Lionel, of course, wasn't asking Alice to copy "the decadent city." He had already decided to pause writing this novel, first placing the completed manuscript in a secret compartment in his desk drawer and then locking the drawer.
What Alice truly needed to copy was "letter from an unknown woman."
His conversation with Madame Rothschild today, besides reaching a tacit agreement on sponsorship, wasn't entirely without gain.
While the young noblewoman's interpretation of "the old guard" was somewhat outlandish, it helped Lionel more accurately grasp the inner world of women of this era, especially those with a "melancholy" disposition.
"Praised, seduced, used, sacrificed, abandoned, scorned, destroyed… In the end, only able to cling to a faint memory of the past, living out a tragic life. Isn't this what a woman is? This is a woman!"
This sentence could almost perfectly describe the female protagonist of "letter from an unknown woman" — she was even more pitiful than what Madame Rothschild described, because the writer had never even seduced her.
He was like a beam of light cast into a dark cellar, unintentionally activating a young girl's soul.
The tragedy of life often lies in this: the emotions one spends a lifetime burning to protect never leave a trace in the other person's mind.
Therefore, in the upcoming sections, Lionel needed to write their first encounter well to provide sufficient psychological basis for the female protagonist's later shocking and inexplicable "unrequited love."
Thinking of this, Lionel brightened the gas lamp, dipped his quill pen in ink, and began to write on the manuscript paper—
"I want to tell you my whole life, a life that, truly, only began on the day—no, the moment—I met you. Before that, my life was just a gloomy, messy muddle… I never want to think of it again; my heart has long been numb.
When you appeared in my life, I was thirteen and lived in the house you now occupy, the house with gray stone walls and an old wooden staircase…
You certainly won't remember us, won't remember the accountant's widow in faded black, her face always covered by a headscarf, who made a living copying accounts daily and occasionally transcribed judgment summaries for the Second District court; you certainly won't remember her thin, small daughter, whose face was pale from long-term malnutrition—that was me.…"
Thus, the tragic yet pure life of the novel's heroine was inextricably linked to her impoverished childhood and adolescence.
Unlike the world 100 years later, in the 19th century, when compulsory education was not yet widespread and women were generally treated as "objects," such a beginning largely determined the outcome.
A better outcome might be working as a live-in governess for a wealthy family, where, in addition to 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 as a dowry and marry a minor clerk or a small grocery store owner.
A more ordinary path might involve never accumulating enough dowry to marry, and unwilling to settle for an old bachelor or widower who didn't require a dowry, she would donate all her money to a convent in her old age and become a nun herself.
A worse fate might lead her to the red-light district, rotting on a brothel bed before the age of 30 due to various diseases.
Charlotte Brontë's "Jane Eyre" is a classic precisely because its plot offered spiritual solace to women of this type: "The domineering CEO… the manor lord falls in love with poor, argumentative me! And I'm still not happy! I even inherited a huge fortune! The manor lord's family is ruined, and in the end, I save him!"
Among 19th-century novels depicting common women, none were more satisfying than hers.
But Lionel's "letter from an unknown woman" was not such a satisfying novel; he profoundly explained the immense spiritual crisis of these women—
It was precisely because of such a catastrophic start in life that they would cling tightly to the only "normal person" in their terrible life as a pillar, until death.
"Fifteen or sixteen years, my dear, you must know nothing. But me? Ah, I remember clearly—the first time I heard your name was from the doorman. He was standing in the courtyard that day, pointing to the plasterers going upstairs and saying, 'L is a playwright, from the Odéon Theatre, famous, and single.'
…
The first day I truly saw you—no, precisely that moment, that hour! It happened yesterday, no, it's happening this very second, how could I not remember? Because it was at that moment that my gray, suffocating world suddenly burst open, and for the first time, it shone with the light it deserved before my eyes.
…
Be patient, my dear, I beg you, listen to me talk about this brief quarter of an hour; don't be weary. Know that I have loved you my entire life, and in every day of poverty, despair, yet burning because of you, I have never felt a shred of weariness!"
In the eyes of a young 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 behavior and endless quarrels.
Even the old butler, sent by L to supervise the bricklayers tidying up the room, further deepened her fantasy and obsession with L due to his elegant and polite demeanor.
Finally, L moved into the apartment—
"My dear, at that moment, my shock was simply indescribable! You yourself, the living you, I felt a strong dizziness, as if the floor beneath my feet had suddenly collapsed.
You were wearing a light gray flannel tracksuit then, going upstairs nimbly, not one step at a time, but—oh my!—you always leaped up two steps at a time! Your steps were so light, lively, and agile, with a casual swagger, as if the whole world was your playground.
You casually held a soft, dark felt hat, 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 imagination. I was so startled I almost cried out, instinctively covering my mouth, my body pressed tightly against the cold door panel."
With this entire segment of emotional groundwork laid, the psychological basis for the female protagonist's actions in "letter from an unknown woman" was complete.
The woman then recounted her day-after-day, year-after-year infatuation with the man; the young girl secretly observed him daily, fantasizing about living with him.
"At that time, I did nothing all day but wait for you, and still wait for you. But I dared not let you see me, fearing that 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 return…
I kissed the doorknob of your house because your hand had touched it; I even stole a cigar butt that you discarded before entering—this butt was my sacred relic, because your lips had touched it."
However, her mother remarried, her stepfather was transferred, and the entire family moved away. The girl fell into extreme pain and loss, and her secret love deepened even more.
As an adult, she returned to Paris alone, earning a living by sewing clothes and working as a saleswoman. One day, she accidentally met L on the street; he didn't recognize her but invited her to spend the night.
The male protagonist saw her merely as a fleeting sexual diversion, while she poured her heart and soul into him. They only spent three days together, after which the man seemed to forget everything, and she dared not disturb him.
"Your gaze was still as casual, but as soon as it swept over me, it immediately filled with tenderness and intoxicating sweetness, as if it could embrace me tightly. This gaze had first awakened me before, transforming me instantly from a child into a woman, into a lover."
"You didn't recognize me then, and you never did 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 whole life, and will die accompanied by this fate…"
After separating from L, she discovered she was pregnant but never told L. She raised her son alone, through her own "efforts" and special assistance from men.
Despite the hardships, she never allowed L to know the truth, simply 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, and they spent another night together. L still didn't recognize her, treating her like all his other lovers.
She knew 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. Feeling unable to hide it any longer, and with no intention of accusing him, she finally wrote this letter, entrusting her 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, and I only wish to continue living through you… Alas, to live for just one day a year, silently, completely soundlessly, for just that one day…"
But even though L was deeply shaken by this, he still couldn't remember who this woman was:
"Death lingered, as did eternal love: his heart was filled with mixed emotions, he seemed to recall such a woman, but like a wisp of smoke in the wind, she floated uncertainly, ungraspable, unclear, yet passionately vibrant, like a distant melody."
As he made the final stroke, Lionel realized that the sky outside the window had already brightened. He had written all 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 go out and find Alice, who was having breakfast, and handed her the manuscript: "Copy two copies of this over the next few days.
Send one to "Charpentier's Bookshelf," and one to Rothschild Manor. I've already written the addresses at the end."
With that, ignoring the two worried individuals, he neither ate breakfast nor washed up, returning to his bedroom and falling asleep on the bed.
— — — —
An hour later, Petty, who was tidying the dishes in the kitchen, suddenly heard Alice's scream from the bedroom and rushed to check—
She saw the cheerful Alps girl, one hand clutching her chest, the other holding Lionel's newly finished novel, tears streaming down her face…