Checking in to the Hôtel Henri IV in the Latin Quarter, Katherine was pleased with the appeal of this seventeenth-century building the minute she stepped through the door into the intimate lobby.
The efficiently renovated room and bath felt cozy and, well, French.
Unfolding her travel raincoat and running shoes, she was ready to explore and eat.
That small pastry had simply been a teaser.
Only 4:00 p.m., she knew her choices would be from one of the many student haunts in this lively area that was home to the Sorbonne. No serious French restaurant would be serving anything at that hour. It simply wasn’t done.
Philippe had given her helpful tips along with the exact location of his favorite Latin Quarter shop to have le snack—a light bite of something to tide her over until her 9:00 p.m. dinner reservation at La Petite Chaise. This was Paris, after all, and she was determined to make every minute count.
Noticing a basket of umbrellas in the lobby, she was encouraged by the desk clerk to help herself.
Grinning, she stepped out onto the sidewalk, crossed the busy avenue, and headed down a narrow street teeming with life in spite of the weather. Often considered the heart of Paris and named for the days when the language of learning was Latin, this area buzzed with the energy of the young student population.
Exploring the maze of cobblestone alleys, the artistic history of the west bank came alive. Hemingway, Stein, Fitzgerald, Sartre, de Beauvoir, Picasso, Matisse—the endless list filtered through her thoughts.
Following her map, she wound her way to Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Touristy as it was, a glass of wine in Les Deux Magots was on her list as she envisioned the ghostly spirits of its famous past patrons. Her excitement was barely concealed.
I’m already in love with Paris!
Thankful for the umbrella’s protection, Katherine began to make her way back toward her hotel. Almost there, she stopped and gasped. Rue de la Bûcherie!
I knew it was close but, there it is . . .
Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she leaned it under the protected canopy of the entrance and stepped into a wonderland of literary history. Browsing the overflowing shelves of the legendary Shakespeare and Company bookshop, she stayed far longer than she intended. Everything about the worn, comfortable ambiance invited her to sink into one of the armchairs with a book in her hands.
Checking another item off her list, she hoped she would have time for another visit before she left the city.
I simply have to come back to Paris . . .
The rain had turned to a drizzle as she strolled the short distance to her hotel. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down on the bed with her laptop to answer e-mails before she showered and changed for dinner.
She had told Philippe she wanted to eat in the oldest restaurant in Paris—if it was still reputable, of course. He explained that the famous La Tour d’Argent was hands down the oldest, dating back to 1582, and probably one of the most expensive. However, he had continued, La Petite Chaise was considered the winner because it was still in the original location. In fact, he added, it still had the same grillwork from 1680 when it opened. It was much smaller and less elegant, and Katherine decided to go there.
Philippe had called from the farmhouse right then and there and booked her reservation.
The rain had stopped when she headed out for dinner, directions clasped in her hand, drawn by the helpful young woman at the front desk.
As she ordered her French onion soup and roasted duck breast, Katherine thought of Philippe and how considerate he had been. The meal did not disappoint.
Walking back to the hotel, Katherine felt absolutely safe, enchanted by her surroundings and refreshed by the cool dampness hanging in the air.
Sunday morning dawned drizzly again. Undeterred, Katherine had a quick pain aux raisins downstairs in the breakfast room and headed down Avenue Saint-Philippe to Notre Dame, a few minutes’ walk away.
The sky was brightening by the time she crossed the bridge. She sat on a bench for a while, taking in the splendid cathedral, and planned to take a tour later in the afternoon when services were not on.
Stopping at the Point Zéro marker in front of the church, she mentally checked that off her list as well. Her guidebook explained this was the point from which all distances in France were measured. Who knew?
Katherine strolled by the bouquinistes’ stalls lining the street along the Seine, taking photos and looking through prints and books as well as original art.
Following her map, she arrived at the famous flower market, knowing that on Sundays the bird traders were also there.
Housed in iron pavilions with glass roofs since 1808, the colors and scents of the flower market drew her in like a bee. Never had she seen such a selection. Pleased with herself for remembering to recharge her camera battery overnight, she was quickly filling her chip.
From the hop-on/hop-off bus she received a full overview of the city. At noon in Montmartre the streets were full of activity and the Place du Tertre, the artists’ square was bustling. Mindful of the scammers who would approach you to sketch your portrait, Katherine avoided eye contact and gave them a firm non. She noted there were several talented, serious artists and settled on a small watercolor of the rooftops of Paris as a treat for herself.
Stopping early for a lunch of steak tartare and a fine glass of red Côtes du Rhône, she sat on the terrace at Chez la Mère Catherine and chuckled, remembering how Philippe had warned her it was a tourist trap and suggested there were far better places down the side streets.
She had told him it didn’t matter because she had read too much about this spot and wanted to go. Established just four years after the end of the Revolution, the story went that the use of the word “bistro” began here. In the 1800s, Russian soldiers occupying France after the Napoleonic Wars would pound on the tables and yell “Bystro, bystro,” which meant “hurry.”
Philippe had assured her this was an urban legend, but she liked the story anyway.
Katherine stared for a while at the majestic Basilique du Sacré-Coeur before entering, thinking it was even more stunning in reality than in photos. Built in the late 1800s, although it did not share the mantle of history as so many other Paris attractions, its beauty was indisputable.
Taking the funicular down from the hilltop, she strolled the crowded street to Place Pigalle and hopped on the tour bus again.
Her next stop was the massive Arc de Triomphe, where she decided she did not have time to go to the top.
Crossing the Champs-Élysées, she strolled down Avenue Kléber.
After a half hour, she arrived at the Place du Trocadéro and bought a bottle of water from a snack truck. Finding a spot to sit behind the Palais de Chaillot, she overlooked the beautiful gardens and fountains and felt overwhelmed by emotion.
There it was. In real life. The Eiffel Tower.
The lawns of the Champ de Mar stretched beyond, filled with people of all ages enjoying the day. Strollers, dog walkers, children playing, people lounging on the grass. It was full of activity.
This moment had been a long time coming.
She had wondered if the tower would appear commonplace after the countless times she had seen images of it through her life. Somehow seeing it for real was breathtaking.
Making her way down through the gardens and across the bridge to the tower, her shutter clicked madly. Directly under the tower was a vantage point for some amazing shots.
The lineup for the elevator to the top was long, and Katherine decided that was one item on her list she would not get to check off.
You’ve really bitten off a bit more than you can chew, she admitted. If she wanted to tour Notre Dame, she couldn’t continue walking, as she would run out of time. There was a small square near the church Philippe had suggested that she very much wanted to visit.
Hopping on the Métro, she was soon at the cathedral and glad she had made that choice.
The last tour of
the day was with a small group and an excellent guide, just the way she liked it. It was almost unimaginable that construction had begun in 1163. Finished just under two hundred years later, Katherine couldn’t help but think of the novel Pillars of the Earth—she’d read it three times—and how generations of families worked on building such magnificent structures.
Severely damaged during the Revolution, it had gone through some extensive restoration, resulting in the spire being added in the nineteenth century. The last work, done in the 1990s, paid close attention to preserving the historic architecture.
The rose windows sparkling like jewels, imposing sculptures, fantastically grotesque gargoyles—she was awestruck.
Exiting the cathedral, she took a piece of paper from her purse on which Philippe had written directions. Crossing Le Petit Pont from Île de la Cité to the Left Bank’s Quai Montebello, a short walk brought her to the Square René-Viviani.
The view of Notre Dame from here was the best, and she was surprised at how few people were around.
Resting on a bench in the midst of lush gardens, she tried to absorb the fact that the tree in front of her, dramatically leaning and supported by concrete pillars, was believed to be the oldest in Paris. A variety of locust tree, healthy and flowering, it was planted in 1602 by Jean Robin, a gardener and herbalist to several French kings, who introduced this plant species to Europe. A plaque also informed it was hit by a shell in World War 1, which did nothing but shorten the height.
Discovering these surprises off the typical tourist path made Katherine’s visit even more special. Thanks to dear Philippe.
In fact, he had told her about this park when she was sharing some of her mother’s story. That had caused him to think of the special sculpture. Among other things, it showed infants with wings and others appearing lifeless that commemorated more than 11,000 Jewish French infants deported by the Nazis to Auschwitz. Many were from this arrondissement. Philippe had added that most guidebooks did not mention this component of the statue.
Feeling heartache, Katherine considered her mother and all the family she had lost. I wonder if there is any sort of commemoration in her village. I guess we will find out after Andrew makes his trip there.
So much history in such a small plot of land. It would require many visits to Paris for her to even begin to discover everything she wished.
Allowing herself the luxury of sleeping in until 8:00 a.m. Monday, she first slipped in to see the Church of Saint-Séverin, right across the street from her hotel. One of the oldest remaining churches on the left bank, the holy place had been there since before the Vikings. She read, to her delight, that among the bells to which she had wakened was the oldest in Paris, cast in 1412.
Meandering and window shopping through the Latin Quarter, she made her way once again to the Marché aux Fleurs.
Choosing something to take to François was no easy task.
She wandered through the whole area thinking how her mother would have loved to see this market.
Eventually Katherine retraced her path to one stall selling the most creative and beautiful bouquets. After much deliberation, she chose a spectacular but understated arrangement in shades of the palest pinks and soft greens that combined antique garden roses, orchids, pale-green dahlias, ranunculus, Queen Anne’s lace, and seeded eucalyptus. Her photo of it ensured it would last forever.
Hailing a cab, Katherine realized she was hungry. She was also looking forward to meeting François under better circumstances than the last time.
The apartment was across the Seine, on the right bank, in the sophisticated sixteenth arrondissement, with its regal apartment buildings and parks. The ornately palatial building, dating from the nineteenth century, like many others now housed spacious apartments.
An imposing doorman dressed in a long military-looking coat and hat attended Katherine with a reserved look and directed her to the concierge desk, where a young woman telephoned her arrival to the apartment.
The mirror-and-gilt lobby resembled photos of castle salons Katherine had seen, and she wondered if the furniture was authentic or reproductions as she stepped into the rich wood-paneled elevator.
An older woman of unidentifiable age, wearing an outfit Katherine had only seen in movies, answered the apartment door. The classic black dress and white apron indicated she was . . . what? A housekeeper, a maid? Do people even use that word anymore?
Greeting her with a “Bonjour, madame” and a warm smile, she led Katherine into a large living area where François was seated in a wheelchair, a mohair throw draped over his legs. The view from the wall of windows stretched over the typically Parisian rooftops to Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur on its hilltop in the distance. A spectacular postcard panorama.
“Katherine! So here is the young lady who saved my life! Excuse me for not rising, but I am ordered to sit in this contraption for another month. Most annoying!”
“François, I’m happy to see you looking so much better. Thank you for inviting me. It was very kind of you.”
After François gushed over the bouquet, Angélique appeared, to take care of the flowers, setting down a small tray of hors d’oeuvres, each a miniature work of art.
“Katherine, this is Angélique,” François said kindly. “She has been a valued member of our family for over thirty years.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Katherine said to her as Angélique bowed shyly and backed out of the room.
“Years ago, it was not unusual for many families to have such valued staff. Our apartment is enormous, and she has her own quarters at the end of the hall,” he said, indicating a long corridor.
“I want you to know,” he added, to Katherine’s amusement, “that Angélique chooses to wear that uniform. It’s a bit embarrassing for me, but she likes it and feels it shows her chosen career. Interesting, isn’t it? How nice to have such pride in what you do.”
Katherine agreed heartily.
Philippe had already confided in Katherine that Madame Sophie Fortier, the wife of François, had been an invalid for many years and required constant care. A refined, educated woman of many accomplishments in spite of her challenges, she was beloved by all who knew her.
Sadly, she had succumbed to the grips of Alzheimer’s disease a few years before and was now in a hospital a half hour away. He had said that François visited her every day when he was in Paris, unwilling to let go of the great romance they had shared for such a long time.
François was bright and engaging, a delightful host. He regaled Katherine with tales of life in Paris, the good and the bad sides, and she was thrilled to have this personal perspective.
Time passed quickly. The delicious salade Niçoise served for lunch was followed by an indescribably subtle but richly flavored crème brûlée. When coffee was served, Katherine sensed her host was tiring and after an appropriately courteous amount of time began to say her good-bye.
“François, this has been a pleasure. I am thrilled to see you on the road to recovery, and I know everyone is awaiting your return to Sainte-Mathilde.”
“Merci, ma chère,” he replied with a sparkle in his eye. “It has been my pleasure to receive you and to be able to thank you.”
“And Picasso,” she reminded him with a grin.
He laughed. “I will invite him for lunch when I am back in Provence.”
François asked if Katherine had enjoyed her stay in France. “Many North Americans do not understand much of the French way of life,” he commented.
“I have had the good fortune, as you know, of meeting such wonderful people. That combined with the countryside of Provence and the beauty of Paris has made my trip as perfect as it could possibly be.”
“And did you have time to truly see this magnificent city?”
“Thanks to the list Philippe made for me, I have seen special places I would otherwise have missed. I have been a flâneur as much as I could and it has been fantastique!” Katherine explained, her eyes sparkling.
&
nbsp; Noting the flush of her cheeks when Katherine mentioned Philippe, François’s voice softened and his face took on a serious look.
“I have learned an important lesson as a result of my little episode, and I feel compelled to share it with you—mon Dieu, with tout le monde, everyone! Life is short, no matter how old we become. Sometimes we get caught up and forget to pay attention to little things.”
Katherine nodded.
“I have had a successful life, as you can see. But truly I realize now that I need none of these trappings. My happiness comes from the calm I feel and the beauty I see in Provence. When I am there, I am at peace with myself. I have decided to close my apartment here and settle Angélique with a small pension so she can live comfortably. She will continue to visit my Sophie on a regular basis, and I will come up on the TGV once a week.”
Katherine shifted with a hint of discomfort as his disclosure became so personal.
“I’m sorry. I do not mean to make you uneasy. We don’t know each other really, but for some reason we became connected, and I am a great believer in fate. That is why I feel I want to share this with you, this advice, or whatever you call it. Life is full of choices. Don’t be afraid to make them when you know they are right for you. You are so much younger than I and have so much life to live. Live it well.”
Nodding, Katherine said, “It often takes an experience such as yours to remind us of what is important. How good that you see your path so clearly now. I wish you much happiness with your choices. Everyone will be pleased to have you back down there.”
Taking a deep breath and smiling, as if his disclosures had somehow invigorated him, he said, “I know too that everyone in Sainte-Mathilde enjoyed your company and is sad to see you go. We all hope you will return for a visit some day.”
“I hope so too,” she replied. François reached out for her hand and graciously brushed it past his lips before escorting her to the door that Angélique was already holding open.
Back at the hotel, catching up in her journal, Katherine thought long and hard about his words.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 23