Everyone waited. From time to time a door would open and a clerk would come to take down the names of the new arrivals. I felt it would last forever. When our turn finally came, we were not allowed to go in together, but one by one. No wonder the whole matter took so long! We let Madame Paccard go first.
The minutes dragged by. When she came out at last, her face seemed to have sagged even more. She muttered something I did not catch and sank down into her seat, her head in her hands. Docteur Nonant and I watched anxiously. The lady with the rumpled clothes then also emerged in the same state, tears running down her face. I began to feel most nervous. I let Docteur Nonant go before me, as I felt I needed to stretch my legs for a while. The room felt stuffy and clammy, full of other people’s smell and anguish.
I went outside into the large corridor and paced up and down. The place was a beehive of activity. It was here that it all happened, you see. The slow destruction of our city was born here. All the busy men rushing around with papers and folders had something to do with the work. Which of them had decided that the boulevard would pass just by the church, which of them had sketched the actual plans, which of them had drawn the first lethal line?
We had read all about the Prefect’s splendid team. We knew their faces, as they had each become famous. The crème de la crème of the intelligentsia of our country, all brilliant engineers with the highest diplomas, from Polytechnique, from the Ponts and Chaussées. Monsieur Victor Baltard, the “iron man,” builder of the gigantic marketplace I was telling you about. Monsieur Jean-Charles Alphand, the “gardener,” famed for giving our city its new lungs. Monsieur Eugène Belgrand, the notorious “water man,” obsessed with our sewers. Monsieur Gabriel Davioud, who designed the two theaters on the place du Châtelet, but also that unfortunate, oversized fountain at Saint-Michel. Each of these gentlemen had his grandiose role to play, basking in the glory.
And the Emperor, of course, watching it all from the high golden haven of his palaces, far from the rubble, the dust, the tragedy.
When I was at last called in, I found myself sitting in front of a fair young man who could have been my grandson. He had long wavy hair that he seemed inordinately proud of, an immaculate dark suit of the latest fashion and shiny shoes. His face was smooth, with the delicate complexion of a young girl. His desk was piled high with files and binders. Behind him an older bespectacled gentleman scribbled away, huddled over his work. The young man flickered lazy, arrogant eyes over me, glancing at his watch. He lit a small cigar, puffed away importantly and then asked me to voice my complaint. I replied calmly that I was firmly opposed to the destruction of my family home. He asked me for my name and address, opened a thick book, slid a finger down a couple of pages. Then he muttered:
“Cadoux, Rose, widow of Armand Bazelet, six rue Childebert.”
“Yes, monsieur,” I said, “that is I.”
“You do not agree with the sum of money proposed by the Préfecture, I presume?”
He said this with boredom, tinged with despicable nonchalance, glancing at his nails as he spoke. How old was this arrogant brat? I thought, seething. No doubt he had other, more pleasurable topics on his mind, a luncheon with a young lady, or a gala evening tonight. What suit should he wear? The brown, the blue? And would he have time to have his hair curled before nightfall? I said nothing as I sat there in front of him, one hand laid out flat on the desk that separated us.
When he finally looked up at me, probably surprised at my silence, a guarded expression filtered into his eyes. I could tell he was thinking: This one is going to make a fuss, I will be late for my lunch. I could see myself in his gaze, one of those respectable old ladies, well turned out, probably quite a looker in her day, centuries ago, and now here to demand more money. They all did that. Sometimes they ended up getting more money. So he thought.
“What is the sum you are considering, Madame Bazelet?”
“I do not think you have fully grasped the nature of my purpose, monsieur.”
He stiffened, raising an eyebrow.
“And, pray, what is the purpose you have in mind, madame?”
Oh, the irony in his voice, the mockery. I could have slapped his smooth, round face.
I said, very clearly:
“I am opposed to the destruction of my family home.”
He stifled a yawn.
“Yes, madame, I have gathered that.”
“I do not want money,” I said.
He seemed baffled.
“Then what is it you do want, madame?”
I took a deep breath.
“I want the Prefect to build the boulevard Saint-Germain farther away. I want to save my house and the rue Childebert.”
His jaw dropped. He stared at me. Then his laugh burst out, an ugly, gurgling sound. Oh, how I hated him. He laughed and laughed, and the toadfish gentleman behind him laughed as well, until a door opened and some other man looked in, and joined in too, holding his sides, when the young rascal choked, “Madame wants the Prefect to move the boulevard in order to save her house.” Doubled over, they cackled away merrily, pointing at me.
There was nothing more to be said or done. I got up, as dignified as I possibly could, and made my way out. In the adjoining room, Docteur Nonant was mopping his sweaty brow with his kerchief. When he saw my face, he shook his head and raised his palms in despair. Madame Paccard patted my arm. Of course, they had heard the laughs. The entire Hôtel de Ville had heard the laughs.
There were even more people in the room and the air was stifling and stale. We left in haste. And then suddenly we saw him, as we made our way down the stairs.
The Prefect. Towering over each and every person there, quite close to us, so near, in fact, that we drew breath and stopped short. I had seen him before, as I told you, but never from so close. There he was, at arm’s reach. I could see the grain of his skin, slightly speckled, a florid hue, the curly harshness of his beard, the blaze of icy blue eyes. He was sturdy, running to fat, with hands like hams, formidable.
We flattened ourselves against the banister as he swept past, two or three clerks in his wake. He smelled of rancid sweat, liquor and tobacco. He did not see us. He seemed intent, implacable. I itched to reach out and grab his meaty wrist, to force him to look at me, to free my hatred, my fear, my anguish, to scream at him that by destroying my home he was destroying my memories, my life, the very core of it. But my hand remained limply by my side. And then he was gone.
We left in silence, the three of us. We had lost our battle. We had not dared speak to the Prefect, none of us had dared. There was nothing more to be done. The rue Childebert was doomed. The doctor would lose his patients; Madame Paccard, her hotel; and I, our house. We had no more hope. It was finished.
It was balmy outside, almost too hot. I secured my bonnet around my head as we crossed the bridge. I saw nothing of the activity on the river, with barges and boats gliding up and down, nor did I pay any heed to the traffic around us charged with top-heavy omnibuses and busy cabbies. I could still hear the jarring laughter and my cheeks smarted.
When I got back home, my dear, I was so incensed that I sat down at my desk and I wrote a long letter to the Prefect. I ordered Germaine to go to the post office to send it off immediately. I have no idea if he ever read it. But writing it did me good. It took some of the weight off my chest. I remember that letter perfectly well. After all, I wrote it not that long ago, did I not?
Sir,
You will no doubt never read this. But my letter may find its way into your hands. It is a slim chance I will take.
You do not know me. And you never will. My name is Rose Bazelet, née Cadoux, and I live on the rue Childebert, which is about to be flattened for the continuation of the rue de Rennes and the boulevard Saint-Germain.
For the past fifteen years I have endured you. I have endured your works, your avidity, your obduracy. I have endured the dust, the discomfort, the torrents of mud, the debris, the destructions and the advent of a tawdry, tinsel-
like Paris which perfectly embodies the commonness of your purpose. I have endured the mutilation of the Luxembourg Gardens. Today, I have had enough.
This very day, sir, I went to the Hôtel de Ville, like many other Parisians in my situation, in order to protest against the demolition of my family home. I do not care to relate the arrogance with which I was received.
Are you aware, sir, that there are citizens in this town who do not approve of your actions, nor the way with which these actions are taking place? Are you aware that you are called the “Attila of the straight line,” the “Ripper Baron”? Perhaps these nicknames make you smile. Perhaps the Emperor and yourself have decided not to bother with what the populace thinks of your embellishments. Thousands of houses have been destroyed. Thousands of people have been forced to move, have been sent packing. Of course, as you are safely shielded in the preserved magnificence of the Hôtel de Ville, these discomforts mean little to you. And to you they are above all material. You are convinced that a family home is simply worth a sum of money. For you, a house is only a house. Your name is ironic. How is it possible that you are called “Haussmann”? Haussmann means “the man of the house” in German, does it not? I read that when you were building the continuation of the boulevard that now bears your name, you did not hesitate to raze the very house you were born in. I find that tells it all.
I am relieved to read in the press that you have a growing number of enemies, especially since the deplorable affair of the cemeteries. People are now questioning the impact that the complete reshaping of our capital will have in the future. These irrevocable transformations have tampered with communities, with neighborhoods, with families, and have annihilated even memory. The poorest citizens have been sent to live outside the city limits because they can no longer afford the rents of those new, modern buildings. All this will no doubt affect Parisians for very many years.
The damage is done. I no longer walk through the streets of my city, sir, because my city has become a foreign place to me.
I was born in this city, nearly sixty years ago, as you were. When you were appointed, I witnessed the beginnings of the transformations, I witnessed the enthusiasm, the appeal of modernity that was on everyone’s lips. I saw the continuation of the rue de Rivoli, the opening of boulevard Sébastopol that ruined my brother’s house, the opening of boulevard du Prince Eugène, the boulevard Magenta, the rue Lafayette, the rue Réaumur, the rue de Rennes, the boulevard Saint-Germain … I will not be here to witness the rest of your works, and of that I am immensely relieved.
I have one final comment to make. Have you not, the Emperor and yourself, been overwhelmed with the sheer grandiloquence of your project?
It appears that the enormity of your mutual ambitions has somehow led you to envisage that Paris is not only the capital of France, but of the entire world.
I will not bow down to you, sir. I will not bow down to the Emperor. I will not be sent away like the sheeplike Parisians whose entire existences you have dismantled. I will resist you, sir.
In the name of my late husband, Armand Bazelet, who was born, who lived, who loved and who died in our house rue Childebert, I shall never surrender.
Rose Bazelet
IN THE DEAD OF the night, I felt a presence next to me and I nearly swooned. I thought for a few panic-stricken seconds that it was the intruder and that no one would ever hear me screaming down here in the cellar. I thought my last hour had come. For agonizing moments, I fumbled with matches to light my candle.
I called out in a quavering voice, “Who is there?”
A warm hand found its way to mine. To my relief and amazement, it was Alexandrine. She had entered the house with her old key, had crept down the stairs in the dark to me. She had at last understood I was hiding here. I begged her not to reveal my presence to anyone. She kept staring at me in the dim candlelight. She appeared most agitated.
“You have been here all this time, Madame Rose?”
I explained carefully that I had been helped by Gilbert, my ragpicker friend, that he brought me food, water and coal daily and that I was perfectly all right despite the freezing cold that had besieged the city. She seized my hand, fairly stuttering with emotion as she cried out, “Oh, but you cannot stay here any longer, Madame Rose! The house will be pulled down in the next twenty-four hours! It would be madness to stay, you will…” Her eyes met mine, those toffee-colored eyes shining with intelligence, and I looked back at her, calmly, my back straight. She seemed to be searching for an answer deep inside me, and I gave her that answer, speechlessly. She dissolved into tears. I gathered her into my arms and we stayed that way for a long while, until her sobs abated somewhat. When she seemed to have regained her composure, she merely whispered, “Why?”
The vastness of her question engulfed me. How could I possibly explain? Where would I begin? The sharp, cold silence drew itself around us. It seemed I had been living down here forever, that I would never again glimpse the light of day. What time was it? It did not matter. The night appeared to be standing still. The musty smell of the cellar had weaved its way into Alexandrine’s hair, her clothes.
She felt like a daughter as I clutched her against me, as if we were made of the same flesh, the same blood. We shared warmth, and some sort of love, I suppose, a powerful bond of affection that linked her to me, and I felt closer to her at that moment than I had ever felt with anyone in my life, even with you. I sensed I could tell her all my burdens. I felt she could understand. I took a deep breath. I began by telling her that this house was all my life, that each room told a story, my story, your story. Since you had left, I had never found a way to replace your absence. Your illness had not made my love for you any weaker, on the contrary.
The house bore the story of our love in its inner structure, in its quaint beauty. The house was my link to you, forever. By losing the house, I would again lose you.
“I used to think this house would live on forever,” I whispered to Alexandrine in the dark heart of the night, “that it would go on standing, impervious to time, to battles, to events, like the church still stands today. I thought this house would live on after Armand, after me, that there would be other little boys who would one day tear down the stairs, laughing, other slender dark girls to curl up on the sofa near the fire, other gentlemen who would calmly read by the window. I believed the house would witness other family sorrows, joys and tragedies. When I looked ahead, or when I tried to, I always saw the house, its stability. It appeared immutable. Year after year, I believed it would keep the same familiar odor, the same cracks on the wall, the creak of the stairs, the uneven flagstones in the kitchen, the way the sun would shine inside, depending on the seasons. I was wrong. The house is doomed. And never will I abandon it.”
Alexandrine listened very quietly, not once interrupting me. I lost track of time, and my voice droned on through the dimness, like a strange beacon taking us to day, to dawn. I think maybe she fell asleep after a while, and so did I.
When I opened my eyes, I knew Gilbert was there, I could hear him rummaging upstairs as the smell of coffee floated down to us. Alexandrine stirred and mumbled a few words. I gently brushed her hair away from her face. She looked so young as she lay there in my arms, her skin fresh and rosy. I wondered why no man had ever found a way to her heart. I wondered what her life was like, apart from the flowers that were essential to her existence. Was she lonely? She was such a creature of mystery. When she awoke at last, I could tell she was having trouble remembering where she was. She could not believe she had slept down here with me. I led her upstairs, where Gilbert had prepared coffee. She looked at him, nodded her head. Then her face sobered when she recalled our conversation during the night. She took my hand and held it tight, with a pleading, yearning expression. But I remained firm. I shook my head.
All of a sudden her face turned beetroot-red and she grabbed me by the shoulders and started to shake me furiously.
“You cannot do this! You cannot do this, Madame Ros
e!”
She yelled this at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks. I tried to calm her down, but she would not listen, her features contorted, unrecognizable. She had worked herself into a proper state. Gilbert leaped up, spilling coffee over the floor, and firmly plucked her away from me.
“What about those who care for you, who need you?” she hissed, heaving, struggling to break free, pushing and kicking. “What am I going to do without you, Madame Rose? How can you leave me like this, don’t you see how selfish you are? I need you, Madame Rose. I need you like flowers need the rain. You are so very precious to me. Don’t you see?”
Her sorrow touched me deeply. Never had I seen her act this way. For ten years Alexandrine had come across as a composed person, full of authority. She knew how to make herself respected. Nobody ever got the better of her. And here she was, sobbing, her face devastated with grief, her hands outstretched to me. How could I do this, she went on, how could I be so cruel, so heartless? Had I not understood that I was like a mother to her, that I was her best friend, her only friend?
I listened. I listened and I cried as well, silently, not daring to look at her any longer. The tears ran down my face unchecked.