The House I Loved

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  How could I have waited so long to discover the joys of reading? Now I remember how concentrated you were during those winter evenings when you would read by the fireplace. I sewed, or darned, or wrote letters. Sometimes I played a game of dominoes. And still you would remain in your seat, your book in your hands, your eyes roving from page to page. I remember thinking that reading was your favorite pastime and that I did not share it. It did not worry me. I knew my own favorite pastime was clothes and fashion, and that you did not share that with me either. Whilst I marveled at the cut of a dress or the tint of a fabric, you reveled in Plato, Honoré de Balzac, Alexandre Dumas and Eugène Sue. Oh, my love, how you felt close to me as I devoured Madame Bovary. I could not think what the fuss had been about, concerning the trial. Had Flaubert not managed to place himself precisely within Emma Bovary’s mind, making his reader undergo every sensation she experienced, her boredom, her pain, her sorrow, her rapture?

  * * *

  One morning, very early, Alexandrine took me to the flower market at Saint-Sulpice. I had asked Germaine to rouse me at three in the morning. She had done so, her face puffy with sleep, whilst I felt excitement tingling through me and no tiredness whatsoever. I was at last going to find out how Alexandrine chose her flowers. She did this on Tuesdays and Fridays, with Blaise. There we were, the three of us, in the dark and silent rue Childebert. No one was about, only a couple of ragpickers with their hooks and lanterns. They scuffled away when they saw us. I do not believe I had ever laid eyes on my city at such an early hour. Had you?

  We walked down the rue des Ciseaux, and there, on the rue des Canettes, the first wagons and carts heading to the square in front of the church could be seen. Alexandrine had explained to me recently that the Prefect was having a new market built near Saint-Eustache Church, a huge construction with glass and metal pavilions, no doubt a monstrosity, and this would be ready this year or the next, but you can imagine I had not had the heart to go there. Nor did I want to behold the construction works for his grandiose new opera. It was thus to this enormous new market that Alexandrine would have to go for her stock of flowers. But the morning I was telling you about, my dear, we were headed to Saint-Sulpice, where the flower market was held twice a week, as you recall. It was a chilly spring morning, and I pulled my coat around me, wishing I had taken one of my woolen scarves, the pink one. Blaise tugged a wooden chariot behind him, it was almost as large as he was.

  As we drew nearer, I could make out the hum of voices and the clatter of wheels on cobblestones. The gas lamps above the tents created bright pockets of light over each stall. The familiar, soft scent of flowers greeted me like a friend’s embrace. We followed Alexandrine through a colorful maze of flowers. She named them all for me as we passed. Carnations, snowdrops, tulips, violets, camellias, forget-me-nots, lilac, narcissus, anemones, ranunculus … I felt like she was introducing me to her best friends. “It’s too early yet in the season for peonies,” she chirped. “But once they start coming in, you’ll see they are nearly as popular as roses.”

  Alexandrine wove through the displays with a brisk, professional manner. She knew exactly what she wanted. The vendors greeted her by her first name, and some of the men were overtly flirtatious, but she was having none of that. She barely smiled. She turned up her nose at clusters of small round white roses that I thought lovely. When she noticed I appeared puzzled, she pointed out they lacked freshness.

  “Aimée Vibert white roses need to be just perfect,” she whispered. “They need to look like fine white silk, tinged at the edges with the faintest trace of pink. We use them for wedding bouquets, you see. These here will not last.”

  How could she tell? I wondered. I suppose it was to do with the way the petals curled and the tint of the stems? I felt giddy but elated, watching her finger leaves and petals with that deft sure touch, sometimes bringing her nose down for a whiff or letting petals caress her cheek. She entered tough negotiations with the vendors. I was taken aback by her fortitude. Not once did she relent, not once did she back down. She was twenty-five years old and yet she had the upper hand over middle-aged hard-boiled traders.

  I wondered where the great mass of flowers came from.

  “From the Midi,” answered Blaise, “from the south and the sun.”

  I could not help thinking of the stream of flowers pouring into the city, day after day. And where did they all go once they were sold?

  “Balls, churches, weddings and graveyards,” answered Alexandrine, as Blaise steadfastly stacked the flowers she had purchased into the chariot. “Paris is always hungry for flowers, Madame Rose. The city needs her ration, every day. Flowers for love, flowers for sorrow, flowers for joy, flowers to remember. Flowers for friends.”

  I asked why she had decided to take on this profession. She smiled, patting the heavy coil of hair piled upon her head.

  “There was a large garden near where we lived, in Montrouge. It was beautiful, with a fountain and a statue. I used to play there every morning, and the gardeners working there taught me all about flowers. It was fascinating. I’d watch them and learn. I quickly understood that flowers would end up being part of my life.” Then she added, in a low voice, so only I could hear, “Flowers have a language of their own, Madame Rose. I find it so much more powerful than words.” And she promptly tucked a pink rosebud into the buttonhole of my coat.

  I imagined her as a child, a tall, thin creature, unruly curls tamed by two braids, roaming the garden in Montrouge, a green place that smelled of mignonettes and roses, bending over buds, long, sensitive hands examining petals, thorns, bulbs, blossoms. She had told me she was a lonely child, no siblings. I could see how flowers became her closest friends.

  The sun had by now made a timid appearance over the two towers of Saint-Sulpice. The last gas lamps had been turned down. I felt as if I had been awake for ages. It was time to go back to the rue Childebert. Blaise heaved the cart behind him, and once we got to the shop, the flowers were adroitly arranged into vases of water.

  Very soon the bell at the door would start to tinkle, and Alexandrine’s flowers would make their magical, perfumed way around the city. And yet, my flower girl remained a mystery and she still is today. For all these years, and in spite of our long talks and our strolls around the Luxembourg Gardens, I know very little about her. Does she have a young man in her life? Is she a married man’s mistress? I simply have no idea. Alexandrine is like that fascinating cactus Maman Odette used to own, deceptively smooth and terrifyingly prickly.

  I LEARNED TO LIVE without you, little by little. I had to. Is it not what widows do? It was another existence. I tried to be brave. I believe I was. Père Levasque, busy with the restoration of his church by one of the Prefect’s architects, Monsieur Baltard (the very same man who is at present building the new market I was telling you about), no longer had time to walk around the Luxembourg Gardens with me. I had to fend for myself. I did it, with the help of my new allies. Alexandrine kept me busy. She sent me out on delivery errands with Blaise. We made a fine pair, he and I. We were greeted from the rue de l’Abbaye down to the rue du Four, him with his chariot, and me holding the most precious flowers in my arms.

  Our favorite delivery was the Baronne de Vresse’s roses. Alexandrine would spend most of the morning choosing them. This took her a while. They had to be the finest, the loveliest, the most fragrant. The pink Adèle Heu roses. The white Aimée Vibert, the ivory Adelaïde d’Orléans or the dark red Amadis. Then they were carefully wrapped up in soft paper and boxes, their stems humid, and we had but little time to rush them over.

  The Baronne de Vresse lived in a beautiful, ancient building on the corner of the rue Taranne and the rue du Dragon. The front door was opened by Célestin, the valet. He had a serious face, a disturbing hairy pimple on the side of his nose, and he was utterly devoted to the Baronne. One had to go up a wide flight of stone stairs which always took us a moment, Blaise struggling with the cart and me taking care not to slip on the old flagstones
. She never kept us waiting. She patted Blaise’s head and slipped him some coins, and she sent him back to the shop and kept me. I watched her take care of the flowers. No one else was allowed to handle her roses. We sat in a large, light room that was her own, her “lair,” she called it. It was delightfully simple. No crimson velvet here, no gold gilt, no mirrors, no glittering chandeliers. The walls were pale magenta and there were children’s drawings pinned on them. The carpets were soft and white, the canopies covered with toile de Jouy. It was like being in a country house. The Baronne liked her roses to be arranged in tall, slim vases, and there had to be at least three bouquets of them. Sometimes her husband rushed in and out, a lofty, sprightly man who barely acknowledged me, but there was nothing displeasing about him.

  I could sit there for hours, basking in the gentle, feminine atmosphere. What did we talk about? you may wonder. Her children, sweet little girls I sometimes glimpsed with their governess. Her social life, which fascinated me, the Mabille ball, the opera, the theaters. And we much discussed books, because, like you, she was a reader. She had read Madame Bovary in one single go, to her husband’s despair (and annoyance), as she could not have been dragged away from the novel. I had admitted to her that I was a recent reader, that my new hobby was born thanks to Monsieur Zamaretti, whose shop was next to Alexandrine’s. We had talks about books, she and I. She suggested Alphonse Daudet and Victor Hugo and I listened to her describe their work with rapture.

  How different our existences were, I mused. Did she not have it all, the beauty, the brains, the breeding, the brilliant marriage? Yet I felt a tangible sadness lurking within Louise de Vresse. She was much younger than me, younger than Violette, than Alexandrine, but she possessed a maturity I had rarely seen in a person her age. I wondered, as I admired her lissome figure, what her secrets were. What was there beneath the veneer? I found myself wanting to confide in her and wishing to hear her own divulgences. Of course, I knew how improbable this was.

  There was one captivating exchange, I recall. I was sitting with the Baronne one morning after the flower delivery and enjoying a cup of hot chocolate served by Célestin. (Such magnificent Limoges porcelain, stamped with the de Vresse coat of arms.) She was reading the paper next to me and making witty comments about the news. I did like that about her, her keen interest in what went on in the world around us, her natural curiosity. She certainly was no vain, empty-headed coquette. That day she was wearing an enchanting pearl-white crinoline dress with funnel-shaped lace-trimmed sleeves and a high-necked bodice that showed off her slender bust to perfection. “Oh, thank the Lord!” she exclaimed suddenly, bent over the printed page, and I asked her what the matter was. She explained that the Empress in person had intervened to considerably reduce the poet Charles Baudelaire’s penalty. Had I read Les Fleurs du Mal? she asked. I told her that Monsieur Zamaretti had recently spoken to me about Monsieur Baudelaire. He informed me there had also been a trial and a scandal concerning his poems, like what had happened for Madame Bovary. However, I had not read them yet. She got up and went to fetch a slender book in the adjoining room. She handed it to me. Les Fleurs du Mal. A beautiful edition in fine green leather with a wreath of exotic, twisted flowers on the cover.

  “I think you will enjoy these poems very much, Madame Rose,” she said. “Please borrow this copy and read it. I long to know what you think.” So I went home and had my luncheon, and then sat down to read the poems. I opened the book warily. The only poems I had ever read were the very private ones you sent me, beloved. I was desperately afraid of being bored as I leafed through the pages. What could I say to the Baronne without hurting her feelings?

  Now, I am aware that as a reader one needs to trust the writer, trust the poet. They know how to reach out and pluck us out of our ordinary life and send us careening into another world we have not even fathomed. That is what talented authors do. That is what Monsieur Baudelaire did to me.

  Villa Marbella, Biarritz, June 27th, 1865

  My dear Madame Rose,

  Many thanks for your letter. It took a while to reach me, as I am now in Basque country, staying with Lady Bruce, a dear friend, an Englishwoman of marvelous taste and such good company. I met her a couple of years ago in Paris, at a ladies’ luncheon party at the Hôtel de Charost, which as you may know is the British Embassy on the rue Saint-Honoré. The Ambassadress, Lady Cowley, had placed Lady Bruce next to me at table, and we got on splendidly, despite the age difference. I suppose you could say she is old enough to be my grandmother, however, there is nothing old about Lady Bruce, she is amazingly energetic. Nevertheless, your letter is at last here, and I am happy to read you and hear your news. I am also delighted to discover that you have taken such a fancy to Charles Baudelaire! (My husband cannot fathom why I am so besotted with his verse, and I am immensely relieved to find an ally in you.)

  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.