The text Alice was to copy, of course, was not Decadent City.
He had already decided to pause the writing of that novel, placing the finished manuscript in a secret compartment in his desk drawer, then locking the drawer.
What Alice truly needed to copy was Letter from an Unknown Woman.
Today's conversation with Madame Rothschild, beyond reaching an understanding for sponsorship, was not entirely without gain.
While the young noblewoman's interpretation of Old Guard was somewhat preposterous, it nonetheless helped Lionel to more accurately grasp the inner world of women of this era, especially those possessing the trait of "sentimentalism."
"Praised, lured, used, sacrificed, abandoned, scorned, destroyed... ultimately clinging to a fleeting memory of the past, tragically living out the rest of their lives.
Isn't this what a woman is?
This is a woman!"
This sentence could almost perfectly describe the protagonist of Letter from an Unknown Woman—she was even more pathetic than Madame Rothschild suggested, for the writer had never even seduced her.
He was like a beam of light cast into a dark cellar, unintended yet accidentally awakening a young girl's soul.
The tragedy of life often lies in this: the emotions one burns an entire lifetime to protect leave no trace in the other person's mind.
Therefore, in the subsequent parts, Lionel needed to portray their first encounter well, to provide sufficient psychological grounding for the protagonist's later astonishing and perplexing "unrequited love."
Thinking this, Lionel adjusted the gas lamp, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write on the manuscript paper—
[I want to pour out my entire life to you.
In truth, my life truly began on the day—no, at the very moment—I met you.
Before that, my life was merely a dreary, chaotic mess… I no longer wish to recall it; my heart has long been numb.
When you appeared in my life, I was thirteen years old, living in the same house you now inhabit, that house with the gray stone walls and old wooden staircase…
You certainly wouldn't remember us, wouldn't remember the accountant's widow who wore faded black clothes and always covered her face with a scarf, making a living by copying ledgers daily, occasionally transcribing summaries of judgments for the Second District Court; and you would certainly not remember her scrawny little daughter, whose face was pallid from chronic malnutrition—that was me.…]
So, the tragic yet pure life of the novel's protagonist was inextricably linked to her impoverished childhood and girlhood.
Unlike the world 100 years later, in the 19th century, when compulsory education was not yet widespread and women were generally regarded as "objects," such a beginning essentially determined the outcome.
A slightly better fate might be to become a live-in governess for a wealthy family.
Besides teaching children to read and write, she would also mend clothes, earning 80 francs a month.
Before turning 30, she might save a small sum for a dowry, marrying a minor clerk or a small grocery store owner.
A more unremarkable path might mean never accumulating enough dowry to marry, unwilling to settle for an old bachelor or widower who required no dowry.
In old age, she would donate all her money to a convent and enter it as a nun herself.
A worse fate might lead her to the pleasure districts, rotting away in a brothel bed by the age of 30 due to various illnesses.
Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre is a classic precisely because its plot offered spiritual solace to women of this type:
"The overbearing CEO... the landowner falls in love with poor, argumentative me!
And I'm not even happy about it!
I also inherited a vast fortune!
The landowner's family is ruined, and I eventually save him!"
Among 19th-century novels depicting common women, none were more gratifying than that.
But Letter from an Unknown Woman, written by Lionel, was not such a wish-fulfillment novel.
It deeply explained the immense spiritual crisis of such women—
It was precisely because of a life that began like a landslide that they would cling tightly to the only "normal person" in their wretched lives as their pillar, until death.
[Fifteen or sixteen years, my dear, you must know nothing.
But me?
Ah, I remember everything so clearly—the first time I heard your name was from the doorman.
He stood in the atrium that day, pointing at the plasterers going upstairs and saying,
"L is a playwright from the Odéon Theatre, famous, and single."
…
The day I truly saw you for the first time—no, precisely that moment, that hour!
It happened yesterday, no, it is happening right before my eyes this very second.
How could I not remember it?
For it was at that moment that my gray, stifling world burst open, and for the first time, it shone with the light it was meant to possess.
…
Be patient, my dear, I beg you, listen to me talk about this brief quarter of an hour, don't grow weary.
Know that I have loved you my entire life, and in every poor, desperate day that burned because of you, I have never felt a shred of weariness!]
In the eyes of a girl who had completely lost hope in life, the appearance of a "decent man" was like an angel descending into her apartment, which was filled with crude manners and endless quarrels.
Even the old butler sent by L to supervise the bricklayers cleaning the house, with his elegant and polite words and actions, deepened her fantasy and obsession with L.
Finally, L moved into the apartment—
[My dear, at that moment, my shock was simply beyond words!
You, yourself, the living you, I felt a strong dizziness, as if the floor beneath my feet had suddenly collapsed.
You wore that light gray flannel athletic suit, lightly ascending the stairs, not one step at a time, but—oh my God!
You always bounded up two steps at once!
Your pace was so light, lively, agile, with a casual elegance, as if the entire world were your playground.
You held a soft, dark wool hat casually in your hand, so, in the light, I saw your face at a glance—a radiant, expressive face, full of youthful vitality!…
You were so young!
So handsome!
Tall and well-proportioned, your movements as fluid and graceful as a dance.
This sudden reality, like a bolt of lightning, split open my preconceived notions.
I was so startled I almost cried out, instinctively covering my mouth, my body pressed tightly against the cold door panel.]
With this entire section providing the emotional groundwork, the psychological basis for the protagonist's actions in Letter from an Unknown Woman was complete.
Immediately after, the woman recounted her day-after-day, year-after-year infatuation with the man.
The girl secretly observed him every day, fantasizing about living with him.
[Back then, I did nothing all day but wait for you, constantly waiting for you.
But I dared not let you see me, fearing your gaze would make me faint.
Our front door had a brass peephole, and every day I peered through it to watch your every move.
Year after year, month after month, day after day…
I would sit behind the door for entire afternoons, holding a book, waiting to hear your footsteps returning…
I kissed your doorknob because your hand had touched it; I even stole a cigar butt you discarded before entering—this butt was my sacred relic, because your lips had touched it.]
But her mother remarried, her stepfather was relocated, and the family moved away.
The girl consequently fell into extreme, painful loss, and her secret love grew even deeper.
When she grew up, she returned to Paris alone, earning a living by sewing clothes and working as a shop assistant.
One day, she coincidentally met L on the street.
He did not recognize her but invited her to spend the night with him.
For the male protagonist, she was merely a fleeting sexual diversion, but she poured her entire heart into it.
They spent only three days together, after which the man seemed to forget everything, and she dared not disturb him.
[Your gaze was still so casual, yet the moment it swept over me, it immediately filled with tender affection, intoxicating and captivating, as if it could embrace me tightly.
This gaze had first awakened me before, instantly transforming me from a child into a woman, into a lover.]
[You did not recognize me, not then, nor later.
My dear, my disappointment at that moment is beyond words—this fate was not what I expected, this fate of not being recognized by you, yet I accepted it, endured it my entire life, and will die in its company…]
After parting with L, she discovered she was pregnant but never told L.
She gave birth to their son alone, raising him through her own "efforts" and special assistance from men.
Though life was difficult, she consistently refused to let L know the truth, continuing to love him silently in her heart and follow his every move.
Years later, she became an elegantly dressed, confident woman.
At a ball, she was again attracted to L.
They spent another night together, and L still did not recognize her, treating her like any other lover.
She knew well that his "love" for her was merely fleeting desire, but she remained grateful and cherished it.
Every year on L's birthday, she would anonymously buy a bouquet of roses and send it to L, though L never knew who sent them.
Just before writing this letter to L, her son died of influenza, and she herself was gravely ill, on the verge of death.
Feeling unable to hide any longer, and with no intention of accusing him, she finally wrote this letter, entrusting her entire life to him.
Her only dying wish was:
[I beg you…
This is the first and last time, I beg you…
Every year on your birthday, buy some roses, and put them in a vase…
I only trust you, I only love you, I only wish to continue living through you…
Alas, to live for only one day a year, silently, completely inaudibly for that one day…]
But even if L was greatly shocked by this, he still could not remember who this woman was:
[Death hovered nearby, as did eternal love: his heart was a maelstrom of emotions.
He seemed to recall such a woman, but like a wisp of smoke in the wind, she drifted indistinctly, impossible to grasp or see clearly, yet ardent and unrestrained, like music carried from afar.]
Only after penning the final stroke did Lionel realize that dawn had broken outside the window.
He had written for an entire night, finally completing the remaining part of the novel.
Looking at the thick stack of manuscripts, a wave of exhaustion washed over Lionel.
He managed to find Alice, who was eating breakfast, and handed her the manuscript:
"Over the next few days, copy this twice.
Send one copy to 'Charpentier's Bookshelf,' and the other to the Rothschild Estate.
I've written the addresses at the end."
Having said that, he ignored the two worried faces, skipped breakfast and washing up, returned to his bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep.
————
An hour later, Petty, who was tidying up the dishes in the kitchen, suddenly heard a scream from Alice in the bedroom.
She hurried to check—
The usually cheerful Alpine girl was seen covering her chest with one hand, holding Lionel's newly finished novel in the other, tears streaming down her face…
(End of Chapter)
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