youngest son of the family, the inheritance he could receive was limited, and the title would certainly not fall to him. Only by latching onto a top-tier noblewoman like Lionel had done could he possibly turn his fortunes around.
He showed a lewd smile: "I heard Russian women are all tall and strapping…" He sized up the tall Lionel: "No wonder you could conquer her…"
Lionel was a little angry; what was all this about?
If it were about him and Madame Rothschild, he might have accepted it, but where did this Russian Baroness Alekseyevna come from?
But he was now speechless, because any denial would be met with a look of 'you don't need to explain, I understand' from Albert or his other classmates.
——
At the same time, Montmartre, a 'good place' full of countryside and vineyards, with a pastoral landscape.
A large estate was situated there, with vast expanses of grapes, alfalfa, bushes, and small forests, surrounding a newly renovated, refreshed 18th-century style small castle.
The narrow loopholes on the castle had been replaced with large glass windows, allowing sunlight to stream in freely, and the rooms were no longer cold and damp.
At the top of the arrow towers around the castle, a flag composed of a 'double-headed eagle,' 'wheat ears, ploughshares,' and 'crossed swords' fluttered, rustling in the spring breeze.
At this moment, in the small garden in the center of the castle, a young, tall, and aloof figure stood beside a large cluster of blooming irises, seemingly contemplating, and yet also appearing melancholic.
A richly dressed noblewoman was gazing at him with an adoring look—she dared not approach, fearing she might interrupt the literary genius's thoughts.
He had just completed a masterpiece like letter from an unknown woman; who knew what thrilling story he was brewing now—it would surely conquer her soft, sensitive heart once again.
His patched, elbow-worn coat now possessed a more sacred and magnificent aura than the grand, gold-embroidered, jewel-encrusted ceremonial robes worn by the Tsar during the 'Eucharistic Liturgy.'
Suddenly, after lightly sniffing the flowers, the young, aloof figure elegantly turned around and walked towards the noblewoman.
His deep chestnut hair fell in unruly strands across his forehead, his indigo eyes were as profound as the winter sea in Russia, and the aloof, indifferent, yet somewhat cynical and sarcastic curve of his lips almost made the noblewoman swoon.
He stood before the noblewoman, his voice low and cold: "Fyoka, I should still go back to Sorbonne for classes—even if it is so rigid and uninteresting.
But as a writer, I must have reverence for knowledge itself…"
The noblewoman, nicknamed "Fyoka," inhaled the faint scent of tobacco from his mouth and the subtle 'Eleventh District stench' on him, her eyes filled with reluctance: "Lionel, are you really leaving?
Then I'll send you to Sorbonne by carriage."
"Lionel" showed a hint of regret in his eyes and gently shook his head.
"Fyoka" immediately realized she had said the wrong thing and quickly remedied it: "I was wrong… You should still walk to take the public carriage.
But, please be careful…"
"Lionel" sighed: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so… strict with you."
"Fyoka" quickly reached out a finger to press against "Lionel's" lips: "I understand, I understand everything! From the day you decided to give up attending Sorbonne's Poetry Society for me, to give up pleasing those common Paris women—
I knew only you understood me… and only I understood you…"
"Lionel" stood on his tiptoes and lightly kissed the forehead of the kneeling "Fyoka": "Don't rush, the classes at Sorbonne are short, but the nights are long…
Sometimes, waiting makes wine richer and honey sweeter."
"Fyoka" nodded obediently, layers of flesh rippling under her chin, extending all the way to her astonishingly full chest.
"Lionel" resolutely turned and walked towards the open castle gate. "Fyoka" couldn't help but call out to him: "You said, a lavender-filled estate like in Provence… is 1 million francs enough?"
"Lionel" didn't turn around, but his voice was unusually weary: "Why must everything be measured by money? I am not interested in money."
"Fyoka" realized she had made another mistake, covering her mouth with her jewel-laden hand: "I'm sorry, I just wanted to confirm if it was enough so I could…"
"Lionel" did not stop walking: "That is not an estate; that is a temple of art, a dwelling place for the soul, a paradise of freedom…"
As his poetic chanting gradually faded into the air, "Fyoka" — or rather, Baroness Varvara Alekseyevna Durova-Shcherbatova — collapsed onto the grass, her face flushed.
What if the entire Parisian noble society doesn't accept me?
What if all the artists in Paris don't come to my salon?
I have Lionel, the one and only "Poor Léonard"!