We walked slowly down the deserted, strangely silent street. The freezing air seemed to thicken around us. My shoes slid on the frosty pavement but Gilbert gripped me to him very firmly despite his limp. It struck me again how tall he was. When we got to the bottom of the street, I could not help but let out a gasp of shock. The rue Erfurth had entirely disappeared, all the way down to the rue des Ciseaux. There was nothing left of it, just clutter and debris. All the familiar boutiques and shops had gone, the bench I used to sit on with Maman Odette, even the water fountain had been taken away. Suddenly I felt dizzy, as if I no longer understood where I was. I had lost my bearings. Gilbert asked me gently if I was all right. I nodded helplessly. You know, sometimes the years catch up with me, and I feel the old lady that I am. Believe me, tonight my nearly sixty years weigh heavily upon me.
I could now see where the boulevard Saint-Germain would continue its monstrous sweep, right there, just by the side of the church. Our dark row of houses, where no windows were lit, fragile roofs etched out against the pale wintry sky where no stars glittered, were the last ones standing. It was as if a giant had lumbered out here, and with a huge, clumsy hand, like an angry child, he had knocked away the little streets I had known all my life.
And yet, just beyond the destructions, people were living in houses that still stood, that were safe. People were eating, drinking and sleeping, leading their everyday, ordinary existences, celebrating birthdays, weddings and christenings. The work that went on here was probably a nuisance to them—the mud, the dust, the noise—but at least, their houses were not threatened. They would never know what it meant to lose a beloved house. I felt swamped with sadness and my eyes watered. And then my hatred for the Prefect rose again within me, so powerful, so strong, that if it had not been for Gilbert’s sturdy hand, I would have tumbled headfirst onto the thin layer of snow.
When we returned to the house, I was weary. Gilbert must have seen it, for he stayed with me well into the night. A gentleman from the rue des Canettes that he knew and who gave him money and food from time to time had offered soup tonight. We sipped it with relish, the burning liquid filling us up. I could not help thinking of Alexandrine, her coming all the way to this closed-off, condemned part of the area to look for me. My heart went out to her. It had been risky slipping into the abandoned streets, ducking under the wooden barriers that all bore menacing signs of “No trespassing” and “Danger.” What was she expecting? I wondered. To find me enjoying a cup of tea in my deserted living room? Had she guessed I was using her cellar as my secret hiding place? She must have suspected something, otherwise she would not have been back here. Gilbert was right. She was a bright girl. How I missed her.
A couple of weeks ago, just as the entire street was packing up in view of the upcoming demolitions, we had spent the morning together, she and I, walking in the Luxembourg Gardens. She had found a position in a large flower shop near the Palais Royal.
“I’m none too pleased about it, the owner of the shop is apparently as bossy as I am,” she explained as we walked around the flower beds, “and sparks will fly, but it will do perfectly for the moment, and it is reasonably paid.”
“Have you found new lodgings?” I asked.
“Indeed, two large, sunny rooms, near the Louvre. Of course, I will miss the rue Childebert, Madame Rose, but am I not a modern-minded young lady, who approves of what the Prefect is doing to our city?”
I stopped in my steps, gazing across at her, as she is as tall as I am.
“Come, now, my dear girl, I cannot believe for one minute you approve of the new Bois de Boulogne near La Muette?”
She nodded vehemently, her black bonnet almost sliding off.
“Yes, I do, and I find the new lake positively gorgeous.”
I groaned. I thought the Bois de Boulogne was vulgar and you would have too, had you seen it. How could that modern, hilly place full of brash new trees ever compare to the ancient Medicis splendor of our own Luxembourg?
Eight years ago, Alexandrine had not even minded the annexation of the suburbs, the fact that our eleventh arrondissement was now the sixth. You would not have liked that either. Paris became gigantic, tentacular! It now had twenty arrondissements and gained over four hundred thousand Parisians overnight. Our city wolfed up Passy, Auteuil, Batignolles-Monceau, Vaugirard, Grenelle, Montmartre, but also places I had never been to and that were now part of Paris, such as Belleville, La Villette, Bercy and Charonne. I found it puzzling and frightening.
Despite our differences, it was always interesting to converse with Alexandrine. Of course, she was headstrong, and she did sometimes take off in a huff, always coming back, however, to beg my pardon. I grew inordinately fond of her. Yes, she was like another daughter, a warm-hearted, intelligent, cultivated one. Do you find me unfair? I suspect you may. But you must understand how far away Violette has grown for me, both physically and mentally. Another reason that endeared Alexandrine to me all the more was that she was born the same year as Baptiste. 1839. I had told her about our son, but only once. It was too painful to pronounce those words.
I sometimes wonder why she has no husband. Is it her fiery personality? The fact that she says exactly what she thinks and that being submissive is an impossible feat for her to manage? Perhaps. She confessed to me she did not miss having a family, a child. She even admitted that looking after a husband is the last thing she wants. I find such opinions unbelievably different, almost shocking. But then, Alexandrine is not like any other person I know. She has not revealed much about her childhood in Montrouge. Her father took to the bottle and was not kind. Her mother died when she was still young. So you see, I am, in a way, her maman.
I MENTIONED RECENTLY THAT after your departure two people saved my life. You were no doubt surprised by this declaration. You probably wondered what I meant. I shall now explain. (Just a small interruption: Gilbert is snoring in the most extraordinary fashion. I am tucked away in the cellar, as snug as can be, a piping-hot brick in my lap, and he is upstairs by the enamel cooker. Yet I can still hear him, can you imagine? I have not heard a man snore for a long time. Since your death. It is an odd yet comforting sound.)
Remember the story of the pink card, sent up one morning? The pink card that smelled of roses? I went down to Alexandrine for the first time, and she was waiting for me in the small sitting room behind the boutique, not far from where I am writing to you now.
She had prepared the most delicious meal. A delicate lemon sponge cake, and some wafers, strawberries and cream. And a most excellent tea, a smoked kind I had never tasted before. She told me it came from China. It was called Lapsang souchong and she had purchased it from a new fashionable tea shop in the Marais, Mariage Frères.
I was nervous at first, we had had a rather bad start, remember, but she was most charming with me.
“Do you like flowers, Madame Rose?” she asked.
I had to admit to her that I knew nothing about them, but that I found them lovely.
“Well, that’s a start!” she said with a laugh. “And with a name like yours, how could you not like flowers?”
After our meal, she asked if I wanted to stay in the shop for a while, to see how she worked. I was surprised at her offer, but rather flattered to think that this young lady should find my company amusing. So she got me a chair and I sat by the counter and did my embroidery, but to tell you the truth, Armand, I did not get much of that embroidery done, because what I saw and heard on that first day was fascinating.
First of all, as I told you, the shop was delightful, so cheerful, a treat for the eyes. I felt most at ease surrounded by the pink walls, the array of flowers, the intoxicating perfume. Alexandrine had an apprentice with her, a youngster called Blaise, who did not say much, but who was a hard worker.
To my surprise, there was much to be done in a flower shop. You see, flowers are given for so many occasions, for so many reasons. All afternoon I observed Alexandrine adroitly handling her irises, her tulips, her lilies.
Her hands were sure and quick. She wore a long black pinafore that gave her a strict elegance. Blaise hovered behind her, his eyes watching every move. They barely talked. Occasionally he went off with a bouquet, to deliver it nearby.
There was never a dull moment. In swept the most dashing gentleman, with curled hair and a flowing black cape, who wanted a gardenia for his buttonhole to wear at the opera that night. Then a lady wished to order flowers for a christening, and another (who brought tears to my eyes, all in black, pale and tired) for a funeral. The young priest who worked with Père Levasque came in to choose lilies for the reopening of the church after two years of restorations. Madame Paccard dropped by for her regular weekly order, as she had fresh flowers put in for every new client at the Hôtel Belfort. Monsieur Helder wanted special floral arrangements for a surprise birthday party in his restaurant on the rue Erfurth.
Each time, and with each client, Alexandrine listened carefully, gave suggestions, listened again, proffered a flower, or another, imagined a bouquet, described it, listened once more. She took her time, and even if a line formed in her shop, she quickly would get another chair, offer a bonbon or a cup of tea and the next customer would wait patiently by my side. No wonder this new shop was doing so well, I thought, compared with the one run by old-fashioned, dreary Madame Collévillé.
There were so many questions I burned to ask Alexandrine as she rushed around the shop. Where did she get her flowers? How did she choose them? Why had she become a florist? But she moved so fast that I could never get a word in. I could only watch her, my hands idle in my lap, as she got on with her day’s work.
The next morning I was back. I knocked timidly at the window and she nodded, beckoning me to enter. “You see, Madame Rose, your chair is waiting for you!” she said with a flourish, and it seemed to me that her voice was less grating, that it even had a certain charm to it. All night long I had thought of the flower shop, Armand. And once I was awake, I longed to get back to it, and to her. I began to understand the rhythm of her day. In the mornings, when the fresh flowers had been fetched by her and Blaise at the market, she would point out divine dark red roses to me.
“Look, Madame Rose, these are so lovely that they will go in a flash. They are called Rosa Amadis and no one can resist them.”
And she was right. No one could resist those sumptuous roses, their heady perfume, their rich color, their downy texture. By noon there was not one single Rosa Amadis left in the shop. They had all gone.
“People adore roses,” Alexandrine explained, as she prepared ready-made bouquets for customers to purchase on their way home or to a dinner. “Roses are the queen of flowers. You cannot go wrong when you offer a rose.”
As we spoke, she had already made three or four bouquets. Each was completely different, created with various sorts of flowers, foliage and strands of satin ribbons. It seemed effortless. But I knew it was not. She had a way with flowers, that young woman.
One morning Alexandrine appeared to be in a state of excitement. She snapped at poor Blaise, who got on with his tasks like a brave little soldier facing the enemy. I wondered what could have caused such turmoil. She kept staring at the clock on the wall, opening the door that gave on the street, the bell giving a little chime each time, standing on the pavement, hands on hips, glancing up and down the rue Childebert. I was mystified. Who could she be waiting for? A fiancé? A special delivery?
And then all of a sudden, when I felt I could no longer stand the wait, a figure appeared on the threshold of the shop. The loveliest woman I had ever seen.
She floated into the boutique as if she had been walking on a cloud. Oh, my dear, how can I ever begin to describe her? Even Blaise knelt in reverence. She was exquisite, tiny, a porcelain doll. Of course, she wore the latest fashions. A mauve crinoline (the Empress wore nothing but mauve that year) with a white lace collar and cuffs, and her bonnet was the prettiest contraption you could imagine. She came with a maid, who waited outside, as it was a sunny spring afternoon.
I could not take my eyes off this enchanting stranger. Her face was a perfect oval, she had beautiful black eyes, creamy white skin, pearly teeth and glossy black hair raised in a braided bun. I had no idea who she was, but I immediately guessed she was most important to Alexandrine. She held out her hands to her, and Alexandrine declaimed, clasping those tiny white hands to her in adoration:
“Oh, madame, I thought you wouldn’t ever come!”
The lovely stranger threw her head back and laughed gaily.
“Now, now, mademoiselle, I had word sent to you that I’d be here at ten, and here I am, only a few minutes late! We have so much to do, have we not? I’m certain you have come up with splendid ideas for me!”
I stared, entranced. So did Blaise, whose mouth was open.
“Oh, I have had the most superb ideas, madame. Just wait till I show you. But first of all, let me introduce you to my landlady, Madame Bazelet.”
The lady turned to me with a gracious smile. I got up to greet her.
“Her name is Rose,” Alexandrine pursued. “Do you not find that delightful?”
“Oh, indeed! Positively delightful!”
“Madame Rose, this is my best and most wonderful client, the Baronne de Vresse.”
The tiny white hand pressed mine, and then, at Alexandrine’s signal, Blaise dashed to get papers and sketches from the back room, and they were laid on the large table with care. I longed to know what all this regarded.
I began to understand as the Baronne carefully described a dress. A ball dress. My dear, it was the grandest event. The Baronne was attending a ball given by the Empress herself. The Princess Mathilde was to attend, and the Prefect and his wife, and all sorts of elegant people.
Alexandrine acted as if all this were perfectly normal, but I was beside myself with excitement. The dress was being made by Worth, of course, that famous couturier on the rue de la Paix where all the fashionable ladies went. The Baronne’s dress was flaming pink, she told us, with round shoulders, a frilly bertha, and the crinoline had five full flounces and a layer of tassels. Alexandrine showed her the sketches. She had imagined a slim wreath of pink rosebuds, mother-of-pearl and rhinestones for the Baronness’s coiffure and corsage.
Such adorable drawings! I was impressed by Alexandrine’s creative talent. No wonder ladies flocked to her boutique. You are probably wondering why I, always so critical of the Empress and her frivolities, could harbor such admiration toward the Baronne de Vresse. I will be honest with you, dearest, she was charming. There was nothing shallow or empty about her. She asked my advice, several times, as if it meant something to her, as if I were an important personage. I do not know how old this captivating creature was—in her twenties, I presumed?—but I could tell she had had an impeccable education, she spoke several languages, she had traveled the world. The Empress too? No doubt. Ah, but you would have adored the lovely Baronne. I know it.
At the end of the day, I knew a little bit more about the Baronne de Vresse, born Louise de Villebague, who had married Felix de Vresse at just eighteen. I learned she had two little girls, Bérénice and Apolline. I heard she loved flowers, and that she daily filled her house on the rue Taranne with them. I knew Alexandrine was the only flower lady she wanted to work with, because Mademoiselle Walcker truly “understands flowers,” she said gravely, looking at me with those black, shining eyes.
I must stop for now, my sweet. My hand aches from all this writing. Gilbert’s snore is a comforting sound. It makes me feel safe. I shall now curl up into all those blankets and sleep as much as I possibly can.
SUCH STRANGE DREAMS I have been having. The latest one is decidedly odd. I was lying down in a kind of flattened meadow, staring up at the sky. It was a particularly warm day and my thick wintry dress felt itchy next to my skin. The ground below my body was sumptuously soft, and when I turned my head I realized I was lying atop a thick bed of rose petals. Some of them were crushed and wilted and they set off a delicious perfume. I could hear
a young girl singing gently, not too far away. She sounded like Alexandrine, although I could not be sure. I wanted to get up but found I was unable to. My hands and feet were tied together by slender silk ribbons. I could not speak, my mouth was covered with a cotton scarf. I tried to struggle, but my movements were sluggish and ponderous, as if I had been drugged. So I lay there, helpless. I was not afraid. The heat bothered me the most, the sun shining onto my pale skin did too. If I stayed here any longer, I would become freckled. The chanting grew louder, and I heard the thump of footsteps, muffled by the rose petals. A face looked down at mine and I could not make out who it was, as the sun glowed too strongly. Then I recognized a girl I had seen in the bookstore many times, a disturbed child, with the round face of a cretin. She was a gentle, pathetic creature, I cannot recall her name, but I believe she had some sort of secret link to Monsieur Zamaretti, the bookshop owner, a link that he did not wish to divulge. When I came in to choose my books, she was often there, sitting on the floor, playing with a soft balloon. Sometimes I showed her pictures from the Comtesse de Ségur tales. She would laugh, or rather she howled, very loudly, but I became accustomed to it. There she was, in my dream, dangling daisies on my forehead, howling with laughter. I tried to explain to her how to untie me, but she did not understand. I became flustered, the sun was burning, scorching me. I lost my temper, I shouted at her, and she grew frightened. She backed away despite my pleas, and she took off, breaking into a clumsy, animal-like run. She disappeared. I shouted, but the scarf around my mouth prevented me from being heard. And I did not even know her name. I felt helpless. I burst into tears, and when I awoke from this dream, there were tears running down my cheeks.