For Lionel, this holiday felt exceptionally long, and he couldn't wait for it to end.
So when the day of return to school arrived, he was happier than any of his classmates, arriving punctually by public carriage to report to school.
The school gate was still bustling, but the atmosphere today was a little different.
Although professors and students were still exchanging pleasantries, none seemed in a hurry to enter the campus.
Instead, their eyes kept darting towards the nearby public carriage stop, as if waiting for someone.
The moment Lionel stepped down from the public carriage and came into view, applause immediately broke out.
It started with a few people, then spread to a large group, and finally, everyone was applauding.
Albert even stepped forward and slapped him hard on the shoulder, exclaiming,
"Hey, Leon, well done!"
Lionel was a little bewildered.
Could "Modern Life" really have such a widespread influence?
Could "Letter from an Unknown Woman" really receive unanimous praise even from these self-proclaimed elite men?
Just then, Dean Henri Pataud also walked up to Lionel, turned to the crowd, and declared,
"Aha, look who's here? It's our hero, Lionel!"
He then turned and affectionately embraced him, saying,
"Well done, Leon! You've worked hard!"
He then loudly proclaimed to all the teachers and students,
"You must learn from Lionel and contribute to the development of the Sorbonne."
The professors remained relatively reserved, but the students couldn't help but cheer, and the Sorbonne campus entrance transformed into a sea of joy.
After this simple yet grand welcome ceremony concluded, a completely bewildered Lionel finally whispered to Albert,
"Have you all read 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'?"
Albert paused, then asked,
"'Letter from an Unknown Woman'? What's that?"
Lionel: "Huh?"
Albert then showed an expression of excitement, envy, and even jealousy, exclaiming,
"300,000 francs! A full 300,000 francs!
It's the largest single donation the Sorbonne has received through the 'Poetry Society' in several years."
Lionel: "Ah!?"
He immediately frowned.
When he had spoken with Madame Rothschild that day, he had specifically asked her not to be too high-profile, and she had agreed.
How could she go back on her word in just two days?
Albert threw an arm around Lionel's neck and whispered,
"How did you get involved with Baroness Alexeyevna?
Didn't she just arrive in Paris a short while ago?
My God, Leon, you have so many secrets I don't know about!"
Lionel: "What!!??"
Baroness Alexeyevna?
He had no recollection of that name at all, and she was clearly Russian—at least, he hadn't dealt with any Russians yet.
But Albert didn't press the matter, knowing that the way young artists and their patrons communicated was often an industry secret, not easily divulged.
For instance, how his mother had patronized the young "dandy poet" Jean Récherbrant and the "commoner poet" François Gobet—the secrets of those relationships weren't even entirely clear to his own father.
As the youngest son of the family, the inheritance he could expect was limited, and a noble title would certainly not be his.
Only by latching onto a top noblewoman, like Lionel, could he hope to turn his fortunes around.
He gave a suggestive smile.
"I hear Russian women are all tall and imposing..."
He then glanced at the tall Lionel.
"No wonder you could conquer her..."
Lionel was somewhat annoyed.
What on earth was he talking about?!
If it were about his involvement with Madame Rothschild, he might have conceded, but where did this Russian Baroness Alexeyevna come from?
What kind of mischief was this?
But now he had no way to explain himself, because any denial, to Albert or his other classmates, would simply be met with a look that said,
"You don't need to explain, I understand."
————
At the same time, on Montmartre Hill, in an "ideal spot" surrounded by rural charm and vineyards, exuding pastoral beauty.
A vast estate was nestled there, with stretches of grapevines, alfalfa, shrubs, and small forests embracing a newly renovated and refreshed 18th-century style small castle.
The small lookout holes on the castle had been replaced with large glass windows, allowing sunlight to stream in freely, and the rooms were no longer dark and damp.
Atop the arrow towers surrounding the castle, a flag emblazoned with a "double-headed eagle," "wheat ears, plowshare," and "crossed swords" fluttered, rustling in the spring breeze.
At this moment, in the castle's central small garden, a young, tall, and aloof figure stood beside a large cluster of blooming irises, seemingly lost in thought, or perhaps in sorrow.
A magnificently dressed noblewoman gazed at him with infatuated eyes—she dared not approach and disturb him, fearing she might interrupt the literary genius's train of thought.
He had just completed a masterpiece like "Letter from an Unknown Woman," and she wondered what thrilling story he was now conceiving—surely it would once again conquer her soft, sensitive heart.
His patched coat, with its worn, shiny elbows, at this moment possessed a more sacred and magnificent aura than the grand, gold-embroidered, gem-studded ceremonial robe worn by the Tsar during the Divine Liturgy.
Suddenly, after lightly sniffing the flower's fragrance, the young, aloof figure elegantly turned and walked towards the noblewoman.
His deep chestnut hair fell in a few unruly strands across his forehead, his indigo eyes were as deep as the Russian winter sea, and the distant, indifferent, yet somewhat cynical and mocking curve of his lips made the noblewoman almost swoon.
He stood before the noblewoman, his voice low and cool:
"Fuga, I should return to my classes at the Sorbonne—even if it is so rigid and uninteresting.
But as a writer, I must hold reverence for knowledge itself..."
The noblewoman, nicknamed "Fuga," caught the faint scent of tobacco from his mouth and the subtle, almost imperceptible "odor of the 11th arrondissement" about him, her eyes filled with reluctance.
"Leon, are you really leaving?
Then I'll send you to the Sorbonne by carriage."
"Leon" showed a hint of regret in his eyes and gently shook his head.
"Fuga" immediately realized her mistake and quickly tried to mend it:
"I was wrong... you should walk and take the public carriage yourself.
But, please be careful..."
"Leon" sighed.
"I'm sorry, I really shouldn't be so... harsh with you."
"Fuga" quickly reached out a finger and pressed it against "Leon"'s lips.
"I understand, I understand everything!
From the day you decided to forgo the Sorbonne's 'Poetry Society' for me, to give up pleasing those common Parisian women—
I knew then that only you understood me... and only I understood you..."
"Leon" stood on his tiptoes and lightly kissed the forehead of the half-kneeling "Fuga."
"Don't worry, classes at the Sorbonne are short, but the nights are long...
Sometimes, waiting makes the wine richer, and the honey sweeter."
"Fuga" nodded obediently, layers of flesh rippling under her chin and extending all the way down to her astonishingly ample chest.
"Leon" resolutely turned and walked towards the open castle gate.
"Fuga" couldn't help but call out to him,
"The kind of lavender-filled estate you mentioned in Provence... would 1,000,000 francs be enough?"
"Leon" did not turn back, but his voice was unusually weary:
"Why must everything be measured by money?
I am not interested in money."
"Fuga" was startled to realize she had made another mistake, and covered her mouth with her gem-laden hand.
"I'm sorry, I just wanted to confirm if it was enough, so that I could..."
"Leon" did not stop walking.
"That is not an estate; that is a temple of art, a dwelling for the soul, a paradise of freedom..."
As his poetic murmurs gradually faded into the air, "Fuga"—or rather, Baroness Balfe Alexeyevna Durova-Shcherbatova—collapsed onto the grass, her face flushed.
What if the entire Parisian noblewomen's circle doesn't accept me?
What if all of Paris's artists refuse to attend my salon?
I have Lionel, the one and only "Poor Lionel"!
(End of Chapter)
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