The House I Loved (15 page)

Ah, what a joy it was to leave the rue Taranne, dusty, noisy Paris! But I do miss my favorite florist terribly (and her precious companion). Nowhere in this town, despite the scintillating presence of Queen Isabella of Spain, and even the Empress herself, can I find anyone capable of delivering such lovely flowers and creating such enchanting headdresses. What am I to do? For what you must know, dear Madame Rose, is that Biarritz is perhaps even more elegant and brilliant at the moment than the capital itself.

Our stay here is a whirlwind of balls, fireworks, excursions and picnics. Frankly, I would not mind curling up with a simple frock and a book, but Lady Bruce and my husband would not hear of it. (Lady Bruce is quite terrifying when she does not get her own way, you see. She is a mere slip of a woman, half your size, and yet she has utter command over us all. Those pale gray eyes, perhaps, the slim mouth set in such a fierce yet charming manner? Even her step in her tiny pantoufles is the very definition of authority.)

I must tell you about her home, the Villa Marbella. I am sure you would adore it. It is utterly splendid, imagine a marble, ceramic and mosaic Moorish fantasy straight out of
The Arabian Nights
. Imagine slender arcades, tinkling fountains, light-reflecting pools, a shaded patio and a glass dome which sparkles in the sun. And, of course, the view of the beach, and the sea. When ones looks south, there looms Spain! So near, and the peaks of the Pyrénées, always shrouded by fluffy clouds. When one turns north, there is Biarritz and its cliffs and frothy waves.

I love the proximity of the sea, except that it turns my hair atrociously frizzy. I need to have it straightened every evening. Rather tedious, I must say. Especially just before our carriage takes us to the Villa Eugénie. That is where the Empress awaits us, you see, in the magnificent E-shaped mansion you have no doubt read about, that the Emperor built just for her. (I know you follow the fashions closely, and I do believe you would be thrilled by the fabulous dresses worn on those dazzling soirées. Except that those crinolines seem to be getting bigger and bigger and it is becoming a worrying complication to attend parties with such crowds.)

You ask how my little girls are, how sweet of you. Well, Apolline and Bérénice do love it here. I won’t have them go too near the sea, as the waves are tremendous. (We heard a young man drowned the other day, at Guéthary. He got caught by the current. A tragedy.)

I took the girls and their governess to an interesting social event earlier this week. The weather was stormy and rainy, but no one minded. A large crowd had gathered by the beach and the port, waiting for the Emperor to turn up. It was rather a squash, but we managed. Just beyond the port and those treacherous waters that trap so many ships lies a huge brown rock that juts out into the choppy sea. On top of that rock, and at the Emperor’s demand, a large white statue of the Madonna has been placed as a protector to all those at sea trying to find their way inland. The Emperor and his wife were the first to walk along the slender iron and wooden bridge which led to the rock, amidst much clapping. We soon followed in their wake, and the little ones were impressed by the swell of the waves slapping against the rocky platform. I glanced up at the white face of the Madonna, as she stood there in the breeze, looking out west, toward the Americas. I wondered how long she will stay up there, battling against violent storms, winds and rain.

Do give all my very best to Alexandrine and to Blaise. I shall be back at the end of the season, and I very much hope I shall receive another letter from you before then?

Louise Eglantine de Vresse

I FELT THE ICY
hand again and the intruder’s breath in my face. The struggle to push him away, the furious, frantic kick and shove of my legs and arms, my muffled scream as he squashed his filthy palm onto my mouth. The dreadful moment when I understand that my struggle is in vain and that he will have his way. The only manner to keep the nightmare at bay is to write to you. I am tired, so tired, my love. I want the end to come. I know it is near. Yet there is more to tell you. I need to straighten out my thoughts. I am afraid of confusing you all the more. My strength is not going to hold out much longer. I am too old to be living in such conditions. Yet you know that nothing will ever make me leave this house.

I feel slightly better now. A couple hours of sleep, even if they were short, have rejuvenated me. It is time now to tell you about my battle against the Prefect, about what I endeavored. I want to relate everything I tried to do to save our house. After the letter came last year, I noticed little by little how our neighbors reacted differently. Only Madame Paccard, Docteur Nonant and myself had decided to put up a fight.

What you must know is that last year the winds began to turn, despite the success of the Exposition Universelle. The Prefect was no longer haloed by an aura of glory. After fifteen grueling years of destructions, a slow murmur of discontent had begun, at first unnoticed, and then louder and louder still. I read harsh articles concerning him in the press by Monsieur Picard and Monsieur Ferry, both very virulent. Everyone seemed to question the financing of the embellishments, the extent of the work. Had the Prefect been right to raze the Ile de la Cité? To undergo such massive destructions in the Latin Quarter? Had he not been heavy-handed? And how had he financed all this, exactly? And then, you see, in the midst of this turmoil, the Prefect made two faux pas. I believe they shall cost him his honor. Time will tell.

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.