The first mistake concerned our beloved Luxembourg. (Oh, dearest, how you would have lost your temper over this. I can only too well imagine you spluttering over your morning coffee as you discovered the matter-of-fact decree in the paper.) It was a chilly November day and Germaine was busy with the fire as I read the news. Then I saw the dreadful article. The Luxembourg Gardens were going to be amputated of ten hectares in order to ameliorate the traffic on the rue Bonaparte and the rue Férou. The lovely tree nursery on the southern part of the gardens was to be whittled away for the same reasons. I leaped to my feet, startling Germaine, and rushed downstairs to the flower shop. Alexandrine was waiting for an important delivery.
“Don’t tell me you agree with the Prefect over this,” I snarled, shoving the paper at her. I was so angry my feet fairly stamped the floor. She read the article hurriedly and her mouth pulled down. She was, after all, an ardent nature lover. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a terrible thing to do!”
That afternoon, in spite of the cold, people gathered in front of the garden gates on the top of the rue Férou. I went along with Alexandrine and Monsieur Zamaretti. There was soon quite a crowd, and the gendarmes were called to keep everything in control. Students shouted, “Long live the Luxembourg Gardens!” as petitions went around feverishly. I must have signed three, with a clumsy, gloved hand. It was exciting seeing how all these different Parisians, from all ages, all classes, were coming together to protect their gardens. An elegant lady next to me was deep in conversation with a shopkeeper. Madame Paccard was with all her staff from the hotel. Mademoiselle Vazembert had two gentlemen on each arm. And from afar, I saw the adorable Baronne de Vresse and her husband, with the governess and the little girls in tow.
The rue de Vaugirard was now black with people. I wondered how on earth we were all going to get home, but it did not bother me. I felt safe with Alexandrine and Monsieur Zamaretti. All of us here, each and every one, stood united against the Prefect. It felt marvelous. He would hear about us the next morning, when he scanned all the papers for his name, with his team, which is apparently his first daily action. He would hear about us when the petitions started to pile on his desk. How dare he amputate our magical gardens! All of us there that afternoon shared special ties to this place, to the palace, the fountains, the grand bassin, the statues, the flower beds. This peaceful garden was the symbol of our childhood, of our memories. We had put up with the Prefect’s overzealous ambitions long enough. We would stand up to him this time. We would not let him tamper with the Luxembourg Gardens.
For several days we all met there, with even more protesters each time. You would have found it thrilling. The petitions grew thicker and the articles in the newspapers were most negative regarding the Prefect. Students started to riot, and one evening the Emperor himself was confronted with the crowds as he was about to attend a play at the Odéon Theater. I was not there that time, but I heard about it from Alexandrine. She told me the Emperor seemed embarrassed, pausing on the steps, ensconced in his cloak. He listened to what was being said and he gravely nodded his head.
A few weeks later, Alexandrine and I read that the decree was being amended because the Emperor had ordered the Prefect to revise his plans. We felt elated. Alas, our happiness was short-lived. The gardens were indeed to be truncated, but not as severely as at first. However, the tree nursery was doomed. It was a disappointing victory. And then, just as the Luxembourg affair died down, an even more hideous one sprouted up. I cannot even begin to choose the proper words to describe it to you.
Believe it or not, the Prefect had become obsessed with the business of death. He was convinced the dust in the Parisian cemeteries emanating from the rotting of corpses was contaminating the water. I read with shock in the paper that the Prefect envisaged closing down the graveyards within the city for sanitation reasons. The dead were now to be taken to Méry-sur-Oise, near Pontoise, thirty kilometers away, to a huge graveyard, a modern necropolis. The Prefect had imagined special death trains departing from all Parisian stations, in which families could travel with their dead one’s coffin for burial at Méry. This was such a monstrous thing to read that at first I could not go down to show it to Alexandrine. I simply could not move. I thought of my loved ones, you and Baptiste and Maman Odette. I imagined taking a sinister train swathed in black crepe, full of mourners, undertakers and priests, in order to visit your graves. I felt as if I was going to burst into tears. I believe I did. In fact, I did not have to show the paper to Alexandrine. She had already read about it. But this time she thought the Prefect was right. She believed in the complete modernization of the water system, and thought it was a healthy idea to bury the dead out of the city limits. I was too upset to contradict her. Where were her own dead? I wondered. Not in Paris. If they had been, she would not have had this reaction.
Most people, however, were like me, scandalized. Even more so when the Prefect announced that the Montmartre Cemetery was to undergo transformations. Dozens of tombs were actually to be moved so that the pillars of a new bridge going over the hill could be built. The polemic raged. The papers were full of it. All the Prefect’s opponents gave full vent to their venom. Monsieur Fournel and Monsieur Veuillot wrote brilliant, scathing pamphlets that you would have admired. After having sent thousands of Parisians packing and destroying their homes, he was now deporting the dead. Sacrilege! All of Paris was in an uproar. One could feel the Prefect tottering on very thin ice.
The coup de grâce came with the publication of a very moving article in the Figaro. A lady named Madame Audouard (one of those modern ladies who writes in a bold fashion, not like the Comtesse de Ségur and her mild tales for children) happened to have a son buried at Montmartre. I do not know how old that son was, but she and I shared the same wordless grief. When I read her article, I must admit I cried again. Her words are engraved in my heart forever. “Monsieur the Prefect, all nations, even those we call barbarians, respect the dead.”
This time, Armand, the Emperor did not back up his Prefect. The opposition was so ferocious that the project was abandoned after a couple of months. The Prefect was now under attack, and fragile, for the first time. At last.
Sens, October 23rd, 1868
Dearest Madame Rose,
I cannot thank you enough for your invaluable support. I think you are the only person on this earth to veritably understand the turmoil and despair I endured when I had to accept that the hotel was to be destroyed. You and I know the power of houses, how they hold us in that power and how we revel in it. The hotel was like another part of me. I gave myself heart, body and soul to that building, and so did my beloved husband, when he was still with us. I remember the first time I laid eyes on the hotel. It was a dark and sullen form crouching by the church. No one had lived in it for years, it was swarming with mice and reeked of humidity.
Gaston, my husband, immediately saw what could be done with it. Yes, he had the eye, as they say. Sometimes houses are like people, they are shy, they do not give their personalities away that easily. It took a while to conquer that house, to tame it, to call it ours, but we did it and each moment was a moment of joy.
I knew from the start I wanted a hotel. I knew what that entailed, what an enormous amount of work it meant, but I was not daunted, and neither was Gaston. When they hung the sign up for the first time, “Hôtel Belfort,” on the first-floor balcony, I could have swooned with joy and pride. As you know, the hotel was nearly always fully booked. It was the only good establishment within the area, and once word of mouth started, we were never short of clients.
Madame Rose, how I miss my clients, their chatter, their fidelity, their whims. Even the odd ones. Even the respectable gentlemen who took young lasses up for a quick tumble when I looked the other way. Do you remember Monsieur and Madame Roche, who came every June for their wedding anniversary? And Mademoiselle Brunerie, the charming old maid, who always reserved the room on the top floor, the one that gave on to the church’s roof? She said it made her f
eel closer to God. I sometimes wonder how it is possible that a place in which I felt so secure, which I called home, but which was also how I earned money, which brought us our income, could be so easily erased from the face of the earth.
As you know, I chose to leave before the rue Childebert was demolished. I am now writing to you from my sister’s house in Sens, where I am trying to set up a pension de famille, and not being very successful about it. I remember how we fought till the bitter end, especially you, I and Docteur Nonant. It seemed to me that the other inhabitants of the street accepted their fate with ease. Perhaps they had less to lose. Perhaps they even looked forward to starting a new life elsewhere. I sometimes wonder what they have all become.
I know we will probably never see our neighbors again. Such an odd thought, as every single morning of our lives we would greet each other. All those familiar faces, those familiar buildings and shops. Monsieur Jubert admonishing his team, Monsieur Horace already pink-nosed at nine in the morning, Madame Godfin and Mademoiselle Vazembert at it like a pair of squabbling hens, Monsieur Bougrelle chatting with Monsieur Zamaretti, and the rich, marvelous chocolate smell wafting from Monsieur Monthier’s boutique. I have lived so very many years in the rue Childebert, perhaps forty, nay, forty-five, and I cannot envisage that the street no longer exists. I do not want to lay eyes on the modern boulevard that swallowed it up. Ever.
Have you decided to move to your daughter’s home, Madame Rose? Please give me some news from time to time. Should you care to visit me here in Sens, let me know. The town is pleasant enough. A welcome rest from the endless works, dust and noise of Paris. I take comfort in the fact that my clients still write to me and tell me how much they miss the hotel. You know how I pampered them. Each room was spotless, decorated with simplicity and good taste, and Mademoiselle Alexandrine delivered fresh flowers every day, not to mention the chocolates from Monsieur Monthier.
How I miss standing at the reception area and greeting my clients. Such an international crowd too. How maddening to have to close down in the middle of the Exposition Universelle. And how atrocious to have to accept the total destruction of so many years of work.
I think of you often, Madame Rose. Your grace and kindness to everyone on the street; your great courage when your husband passed away. He was such a gentleman, Monsieur Bazelet. I know he would have hated seeing his beloved home destroyed. I remember the two of you walking down the street, before his illness took over. What a fine pair you made. Gorgeous, good-looking and so charming, both of you. And I remember, Lord have mercy, the little boy. Madame Rose, no one will ever forget your little boy. God bless him and you. I hope you are happy with your daughter, I seem to recall you were not that close to her. Maybe this ordeal will bring you closer at last. I send you my friendship and my prayers and hope that we may meet again.
Micheline Paccard
MY BOOKS, DOWN HERE with me. Fine ones, beautifully bound, in all different colors. I do not wish to ever separate myself from them. Madame Bovary, of course, the one that opened the door to the bewitching world of reading. Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, which I pick up from time to time as the hours glide by. The fascinating aspect about poems, as opposed to novels, is that one can read just a couple, and a few more later on, like a sort of continuous treat that one nibbles at. Monsieur Baudelaire’s poems are strange and haunting. They are full of images, sounds and colors, sometimes disturbing.
Would you have liked them? I suspect so. They play on one’s nerves and senses. My favorite one is “The Perfume Flask.” It is about scents harboring memories, and how a perfume can bring back one’s past. I know the smell of roses will always remind me of Alexandrine and the Baronne. Cologne water and talcum powder are you, my love. Hot milk and honey are Baptiste. Verbena and lavender are Maman Odette. Had you still been here, I would no doubt have read this poem to you, over and over again.
Sometimes reading a book leads one to another book. Did you not experience that? I am sure you did. I discovered that rather quickly. Monsieur Zamaretti let me roam about the rows in his shop. I even climbed up the ladder to reach up higher. You see, Armand, there was a new hunger within me, and on some days I can assure you I felt fairly ravenous. The need to read took over me, a delicious and exhilarating hold. The more I read, the hungrier I became. Each book seemed promising, each page I turned offered an escapade, the allure of another world, other destinies, other dreams. So what did I read? you may well ask.
Charles Baudelaire led me to an author, American I believe, named Edgar Allan Poe. How could I resist the fact that Monsieur Baudelaire himself had translated those stories? It gave the whole matter an added attraction. When my favorite poet died last year, I read he was buried in our very own cemetery, in Montparnasse. Yes, Charles Baudelaire’s eternal resting place is just a couple of alleys away from you, Baptiste and Maman Odette. I have been too tired of late to go there, but the last time I went, I visited his tomb. There was a letter placed on his grave. It had been rained on, the ink had spread over the paper like a large black flower.
In Monsieur Poe’s stories I found the same haunting, powerful themes that appealed to me so deeply. And I could see, so very clearly, why Monsieur Baudelaire had chosen to translate his work. They had the same scope, the same vision. Yes, you could say they were macabre, thick with mystery, lush with imagination. Are you perplexed by your mild Rose’s astonishing literary tastes? The story I prefer is called “The Fall of the House of Usher.” It takes place in a gloomy, ivy-covered mansion overlooking a dark and silent tarn. The narrator is summoned by an old friend undergoing a nameless illness and who needs his help. I cannot begin to describe what a thrill I experienced when I first read that story. I felt chills running up and down my spine. Such a climate of malevolence, of fear, of otherworldly forces contriving toward doom. At times I had to pause to catch my breath, at times I felt I could not go on reading, that this stuff was too strong a potion, that it would overcome me. I could not breathe. And yet, I had to rush back to the page, no one and nothing could tear me away from Roderick Usher’s ghastly secret, from the spectral apparition of Madeline in her blood-stained dress, from the entire mansion crumbling into the tarn. Monsieur Poe knew how to wield his magic.
THIS MORNING THE NOISES have taken up again, despite the prevailing cold. It will not be long now. I do not have much time, so I will resume my story. There is so much I need to tell you, still. Six months ago, Madame Paccard, Docteur Nonant and myself decided to go to the Hôtel de Ville to protest against the destruction of our street. Our numerous letters had been answered by office clerks who, as you can imagine, merely repeated that the decision was irrevocable, but that one could expect to negotiate the sum of money that was being allotted to us. But for the three of us, money was not the issue. We wanted to keep our premises.
So you must imagine the three of us, on that June day. Most determined we were, Madame Paccard and her quivering bun, Docteur Nonant with his grave whiskered face, and your Rose, in her best claret-colored silk coat and a veiled bonnet. We crossed the river on a clear warm morning, and I was impressed, as always, by the formidable Renaissance-style building that awaited us on the other side of the bridge. Nervousness clenched at my stomach and I felt almost dizzy with anticipation as we neared the huge stone façade. Were we not mad to envisage even one instant that we would see the man himself? And would he ever listen to us? I was relieved not to be alone, to have my two companions by my side. They appeared much more assured than I did.
In the enormous entrance, in which I had never been, I noticed a fountain tinkling under wide, circling stairs. Clusters of people were ambling about the great hall, awed by the ornate ceilings, the grandeur of the place. So this was where he lived and worked, him, that man, whose name I still cannot bring myself to write. He and his family (that mouselike wife, Octavie, who apparently loathes mundane life, those two daughters, Henriette and Valentine, pink, buxom and golden-haired, trussed up like prize cows) slept under this tremend
ous roof, somewhere in the labyrinthine recesses of this grandiose place.
Oh, we had read in the papers all about the sumptuous, lavish parties held here, with such pomp that one would think he were the Sun King himself. Baronne de Vresse had been to the party thrown for the Tsar and the King of Prussia a year ago, with three orchestras and a thousand guests. She had also attended the reception in honor of Franz Josef of Austria the following October, with four hundred guests served by three hundred footmen. She had described the seven-course meal, the vast amounts of flowers, the crystal glasses and fine porcelain, the fifty giant candelabras. The Empress wore a taffeta dress fringed with rubies and diamonds. (Alexandrine gaped at this, and I had remained stonily silent.) All Parisians knew about the Prefect’s wine cellar, the finest in the city. All Parisians knew that if one passed by the rue de Rivoli in the early hours, the only light to be seen burning in a single window of the Hôtel de Ville would be that of the Prefect, slaving away only in order to dispatch his army of pickaxes over our city.
As we did not have a rendezvous with anyone in particular, we were told to make our way to the first floor, to the Bureau of Domains and Expropriations. When we got there, we saw with sinking hearts a long line of people also waiting. We took our turn in the queue, as patiently as possible. I wondered who all these people were and what sort of claims they were going to make. The lady next to me was my age, with a weary face and untidy clothes. But the rings on her fingers were fine and precious. By her side was a bearded man, unsmiling and impatient, tapping his feet, staring at his watch every ten minutes. There was also a family, two young parents, very proper, with a fretful baby and a bored little girl.