Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

And I’m still doing way too much thinking about her. This is NOT what Ninon would do. It’s time for me to get past all this distracting and negative thinking. I’ve got things to accomplish. Tomorrow I will break my Philippe fast before I leave for ten days in the US.

  Les Vacances moins un jour

  I am paralyzed by indecision. Why? Tomorrow I leave for my vacation in the US and I haven’t done any of the things I was going to do; buy the little cocktail napkins for Christine, buy dresses for Izzy and Ellie, write 5,000 words. OK, I made an effort to buy the dresses on the way to the bus from L’Ami Jean but the shop has disappeared. And the napkins… they just seem like too much trouble and not really necessary. I haven’t been to GCA in a week so I plan to go today to write and to let Philippe know about my vacation.

  Oddly, I think part of my frustration is that while my upgrade for the trip to San Francisco is confirmed, the upgrade for the return looks terribly unlikely. Business class is full. Coach is nearly full. I am already thinking about a flight a week and a half away, stuck in coach for 11 hours and it’s impacting my view of the world. How utterly stupid. Maybe I need to fly coach to remember where I came from!

  I piddle away the morning then shower and dress and head for GCA. No Philippe! The same guy who doesn’t like me is ruling the roost. Philippe seems to be on vacation himself! And he didn’t even tell me he was going!

  Everything is upside down: the bar man is waiting tables, the unfriendly manager (at least he did greet me when I arrived although no handshake OR la bise) is behind the bar, a new waitress is acting like she knows what she’s doing already! The music track is calm and almost can’t be heard. No lively dance music keeping the place rocking and rolling. No Philippe. No inspiration!

  I order my lunch; a delectable fish stew with vegetables and a carafe of rosé. No bottle for me today. I have plans tonight with Magalie and Jeff to see Larry Browne in the 14eme. I met Larry on a Wednesday jazz night at GCA a couple of years ago. He’s from San Francisco so we built on that commonality to develop a petit amitie. I love Magalie and I really like Jeff. I have to leave at 6:30 in the morning. I haven’t seen 6:30 in the morning since I last flew to SF. I can always sleep on the plane.

  The Friday boys arrive for lunch at GCA and take Philippe’s round table. I strain to hear if there’s any talk about why Philippe is not there. They talk about returning from their vacations, but there is no mention about Philippe. The new waitress gives them all la bise. Interesting.

  I wanted to write about Ninon today. The words are not coming.

  Maybe I should finish up my wine, Uber to Maille and buy the little napkins and some truffle mustard for Christine (and myself) and then taxi to Jacadi and buy dresses for the sweet little girls. Take back my control.

  Tomorrow I will fly to the other place, where I am another person. And all that matters is petite Izzy. When we FaceTimed yesterday she showed me her latest dance moves and asked me to take her to a Super Hero movie. I will go from life in Paris to life at the 3 foot level. And not think about Caroleen or Philippe or speaking French.

  But first I’ll navigate the long stairway to the toilettes.

  A love letter to my stalker

  I admit you got to me. You occupied my head for way too long. Even after I was determined to get over it, asking “What would Ninon do?” you still held court in what was in danger of becoming your own personal apartment in my brain. You reached back into some yet unresolved childhood insecure place and the result was not pretty.

  The timing worked against me; a trip to California to visit family, where I was no longer a successful career woman, life moves on, people look to someone else for all the things you used to provide. And my happy Paris life was 6,000 miles and nine time zones away. Life in Paris moved on without me as well, as evidenced by postings from a rejuvenated post La Rentrée Parisienne on social media. I was in limbo, between two happy places and taken back to my least happy place. So I must say you almost won!

  The key is “almost”. Long talks with trusted friends helped a little. Scoffs and dismissive remarks from daughters helped a little more. What really made the difference was allowing myself to take a Leap of Faith.

  Nobody achieves a degree of success without incurring a bit of animosity and jealousy. Caroleen, you clearly hate me. How does a person go from friendship and admiration to such intense hatred in a moment? While we were friends you occasionally took petite stabs at me; little jabs about my French language unskills or my appearance. “Why are those women looking at you like that?” you would point out. A real friend would not do that. This was the behavior of someone trying to plant seeds of insecurity. Why would you do that?

  Everytime we would end our meeting in a disagreement about politics,you would later text me apologizing for keeping on and saying that it was so important for people living in Paris. But our true disagreement was never really about whatever she apologized for.

  I detest it when people blame bad behavior on jealousy. It’s too easy. And having nurtured those old dormant seeds of insecurity in me, the idea of you being jealous of me is particularly distasteful. But it’s clearly the case here. Your letter to Stephanie had two main themes, my size and my friendships. You chose the first because you knew you could get to me. By choosing the latter you unwittingly showed your cards. “She makes friends in five minutes.” As if that is a bad thing. I admit, it baffled me. Were you saying that quickly made friendships were not worth anything? Were you saying that I was an untrustworthy friend?

  And then I realized, you don’t have friends! Every person in your life is treated with scorn. Sure, you get la bise from some of the cranky old men your husband sits and drinks with. And you say hello to some of the regulars at Cépage. But I’ve never seen you share une verre with anyone on your own. I’ve never seen you having lunch or dinner with anyone other than F. You mentioned my “dining club” as if it was something I should feel ashamed of. Yet, you pled with me to introduce you to some of my network. You asked me to be my “plus one” at a dinner party. You never get invited to dinner parties or aperos or jazz nights. You don’t have friends. And because I do and because I chose to walk away from you, you despise me. Caroleen, that is your problem. You cannot fathom how I can have a happy life. Like Queen Anne could not tolerate Ninon having a happy life and friends and admirers so she banished her to a convent! You tried to banish me; to make it impossible for me to live in our little village. Ninon cleverly outwitted the Queen by manipulating her into allowing her to choose the Les Grands Cordeliers for her banishment. Her Oiseaux ultimately got her released.

  The good will of my friends and loved ones has helped resurrect me from the purgatory your nastiness sent me into. But more importantly, you brought me into the mind and soul of Ninon. Nobody achieves a degree of success and notoriety without incurring a degree of jealousy. The grace is in how one handles that jealousy. I don’t know how to lift you from the mean spirited place you live. And frankly, it’s not my job. I do, however, thank you. I was struggling to find Ninon, to get into her soul and you alone allowed me to do this. So for this I am grateful. Merci.

  Friends and Enemies and the Blurry Lines Between

  You don’t get to live a life as extraordinary as Ninon’s without making a few enemies along the way. Especially when you sleep with their husbands AND their sons. As mentioned before, Ninon’s relationship with Marie, Madame de Sévigné was a complicated one. Her affair with Marie’s husband was not a business relationship. Henri was a serial philanderer. He had been married two times before and this one to Marie was only six years old when Ninon and he “hooked up”.

  Henri was from Brittany in the north, Marie was a City girl, born and raised in Paris. A young girl of not yet twenty, she brought the money to the union. Henri brought a title and flair and although they intended to live in Paris Henri was granted an important position in Provence and the couple was required to leave the city. Marie wa
s certainly no fool. Henri had a history of foolish spending and with the help of an uncle she cleverly kept her finances separate from her promiscuous husband. However, in due time, she found herself trapped, a bird in a gilded cage, in her lovely estate in Vitre, some 300 kilometers away from Paris, while Henri spent more and more time away from her and their two small children, Francoise-Marguerite and Charles. Marie provided the very best tutors for both of the children and they grew to be erudite and prolific letter writers.

  Ninon was only a couple of years older than Marie but light years beyond her in terms of worldliness and experience. While Marie was a virgin when she married Henri, Ninon had had at least a dozen lovers and a reputation for being the one to pass on the most coveted lessons of love. They were both beautiful but Marie’s beauty was locked up in a chateau in the countryside and of course NInon moved about the streets of Paris, admired by many, a free woman.

  It’s difficult to say what about Henri appealed to Ninon. By the time they became lovers Ninon was financially independent and Henri wasn’t paying for her time. He wasn’t contributing to her household. That’s not to say he didn’t shower her with beautiful things. In fact, their affair didn’t last long and Henri, with his wandering eye and his overactive libido was on to his next conquest, a Mademoiselle de Gondran. It was over Mademoiselle that Henri engaged in a duel with Chevalier de Albret, losing and dying from the terrible wounds that were inflicted only two days later.

  Marie mourned briefly and then moved house and home back to Paris where she lived near the Palais Royal, raised her children in peace and developed a small but satisfying salon of her own. Marie never remarried and expended her energies developing her daughter into an educated and lovely young woman.

  Marie clearly preferred her daughter Marguerite allowing Charles to run wild. It was not long before Charles showed a predilection to follow in the philandering spendthrift footsteps of his father. Charles was not stupid and the tutors and ministrations provided to him by his mother rendered him clever with words if not a bit short on scruples. For nearly two decades Marie’s bitter feelings about Ninon’s dalliance with her husband incubated quietly only to bloom wildly when young Charles followed his father’s footsteps briefly into the arms of Marie’s rival.

  We know that the relationship was short lived and we have heard Ninon refer to Charles to his mother as having a soul of pulp, a body of wet paper and a heart of pumpkin fricasseed in snow. It had to be very difficult for Marie to swallow her pride and ask Ninon to tutor young Charles and turn him into a man. Ninon, the very woman who had been lover to both her husband and her son, who’s Salon was far more esteemed, who enjoyed all of the freedom and liberties of a person who had accepted having a reputation, and earned a wonderfully positive life bountiful with friendships, the respect of those who knew her as well as those who wanted to know her, and the regard of those in the highest positions of State.

  La Rentree

  How in the world would he know how I feel about him when I don’t even interact with him. I got a lovely greeting when I arrived at GCA. He pointed at his watch and looked admonishingly at me. Perhaps he should have pointed at his calendar. He gave me a more intimate bise than usual, I think he actually kissed my cheeks instead of the air. Was I on vacances? “Oui, des Etats Unis. Je me suis réveillée à midi!” “Ohhhh, jet lag?!” he said.

  I ordered from the waitress. He clarified with her how I like my wine. Then he told me that I speak excellent french. I said “J’ai oublie tout!”

  Then I opened my laptop and started writing. How is he ever going to know how I feel when I spend all my time writing? How do I take that “leap of faith” and tell him that I love him? And if he says he doesn’t love me? At least I know and I move on. But then everything changes. The big dilemma. Can I jump that hurdle? I never have before and I’ve always ended up the worse for it. Will I grow up finally?

  What is it about the man that gets to me? He’s not particularly handsome, although his looks are pleasing enough. I actually like that he has a bit of a belly. It makes him less intimidating. Is he smart? He’s certainly not smart like the Silicon Valley people I’m used to. But he’s smart enough to run a successful business. His staff seems to like and respect him. They all shake his hand when they arrive and leave for work. (Then most of them shake my hand as well.) I can’t imagine shaking my boss’s hand each morning. “Good morning, Jerry” at the coffee machine was pretty much the extent of my daily greeting. His nearly daily blurb on social media is the full extent of my insight into his literary skills. Today he taught me a new word; “maussade”, sullen. He called the day a little sullen. It’s grey. It rained a bit this morning. Sweater weather. It’s a good word. He’s clearly not stupid.

  He’s always got a song on his lips. When he’s not singing he’s talking, often just talking to himself.

  He’s eating lunch with Daniel, the guy who fills in for him when he’s on vacation. The one who doesn’t like me. They are clearly good friends. But what a contrast. Daniel is a ladies man. Philippe is a people person. Daniel seems cynical and snide. Philippe seems sincere and kind.

  He loves his champagne and often drinks it at work. He also likes a glass of red wine, Côte du Rhône generally, but seems to sip champagne in the afternoons. I never knew a man who drank champagne. Well maybe Daniele Chandelier. And always thought it was a bit of a feminine drink.

  He doesn’t bother me when I am writing. He takes my writing seriously. Sometimes I catch him watching me. I wonder what he is thinking.

  He seems happy but a bit wounded perhaps. I want to know that story. Who wounded you, my darling? What is your story?

  I do have to wonder about drinking and driving. Soon Philippe will hop on his moto and go wherever it is he goes around 5 pm. He is sipping his champagne and had two glasses of red wine with his lunch. The delivery guy came with boxes of moules (will they be on the menu tomorrow?) Before he leaves he has a tall glass of beer and chats with Philippe and Daniel. When he finishes he will hop in his truck and be off to his next delivery. Drinking and driving and smoking. All seem to be a way of life in Paris.

  I drank half a bottle of wine but I’ll be taking Uber home. Then I’ll be heading out for dinner with my expat friends. At least I’m skipping the apéro.

  Ninon Tutors le Marquis

  Theirs was a complicated relationship. Madame de Sévigné was a bright woman and occasionally spent time in Ninon’s Salon, but most often she frequented that of Nicholas Fouquet, the Minister of Finances to Louis XIV, and as such preferred the atmosphere of the Court, which Ninon eschewed. However, being neighbors in the Place Royale, both ladies of letters, it was only natural that their paths would cross.

  Madame de Sévigné was closest to her firstborn, her daughter Françoise, and it was to Françoise that she dedicated most of her own attention. She was at a loss for what to do with Charles.

  “My dear Ninon,” she implored, “It would be such a favor to me if you would help him. He is unfortunately a heart fool. I fear for his future!”

  “A heart fool?” Ninon exclaimed! “Charles is a man beyond definition. He has a soul of pulp, a body of wet paper and a heart of pumpkin fricasseed in snow!”

  Ninon turned to look out the window at the square below. Autumn was coming to the Place Royale and it was once again possible to open the windows and let in some air. Just the week before Ninon was housebound as a horrendous heat wave plagued the city and the air was fetid. Two days of rain washed away the top level of the merde and mire that accumulated in the streets and on the sidewalks and wedged between the city’s cobbles. Only the top level, but the rest was on its way to becoming part of the pavements of Paris, petrified into a kind of permanent grout. Best not to let your hem touch the ground!

  Now the leaves were turning gold and some already littered the gravel square below. A few children were running about under the watchful eye of their respective nannies,
delighted to finally be allowed outside for a bit of fun and frolic. Servants scurried by, their baskets filled with purchases from the nearby marche, dodging horses pulling carriages. This was Ninon’s favorite time of year. Spring was too wet, summer too hot, and winter so very cold. Autumn was perfect. Wise with the knowledge of all that had passed in the year but with just a little promise of what might be yet to come. Ninon thought, “a bit like my life!”

  She refocused her attention on Madame de Sévigné. “Oui”, she acquiesced. “I will speak with him. Tell him to call on me next week and I will see what can be done with the boy.” And so it was that Ninon’s rather long period of communication with the young Charles, Maquis de Sévigné, began. Ninon took the young Chevalier in charge, intent on making a man of him.

  Charles arrived early on the appointed afternoon, very eager to spend time with the beautiful and very alluring friend of his mother, fully expecting to rejuvenate and expand on their their very brief past affair. Of course her reputation was already unsurpassed in the Place Royale and Charles had visions of becoming one of the very lucky men to sample her legendary sexual prowess. He was dressed in his dashing best and was doused in perfumed waters, cocky and ready to roll, twenty minutes before his expected time.

  Ninon sat at her desk in her private office, writing to her oldest and dearest friend M. de Saint-Evremond when her maid entered to tell her that Charles was in the salon.

  “Already?” asked Ninon. “Well please make him comfortable; but not too comfortable. It is important to educate our young friend that it is not acceptable to arrive so terribly early.” She returned to her writing and the maid scurried off with a small smile, ready to school the young man.

  An hour later Ninon entered the salon. By this time Charles was fairly stewing in his own juices; alternating between fury at being kept waiting and eager anticipation of the ardour of which he expected to be on the receiving end.