What Lionel didn't know was that while he was enjoying his leisurely time on Jersey Island, his "patron," Madame de Rothschild, was directly opposite him, separated by the sea.
It was a private and tranquil estate belonging to the Rothschild family on the Normandy coastline, not far from Rouen, perched on a cliff overlooking the English Channel.
The seasonal urban scourge of Seine River pollution was naturally a disaster that the upper class had to avoid for their elegant lifestyles.
She didn't even need to wait for the journalists' scathing satire to appear in the newspapers; she had already given the order, leading a convoy of over twenty carriages in a grand departure from Paris.
The estate itself was a meticulously restored 18th-century building with elegant lines, and huge windows framed the vast sea view indoors.
The carefully tended gardens were evergreen all year round, and the sea breeze, constantly sweeping through, brought with it the fresh scent of salt, seaweed, and pine—a veritable paradise compared to the squalid Paris.
Two days before her arrival, the servants had already made all preparations.
The air in the manor was now filled with the scent of fine beeswax, dried roses, and freshly mown lawns.
Here, there was only the ceaseless whisper of the waves and the occasional cry of seabirds streaking across the sky—this was the quiet life Madame de Rothschild needed.
She hadn't even brought her husband along, leaving him in Paris to continue dealing with mundane money matters.
In the afternoon, sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished mahogany floor of the study.
Madame de Rothschild leaned languidly on a cushioned reading chair, idly flipping through several newspapers and magazines she had specially brought.
Her chief maid, Léa, quietly approached her side and handed her a thick envelope:
"Madam, this is a letter forwarded from Paris, from Monsieur Lionel Sorell.
You said that any letter from him should be given to you immediately."
Upon hearing "Lionel Sorell," Madame de Rothschild's spirits instantly lifted.
She immediately took the envelope, tore it open, and didn't forget to wave Léa out of the study.
Unfolding the letter, it was a beautifully handwritten manuscript of a novel.
"A Letter from an Unknown Woman..."
The Madam whispered the title, a flicker of curiosity in her emerald eyes.
She was deeply impressed by Lionel's talent; the compassion and astute insight into the era's outcasts in "The Old Guard" had profoundly touched her, even allowing her to interpret metaphors about women's fate that transcended the author's original intention.
The very first sentence made her pause slightly:
[Many years later, facing the woman in his 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 a nearly magical spatiotemporal tension in its French expression.
It wasn't like traditional linear storytelling; it was more like a fated premonition, a shadow cast upon the river of time.
Although Madame de Rothschild's literary cultivation wasn't 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, soon becoming immersed in the desperate confession written by the unknown woman with her last breath.
When she read the woman's opening declaration of her son's death—"My son died yesterday"—Madame de Rothschild felt a sharp pang in her heart.
This abrupt and heavy opening, like a cold dagger, instantly pierced through all the woman's psychological defenses, reaching the rawest grief deep within her heart.
Although she had no children, as a woman, she fully understood Lionel's emphasis in the narrative: "This is no 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, fervent, yet completely ignored life story that followed.
As the letter unfolded, Madame de Rothschild saw a soul burning itself out in hopeless love.
The woman's lifelong, unrequited, almost religious devotion to the writer L, her humility to the point of being in the dust, her vigil and disillusionment through countless lonely nights, her solitary pregnancy and raising of a child whom she considered her only link to her beloved...
Every detail was like a fine needle, pricking Madame de Rothschild's sensitive heart.
However, what truly made her soul tremble was not the woman's infatuation and sacrifice, but precisely 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 rudely dragged away—the woman in Lionel's writing endured endless neglect, oblivion, and being treated as one of many fleeting flings, yet she never disturbed L's life.
She chose, in the absolute solitude of death's shadow, to use a pen rather than a voice, calm words rather than uncontrolled cries, to deliver her final, 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 indifferent, forgetful, pleasure-seeking soul, leaving an eternal, unhealing wound.
"This is... true revenge.
No, it's salvation... it's the salvation of her own soul."
Madame de Rothschild put down the manuscript and took a deep breath of the sea-salted air, trying to calm her surging emotions.
"Lionel...
Lionel...
How can you understand women so deeply...
Understand love so deeply...
Truly noble love..."
She murmured, Lionel's tall and handsome image appearing in her mind, along with his strong and resonant words:
"Madam, with all due respect, compared to the 'sponsorship' of the human spirit by an excellent work, 'bread and a quiet room' are insignificant!"
So arrogant, so confident, yet so charming, as if he were her patron, and not the other way around.
...
Chief maid Léa saw her mistress again after hearing a soft gasp from Madame de Rothschild in the study.
The dutiful Léa immediately opened the study door and rushed in, only to find 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.
Léa asked concernedly,
"Madam, should I call a doctor...?"
Madame de Rothschild then realized her own composure had slipped.
She quickly tidied her dishevelled skirt and sat upright again:
"I merely... read a masterpiece."
Léa was somewhat shocked, unable to comprehend what kind of masterpiece could make her mistress so discomposed.
Meanwhile, an idea was rapidly forming in Madame de Rothschild's mind.
She went to her desk, sat down, spread out a sheet of stationery embossed with the family crest, and picked up her dip pen.
[Dear Léon,
You won!
You said that the patronage of literary masterpieces to the human spirit far surpasses bread and a quiet room.
I originally thought that was merely your armor for maintaining dignity.
But when I finished reading "A Letter from an Unknown Woman" with an indescribable excitement, I realized that what you were protecting was my dignity.
Please allow me to say frankly, the shock it brought to my soul far exceeds "The Old Guard," excellent though the latter already is.
The "unknown woman" in your writing, her story...
Oh, Léon, you have created a soul whose humility is etched into her bones, yet who blossoms with dignity in the dust!
She is a star risen from the mire, bearing blood and tears.
She reminded me of many people, but even more so, of myself.
...
Please allow me to retract the statement that "art needs soil"; on the contrary, it is my immense honor that you allowed me to read such a masterpiece before it was even published in the newspapers.
I completely believe that your future longer works will become undeniable masterpieces, and I will spare no effort for their publication.
...
Your sincere admirer,
Éléonore Adélaïde de Rothschild]
After finishing, she put the letter into an envelope, handed it to chief maid Léa, and told her:
"Please send this letter to Paris as soon as possible, to Monsieur Sorell.
If he has any reply, send it to me immediately as well."
(End of Chapter)
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