The House I Loved

by Tatiana de Rosnay

As the rain poured down, I stood by the window, with Germaine and Mariette crying behind me. I could bear it no longer. I went outside, my umbrella soon useless as the rain drenched me through and through. I managed to walk to the soggy gardens, spread out in front of me like a yellow sea of mud. I tried to envisage where you could have gone. To your mother’s grave, to your son’s? To the churches? To a café? The night was falling now, and still there was no sign of you. I staggered back home, stricken. Germaine had prepared a hot bath. The minutes ticked by, ever so slowly. You had now been gone for over twelve hours. The commissaire came by, his face grave. He had sent his men to all the nearest hospitals, to make sure you had not been taken there. In vain. He left, urging me to keep my spirits up. We sat by the table, facing the door, silent. The night wore on. We could not eat, nor drink. Mariette’s nerves gave way and I sent her up to her room, as she could barely stand.

  In the dead of the night came a knock on the front door. Germaine ran to open up. We saw an elegant young man wearing hunting habits and pantalets. There you were next to him, haggard but smiling, holding on to Père Levasque’s arm.

  “I had been hunting in the Fontainebleau forest with friends in the late afternoon and I came across this man who seemed lost,” explained the young stranger, who introduced himself as Hector Bouteiller. “At first this gentleman had not been able to declare his identity, and he kept mentioning the church at Saint-Germain-des-Prés, so I drove him here in my hackney.”

  All the while you stood there, my dearest, a bewildered smile on your face. Germaine held her apron to her mouth, her cheeks ashen. Père Levasque added, sotto voce:

  “They came to the church, Madame Rose, and I of course immediately recognized Monsieur Bazelet.”

  I asked everyone to step inside. You still had that dazed, benign expression on your face. I was thunderstruck. The forest was miles away. I had been there once as a child and it had taken the entire morning. How on earth had you ended up there? Who had taken you there, and how? I longed to ask you these questions.

  I thanked the young man and Père Levasque profusely, offered them coffee and a liqueur and gently led you to our room. I understood that you had no answers to give me. I went to wake Mariette and we sat you down and examined you carefully. Your clothes were filthy, caked with mud and dirt. There were tufts of grass and thorns in your shoes. I noticed dark stains on your waistcoat. More worriedly, there was a deep gash on your throat and red scratches on your hands. Mariette suggested we call for young Docteur Nonant, even at this hour. I agreed. She wrapped her cloak around her and went out into the night to fetch him, with Germaine.

  When the doctor at last arrived, you were falling asleep, your hand in mine, breathing peacefully, like a child. The doctor tended to you. I cried silent, hopeless tears of relief mingled with fear, clutching your fingers, going over the incomprehensible events of the day. We would never know what happened to you, how and why you had been found hours away from the city, wandering in the forest with a bloody throat. You would never tell us.

  Although I had been prepared by the doctor concerning your oncoming death, it came to me as a dreadful blow when it happened. I was approaching fifty, and I felt my life was behind me forever. I was alone. At night I would lie awake in our bed and listen to the silence. I could no longer hear your breath, the rustle of the sheets as your body moved. Without you, our bed felt like a cold and humid tomb. It seemed to me that even the house silently asked where you were. Your armchair, cruelly empty. Your maps, your papers, your books, your pen and ink, and no longer you. Your place at the dinner table, screaming out your absence. The pink shell you had bought at the antique shop on the rue des Ciseaux and that sounded like the sea when you pressed it to your ear. What do we do when our loved ones leave us forever and we are left behind with the mundane objects of their everyday life? How do we cope? Your comb and hairbrush had me in tears. Your hats. Your game of chess. Your silver pocket watch.

  Our daughter had moved to Tours, had been living there for the past eight years, she had two children. My own mother had passed away seven years ago, and my brother Émile had already left the city. The only people around me were our neighbors, and their companionship and support were treasures to me. They all pampered me. Monsieur Horace dropped off small bottles of strawberry liqueur, and Monsieur Monthier offered me mouth-watering chocolates. Madame Paccard invited me to lunch every Thursday at the hotel. Monsieur Helder, for an early dinner at Chez Paulette, on Mondays. Madame Barou visited me once a week. Père Levasque and I walked to the Luxembourg Gardens every Saturday morning. But there still was a gaping, aching hole in my life when you left me. You were a quiet man, yet you took up a vast amount of silent space and that was what I missed. Your sturdiness and strength.

  I hear Gilbert’s coded knock and get up to answer it. It is absolutely freezing this morning, and my skin is purple with cold. Gilbert limps in, clapping his gloved hands together and stamping on the floor. The icy blast he lets in has me shivering from head to toe. He heads straight for the enamel cooker and revives the coals with gusto.

  I watch him. I tell him about the men from the Préfecture who tried to open the front door. He says gruffly:

  “No need to worry, Madame Rose, there is no work this morning, too cold. We can have the heater going all day, no one will notice the smoke. The area is totally deserted. I’m pretty sure the work will be halted for a while.”

  I huddle near the heat, feeling it thaw the iciness that had engirdled my entire body. He heats bits of food on a greasy saucepan. The appetizing smell tickles my nostrils, my stomach grumbles. Where does Gilbert get the coal, the food? Why is he doing this for me? When I ask him, gently, he merely smiles.

  After our meal, he hands me a letter with a grin. He says the postman was hovering around, baffled, not knowing what to do with the mail, now that the street had been closed down and condemned. How he had managed to obtain my mail, I do not know. Gilbert is a mysterious fellow and he enjoys surprising me.

  The letter, as I suspected, is from our daughter. It was written over a week ago.

  Maman dear,

  We are most alarmed by the fact that you have not yet arrived. Germaine is convinced that something has happened to you and I pray that she is wrong.

  The last time I heard from you, you said you would be here by the beginning of the month. All your personal effects are here by now and your larger furniture is in storage.

  Laurent has been told of a charming little house by the river, not far from us, and not too expensive, where we do think you would be perfectly comfortable. You will be pleased to know that it is not damp at all, he says. There is ample room for Germaine, of course. A pleasant elderly lady we are friendly with lives right next door. But if you prefer to stay with us, this is of course possible.

  The children are well and are looking forward to your stay with us. Clémence plays the piano beautifully and Léon is learning how to read. Please send word with more precise details concerning your arrival. We cannot understand where you are.

  My husband is convinced that it is healthier for you to leave the faubourg Saint-Germain and to let yourself be looked after by us. At your age, nearly sixty after all, this is the right thing to do. You must not go on living in the past and letting grief overcome you.

  We eagerly await your news.

  Your daughter,

  Violette

  EVEN HER HANDWRITING MAKES me wince, it is so sharp and implacable. What to do? I must have looked puzzled because Gilbert asks me what was wrong. I explain who the letter is from and what Violette wants. He shrugs.

  “Write back to her, Madame Rose. Tell her you are staying with friends. That you are taking your time coming down to her. Stall her.”

  “But how do I get this letter to her?” I ask.

  Another careless shrug.

  “I’ll go post it for you, at the post office.”

  He smiles down at me paternally, flashing those ghastly teeth.

  So I
went to fetch a piece of paper and I sit and write the following letter to my daughter.

  Dearest Violette,

  I am indeed sorry for causing you and your husband to worry about me. I am staying for a while with my friend the Baronne de Vresse. I believe I have told you about her. She is a charming socialite that I met through Mademoiselle Walcker, my flower lady. Yes, she is very young, she could be my granddaughter, but she has taken a fancy to me. We enjoy each other’s company.

  She has most generously offered to put me up before I come down to you. She has a lovely house on the rue Taranne. As a result, I am not in the least involved in the destructions of our neighborhood which I am no witness of. We go shopping at the nearby Bon Marché and she takes me to Worth, the grand couturier where she has her dresses made. I am enjoying an enchanting stay, going to the theater, the opera and balls. An old lady of nearly sixty can still do these things, I assure you.

  I will let you know when I arrive, but do not count on me for quite a while yet, as I plan to stay with the Baronne de Vresse as long as possible.

  Do give my warmest regards to your husband and children, and to my dutiful Germaine. Tell her that Mariette has found a good position with a well-to-do family near the Parc Monceau.

  Your affectionate mother

  I CANNOT HELP smirking at the irony lurking in a couple of those sentences. Balls, theaters, Worth, indeed! No doubt my daughter, the typical humdrum provincial wife, would feel a twinge of envy reading about my dazzling fictitious social life.

  I clear my throat and read the letter out loud to Gilbert. He grunts.

  “Why don’t you tell her the truth?” he asks abruptly.

  “About what?” I say.

  “About why you are not leaving this house.”

  I pause for a little while before I answer him.

  “Because my daughter would not understand.”

  IN MY DREAMS, MY good dreams, he comes back to haunt me, my little one. I see him tearing down the stairs, then his shoes clattering along the cobblestones outside. I hear his voice, his peals of laughter. The color blue suited him, and I had all his chemises made from different blues, and his jackets and his cardigans as well, even his cap was blue. My blue and gold prince. When he was a baby, he used to sit in my lap very quietly and observe the world around him. I suppose the first objects he ever detailed were the engravings in the sitting room, and the portraits above the mantel-piece. His round, curious eyes would go from corner to corner, taking it all in, his thumb in his mouth. He breathed peacefully against me. His little body felt warm against mine.

  I felt such contentment in those moments. I felt I was truly a mother, a sensation I had never experienced with Violette, my firstborn. Yes, this tiny being was mine, and mine to protect and cherish. They say mothers prefer their sons, is this not the secret truth? Are we not born to bring sons into the world? Yet I know you loved your daughter. She bonded with you in a way I never did.

  When I dream of Baptiste, I see him napping, as a child, upstairs in the children’s room. I marvel at the mother-of-pearl lids covering his eyes, lashes fluttering. The round smoothness of his cheeks. His parted lips, his slow, calm breath. I gazed at that child for hours, while Violette played with her friends downstairs, watched over by the nanny.

  I did not like the nanny touching him when he was a baby. I knew it was not proper for me to spend so much time with him, but I could not help it. He was mine to feed, mine to cuddle. He was the center of my life, and you looked on benignly. You felt no jealousy, I think. Maman Odette had been that way with you. You were not surprised. I took him everywhere I could. If I had a hat to choose or a shawl to buy, he would be with me. All the shopkeepers knew our son. All the market vendors knew his name. He was never vain about his popularity. He never took advantage of it, either.

  When I dream of him, as I have for the past twenty years, I awake with tears in my eyes. My heart aches. It was easier when you were there, as I could reach out into the dark and feel your comforting shoulder.

  There is no one for me now. Just the cold and deathly quiet. I cry alone. I know how to do that, very well.

  Bussy-le-Repos, July 6th, 1847

  Petite Maman,

  I am having a spendid time with Adèle and her family at Bussy. I miss you, Violette and Papa very much. But I am still having wonderful time. So dont worry. I miss home. Very nice here. And very hot. Yesterday we bathed in the pond. Not very deep and Adèle’s big brother took me on his shoulders and was covered in mud. Adèle’s mother makes escalopes. I eat so much sometimes my tummy hurts. I miss you in evenings when it is bedtime. Adèle’s mother kisses me but shes not pretty like you she does not have soft skin Maman smell. Please write another letter why do letters take so long to arrive. Adèle’s father not as funny as Papa. But hes still nice. He smokes a pipe puffs smoke into your face. Theres a big white dog I got scared of at first because he jumps at you but thats his way of saying hello. His name Prince. Can we have one too. And there is also a cat called Mélusine but she hisses at me so I don’t stroke her. I am trying to write this best I can. Adèle’s brother is correcting my mistakes he’s a fine chap I want to be like him when I grow up hes ten years older than me. Adèle had a fit last night there was a spider in her bed awfully big one Maman please go look in my bed make sure there is no spider I miss you and love you and give my love to Papa and to my sister.

  Baptiste Bazelet

  Your son

  I FELT AN ICY hand on my bosom and I screamed through the silence. Of course, there was no one there, no icy hand, how could anyone ever find me down here, hidden in the cellar? I need a moment to quiet my heart, to breathe in a normal fashion. I can still hear the creak of the stairs, still see the large, freckled hand gliding up the banister, still sense the pause just outside my door before he enters. Will I ever be free? Will the terror ever leave me? The house no longer protects me, in that nightmare. The house has been invaded. It is no longer safe.

  Wrapped up in several layers of thick woolen shawls, I take a candle up to the top floor, to the children’s room. I have not been up there for a while, even when the house was still lived in. It is a long, low-ceilinged room with beams, and as I stand on the threshold, I can still see it filled with toys and games. I can still see our son, his golden curls, his sweet little face. I used to spend hours in this room with Baptiste, playing with him, singing songs to him, all those things I never did with my daughter, simply because she never let me.

  As I let my eyes roam over the now-empty room, I remember the happy times with the little boy. You had decided get the house repaired, to mend all its various problems: leaks in the roof, various cracks, general wear and tear. Every nook and cranny was inspected. A team of workers came steadfastly, and the house was repainted, woodwork repaired, floors repolished. They were a cheerful, good-natured lot, and we grew to know them well. There was Monsieur Alphonse, the foreman, with his black beard and loud voice, and there was Ernest, his ginger-haired attendant. Groups of different workers came every week, hired for their specific skills. Every Monday you would note the progress and discuss various elements of it with the foreman. It took up a great deal of your time, and you were most earnest about the entire matter. You wanted the house to look its best. Your father and your grandfather had not done much to it, and you took it upon yourself to refurbish it.

  Even while there was work being done in the house, we had friends to stay, friends to dinner. I recall that it took up much of my time, those menus to work out, the seating of guests, and which room needed freshening for a new arrival. I took those tasks most seriously. Each menu was carefully written out in a special book so that I would never serve the same meal twice to my guests. How proud I was of our house, how cozy and pretty it looked on those winter evenings, with the fire blazing in the chimney, and the soft light of the lamps. Happy times.

  Over that blessed decade, Violette turned into a silent, self-centered young girl. She was a good learner, and she was serious,
but we shared so little. We had nothing in common, like my mother and I. She talked more with you, I believe, but she was not close to you either. As for Baptiste, she had little interest in him. There was a nine-year difference between her brother and her. She was like the moon, silvery, cold and distant, and he was a triumphant golden sun, all blaze, all fire.

  Baptiste was a child touched by grace. His birth had been short and painless, which astounded me, as I had geared myself up for the ordeal I had endured with Violette. There he was, this splendid child, healthy, pink and energetic, his eyes already wide open to the world. How I wished Maman Odette could have seen her grandson, but she had already left us four years earlier. Yes, that decade was a golden one, as gold as our son’s hair. He was a simple, happy child. He never complained, or if he did, he did it with such charm that he’d melt anyone’s heart. He liked to build little houses with colored bricks made of wood that you gave him for his birthday. For hours he would carefully construct a house, room by room.

  “That is your bedroom, Maman,” he would proudly state. “And the sun shines in, just the way you like it. And Père will have a study right here, with a big desk so he can set all his papers down and do his important work.”

  This is so difficult to write, Armand. I fear the power of words, how they may wound you, like the stab of a knife. The candlelight flickers over the bare walls. I am afraid. Afraid of what I must say. Many times, during confession with Père Levasque, I tried to unburden myself. But it was impossible. I never did.

  I feared the Lord would take my son, that my time with him was counted. Every moment with him was a delight. A delight tainted with fear. Another revolution had stormed our city in February. This time I was not bedridden, and I saw it all. I was forty years old, still sturdy, still strong, despite my years. The riots broke out in the poorer quarters of the city, and barricades went up, barring the streets with iron grillwork, overturned carriages, furniture, tree trunks. You explained that the King had failed to end political corruption, that the economic crisis that raged was without precedent. This had not concerned me, as my daily life as a mother and wife had not altered. It is true that the prices at the market had soared, but our meals were still abundant. Our life was still the same. For the moment.