The palace of the president of France commands my attention once more. Dated from 1722—the year before La Marquise was born—and named Élysée in 1797, every room has gorgeous floral arrangements, exquisite mirrors, ornate lamps and light fittings and priceless antique furniture. Objets d’art and statues are scattered throughout. But nothing matches the magnificent banquet room with its rich curtains dressing French windows, which overlook gardens. Gold filigree work defines wall panelling, drips from cornices, decorates ceilings and paints every room with unbridled wealth. Here the room is filled with tables beautifully set with L’art de la table using exquisite embroidered cloths, flowers, priceless porcelain, silver cutlery, menus and crystal glassware.
French officers in full military regalia add glamour. A dark-skinned young navy cadet guides an old fellow, leaning heavily on a walking stick, around the route. It is such a French community fête.
The crowd continues upstairs to the Salon d’Oré (Golden Room), which is the bureau of French president François Hollande. His antique desk is neatly piled with papers. All the French presidents have used this room as their main study except Valéry Giscard d’Estaing.
Hollande’s two desk lamps are remarkably similar to Olivier’s green lamp on his desk. He would spend many hours working under the lamp. Where are you, Jane? I want to tell you this connection. The way Jane has rushed ahead in her own experience within Élysée heightens my sense of loss for Olivier’s physical presence and emotional closeness. He was beside me for every minute in France.
As I enter the courtyard, I see Jane and she waves. ‘Don’t move,’ she cries. ‘I will take your photograph!’
We leave the palace together, walking down Rue du Faubourg St Honoré, the most expensive street in Paris. It’s closed Sundays.
Our taxi takes us over Le Petit Pont (the little bridge) to Rive Gauche (Left Bank) and deposits us at Place Maubert, and right there on the corner of Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève, which leads to Rue Descartes, is a large flea market. Stalls are spread-eagled across the corner filling up much of the space from the metro entrance. To my surprise, Jane bursts into raptures for the first time today and is soon in the thick of it, checking out the clothing recycling stall.
Who would have predicted this? I had expected this reaction to the grandeur of the Élysée Palace, and while she now tells me she enjoyed the palace, she is ecstatic in this flea market. I happily watch her trawl through things, inspecting boxes of shoes and belts. And when she makes for another rack of clothing, I head to the brica-brac stalls keeping an eye on her in case she disappears again. A flea market isn’t my idea of holiday fun, whereas viewing historic French grandeur is. It’s not as important in a friendship to share lifestyle similarities, but in coupledom, I believe it is vital to do things together and that is, I guess, the difference, far bigger than Oli’s Right Bank holidays and Jane’s and my Left Bank experiences. As I watch Jane’s pleasure in experiencing the flea market, I’m happy for her. We cannot share every experience, but can still enjoy each other’s company.
I have borrowed Jane’s iPad, like I do each night, to scroll through the internet, this time searching Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève to discover it is one of the oldest roads in Paris.
‘Rue Sainte Geneviève can be traced back to the fifth century when a pious nun named Geneviève walked along our street,’ I tell Jane. ‘She would pray each day at the church on top of the old Roman hill where the Panthéon now stands.’
History has much to say about Geneviève—enough to create a movie script as riveting as Les Misérables. She was born in the year 422 and lived a life of great austerity as a devout nun, who prayed and fasted continuously, eating barley bread and beans three or four times a week.
Oli told me about Saint Geneviève the first time he brought me to Paris, but I didn’t take much notice. We were in the Panthéon and he was explaining to me the significance of Saint Geneviève, whose life moments were captured in a series of magnificent nineteenth-century frescoes by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, on the walls of the nave.
‘Back in the year 451 AD Saint Geneviève stopped the barbaric Attila and his army of Huns from invading Paris, when she gathered the women of Paris to pray outside the city walls,’ he had said.
Now I read that she was small, like a bird and must have struck an intriguing figure dressed in a long flowing white gown with a mantle covering her shoulders, similar to the type of garments depicted on the many statues of the Virgin Mary. Yet, her most remarkable achievements involved the pagan king, Clovis, who arrived in Paris in 486 when Geneviève was aged 45 and an experienced and wily powerbroker. What is striking is that Geneviève earned Clovis’s respect and became the counsellor for the first powerful King of the Franks. Her legacy was profound because she converted Clovis from his pagan beliefs to Christianity and convinced him to make the Christian city of Paris the capital of his kingdom, which she foresaw would become a ‘great civilisation’.
The visionary Geneviève also convinced him to establish a place of learning for poor students. This humble school would eventually become part of the University of Paris and the students’ Latin Quarter.
Geneviève died in January 512, two months after Clovis who had decreed that she be buried together with him and his wife Clotilde—an incredible accolade.
Their history is captured in the street names as Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève runs into Rue Clovis, Rue Clotilde and Place du Panthéon. But the Panthéon, begun as a shrine to Geneviève, became the burial place for famous French men. Meanwhile, Geneviève’s remains were scattered during the Revolution, and only her burial slab was found and today it sits within a gilded cage in the old church St Étienne du Mont. Ironically the church is opposite the Panthéon.
Geneviève and Saint Denis jointly became first patron saints of Paris in Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox tradition.
She was the first women to exercise real power in France alongside the king. For 1200 years royal mistresses influenced the French kings, and certain French queens became powerful regents. The tone of French gender relations today reflects this mutual respect. I have observed that there is minimal rivalry between the sexes in French society and that French men, on the whole, respect women’s opinions. Empathy between a man and a woman and the ability to listen and hear each other is such a gift. It was a gem in our own marriage.
FIVE
BEHOLD BEAUTIFUL PARIS!
‘Oh unfathomable, inexhaustible Paris …’ Colette
The next morning it is no surprise to me that Jane won’t consider breakfast at the hotel and together we wander down to a quaint gathering of cafés and restaurants at Place Larue.
At the old village fountain site, the road forks—Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève swings away to the right leading to the Panthéon and Rue Descartes breaks off to the left. We take a table outside at Le Petit Café, sitting side-by-side in red wicker chairs, snug under the broad red awning. From here Paris spreads itself below us as enticing as a wedding feast. Way down the hill is the side steeple of the great Gothic cathedral, Notre Dame de Paris.
A drowsy-looking young blonde waitress approaches us with a pleasant ‘Bonjour, Mesdames’ and hands us the menus. We ask for two breakfast specials and she returns with a basket containing four fresh baguette pieces and two croissants. A small tray of jams and butter rounds arrives thereafter.
‘Heaven is this first croissant in Paris,’ I rave, tearing it open, leaning over and savouring the hot buttery aroma. Jane watches as I place a butter round in the middle and close it up quickly to retain the steam.
Actually, this is the first croissant for the holiday, and I remind Jane of this fact as she looks disdainfully at my plate.
‘Jane, this is basic breakfast in Paris. Croissants and baguettes, real butter and jams!’ And I add, ‘Especially in the student quarter.’ I then slather the same sweet conserve on my croissant and take a beautiful bite.
I pass her the basket and she
takes a piece of baguette and covers it in a light spread of a red berry jam. She says nothing but her body language says it all. She is critical of my love of food. But, she does comment on the waitress. ‘She is sooo French!’ she coos. And lowering her tone she adds, ‘I don’t imagine her appearance is caused by studying into the night. I suspect other nocturnal activities—and why not? She is very beautiful.’
Our Parisian waitress seems on very friendly terms with the young men, who are probably students. (We are meeting in the shadow of one of the big high schools in the Left Bank, Lycée Henri IV, and the University of Paris.) Some read textbooks, others are on laptops; a few on the other side of the aisle are conversing deeply as they smoke. There is one old man, in shabbier clothes, who sits down on the aisle, his back to the steeple. At his feet a longhaired old dog settles down. This Left Bank collective, all speaking rapid French, are the people who make this a comfortable local café and we both sip our morning cups of tea, silent and content to simply be here.
I stand up and over the old man’s head, I take photographs of the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Geneviève which seems to snake its way straight down to the River Seine. However, the lens captures also a typical vista of the Left Bank.
‘If we walk straight down the hill, we will reach the Seine,’ says Jane, reading my thoughts. ‘Let’s pay and move on.’
We have not discussed any plans for today other than to savour the café life of Paris and wander a bit. Which is why we call into Café Panis, on Quai de Montebello, simply to enjoy the whirr of the place. If only I could take Jane on a magic carpet ride over the world’s capital of beauty. However, Café Panis is a natural starting point because it offers a front row view of the 850–year-old masterpiece, Notre Dame de Paris—with its flying buttresses—just over the river. The café will be our rendezvous point if we get parted.
I’m still getting used to Jane’s holiday personality—few words, almost pensive, but seemingly content. She emits a wide-eyed innocence, which I recognise as myself back in 2004 when Olivier brought me to Paris as his girlfriend.
Suddenly I sink into a wellspring of sadness, that he is not here with me, nor will be again. An unexpected feeling of insecurity overwhelms me. He isn’t here to take charge of this holiday; it’s all up to me. So I reflect how that first time, he took me on the tourist bus, which would have been a real act of love because he hated being a part of the tourist stampede. I pick up his cue when I spot the red tourist bus stopped on the quay.
‘Let’s take the tourist bus. It will give you the essence of Paris.’ And she murmurs a warm ‘lovely’.
We buy a two-day ticket from L’Open Tour Paris, and perch ourselves upstairs, but a cold wind as cutting as steel whips into our faces, and we spontaneously agree to move downstairs. I’m disappointed because the open roof offers an enthralling view of the historic heart of Paris. I want Jane to brim with happiness in Paris, to sink her soul into its essence.
As the bus moves slowly along on its ‘Grand Tour’ route, Paris presents its unparalleled streetscapes, gorgeous boulevards, stately squares and magnificent old monuments. I can hardly contain myself from waxing lyrical about every passing Paris icon, but Jane has the window seat and I content myself simply listening to the English commentary. However, when we approach the Palais Garnier I burst forth.
‘Jane, we must get out at the next stop and see the Opera House. It is utterly divine.’
‘I would prefer to stay on the bus,’ she responds.
‘This is the first place Hitler visited when he entered Paris as conqueror.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Okay.’ But I’m miffed. I only saw a little of the Palais Garnier myself over those years with Olivier because he could see no point in spending money on simply looking inside. ‘I will take you to a French opera there one day,’ he had said that first year. ‘You will have the whole experience.’ But he never did. And that memory of lost opportunity brings tears to my eyes. There is no encore for Olivier and me. That final curtain has fallen.
As lovers, we stood on the steps admiring the fancy wedding cake columns and ornate filigree decoration of the facade, but particularly, the glorious sculpture, The Dance by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. Was its image lodged in my subconscious and that was why I chose Leonard Cohen’s ‘Dancing to the End of Love’ as my musical reflection of Olivier’s life at his funeral? Now, I must stop myself humming its infectious tune and concentrate on the ostentatious architectural masterpiece. Palais Garnier captures in stone the era of La Belle Époque: extravagant, ornate, flamboyant, frilly. Surely, it’s as much a ‘must see’ as the Eiffel Tower?
We still have tomorrow, I tell myself as we pass the stop for Le Louvre, cross the river and arrive back at Notre Dame, not having alighted once from the bus. Two hours have passed and she certainly has experienced the heart of Paris from the bus—the glitzy Champs-Élysées, the Eiffel Tower, Le Louvre, the exotic, garlanded Pont Alexandre III—and loveliest of all, the Parisian streetscapes of wide boulevards edged with Haussmann’s distinctive uniform buildings, and countless exquisite French cafés, restaurants and bars.
Oh, how I love Paris; how it lifts my spirit and with a warm heartfelt glow I say a little thank you to my late husband.
Funny how something as simple as baguettes sliced and spread with French Roquefort cheese and chunky rillettes can cause such joy. We are munching our lunch in Square René Viviani on the banks of the river, seated on a bench admiring the circular flower garden and archways decked with floral plantings. I am much warmer now, having bought a double-breasted fawn-coloured trench coat on Boulevard Saint Michel.
‘This is exactly the best kind of French lunch,’ says Jane, obviously pleased. ‘I love it. Not expensive and delicious.’
‘And we buy local produce,’ I add.
My ankle is playing up again and Jane, who senses I will not be much fun limping behind her, suggests that we meet back at Shakespeare and Co bookshop at 3 pm, which is through the corner gate on Rue de la Bûcherie.
She disappears around the corner of Café le Petit Pont and I wonder what to do. Shamefully, I have never been inside the great Gothic Notre Dame because, like Jane, visiting churches wasn’t high on husband’s Paris agenda. His attitude was typical: ‘You see one, you see them all.’ I know nothing could be further from the truth.
Of Paris’s many wonders, few surpass the variety of spectacular ancient churches – each one a unique and beautiful jewel. Waiting in line, I examine the awesome structure, the first of the French Gothic churches, whose foundation stone was laid in 1163 in the presence of Pope Alexander III. Built in the shape of a Latin cross, it was not completed until about 1220. It is breathtaking to reflect on the glory such a completed work of art brought to the newly appointed bishop Maurice de Sully and King Louis VII. Once inside I’m mesmerised by the north rose window although there are three huge rose windows in the transept and collectively they bathe the last great gallery church in France in light. This truly is the spiritual heart of Paris and I decide I want to share this one cathedral with Jane.
On the noticeboard, I notice there is a concert on Wednesday evening and I take note of the date and time. I can’t imagine a more spiritually uplifting event than a religious musical event in Notre Dame.
Outside again, I do an uncharacteristic thing. I hire a pedicab and instruct the rider to take me to L’Île St Louis. We always visited St Louis, either walking along the quay, or shopping down the Rue St Louis L’Île. The artificial island was created by Louis XIII in the seventeenth century, by joining two small islands in the Seine. Today, it pervades a quiet tranquillity in the midst of the traffic and tourist mayhem of Paris, while the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century classical apartment buildings lining the Seine form an elegant, charming residential pocket.
We would walk to the distinctive Berthillon ice-cream shop and buy ourselves triple-scoop ice-creams and this is where the rider takes me today. I alight from the pedicab, choose scoops of c
hocolate, mango and raspberry and then eat them with childlike joy as the rider cycles back over the dainty Pont Saint-Louis. Surprisingly, he turns right along the Quai aux Fleurs on Île de la Cité. Then he passes the Chapelle Royale and all too soon, he deposits me back at the cathedral’s parvis.
How quickly those two hours have slipped by, but I have a few more minutes to savour the cathedral before 3 pm and I slip through Notre Dame’s ornately carved Saint Anne portal.
Here in this holy space, against the glow of many candles and with spicy incense pervading the air, I walk down the central aisle of the nave with its massive round pillars and arcades.
I sit in the front row of chairs staring at the opulence of the Notre Dame altar within its five-part stained glass nave. Something about the glint of the glass triggers the memory of a lovely moment in my life.
Before this opulent medieval altar, I remember walking slowly to another altar at Concordia College (my alma mater), down wide steps, each one decorated with a small vase of agapanthus flowers, which I had picked from a neighbour’s garden and arranged beforehand. With a sideways glance I smiled, brimming with happiness at the bridegroom alongside me.
Much later, during his speech, Oli told everyone: ‘I asked Nadine what I should say tonight and she said “Oh, all my nice qualities … kind, caring, clever” and wisely I said to her “you are all of those things”. Then she asked me what had attracted me to her in the first place. I replied, “You seemed such a sweet little thing.”’
Farewell My French Love Page 9