“I hope she didn’t have any gambling debts,” Thomas whispered to me.
The attorney overheard him and looked at us with bewilderment over the rim of her glasses.
“Mademoiselle Violette Caron, born the first of August, 1917 in Paris.”
After that point, I can’t remember a thing except that we inherited the apartment on the rue Servandoni and everything inside. An apartment of 1,575 square feet, the attorney specified.
“More than fifteen hundred square feet?” Thomas cut her off. “There must be a mistake. That studio apartment measures about two fifty!”
Annoyed, the attorney repeated, “I leave to Monsieur and Madame Thomas Layracque apartment number six at 17, rue Servandoni, Paris 75006, which includes 1,575 square feet of space on the third floor, with all the furnishings, jewelry and various objects it contains.”
Incredulously, I looked at Thomas.
“Is this a joke? The only other apartment on the floor is ours. And number six is a studio apartment!”
The attorney, continuing her reading, pushed a stack of papers in our direction. On it, in elegant nineteenth-century-style handwriting, was written: Violette Caron, 17, rue Servandoni, Paris 75006. Thomas was motionless and silent. One eyebrow rose slightly, showing his concentration.
“Violette didn’t have any family?”
“No. You became her family. She was isolated before your arrival. Other than you, she saw no one and was happy that way. People, in general, exasperated her. Your daughter charmed her, though. She was crazy about that child and the young woman she has become.”
We left, sad at the loss of Violette, but happy to have learned we had been so important to her.
“Oh, and I forgot,” the attorney said. “You have also inherited the little Renoir.”
On our way back to our apartment, we stopped at Violette’s studio. Everything remained the same: the rose scent, the blue silk peignoir hung behind the door and the little Renoir that I’d always taken for a good copy of the top of a chocolate box.
I let out a nervous laugh. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I said to Thomas.
He walked around the apartment, examining and softly touching the walls. “If the attorney says it’s more than one thousand five hundred square feet then that has to be the case! And it must be on this side because our apartment is on the other side.” He took a spoon and started tapping the wall. “Listen! It sounds hollow.”
I leaned toward the wall. “Not at all. It sounds the same all around.”
“I’m going to get my tools, and we’ll see,” Thomas said with determination.
“You’re not going to demolish the wall, are you? Maybe there’s another opening? Let’s look in this cabinet. It might be masking a door…”
On the lowest shelf, there were dozens of rolls of toilet paper (enough to wipe the bottoms of the whole building), boxes of tissues, sachets of lavender and a variety of cleaning products. On the middle shelves were towels (enough for an entire hotel), and on the top shelves, colorful, methodically stacked boxes.
It took a few minutes to empty everything, remove the shelves and take down the large wooden panel. Poorly attached in the first place, the wood fell away easily as Thomas pushed his shoulder against it. As I’d suspected, the armoire was there to hide the old door.
I looked for a flashlight in a drawer in the kitchen. I was excited, but scared at the same time. It seemed Thomas was, too, because he didn’t dare move forward into the darkness without a source of light. Hand-in-hand, with the illumination of our flashlight, we crept into a hallway covered with flowery wallpaper. The dry, dusty odor was almost suffocating. I bumped into a piece of furniture.
“Damn, we need more light,” Thomas said. “I hope we’re not going to find a mummified cadaver like in Psycho!”
He opened a door to a room. The windows were covered with boards. Thankfully, the chairs that held the boards in place were easy to move. Windows and shutters open, sun lit the room like a movie-theater projector.
Everything was still under the ivory dust that danced in the rays of light. The wall was covered in silky wallpaper from pink to pale green. Chairs, a couch, rugs and furniture, all in peach, pink or light green, an open book on a small table and a dried bouquet of flowers seemed to wait for the return of the apartment’s owners.
In a curio cabinet, I admired delicate knick-knacks and a blue vase with images of pheasants. I later would learn it was a work of Eugène Collinot.
The three other rooms were just as beautiful and refined as the first. One was particularly astonishing. An imposing bed filled it almost entirely. Heavy, embroidered drapes and wall fabric seemed to protect it from the outside world. The dressing table, filled with brushes, creams and every possible lotion and potion, lacked only a bit of life.
I opened one of the drawers and mechanically searched through it. Under tissues and lace, I found a small notebook. The pages were filled with names and numbers. I read in a low voice without understanding.
“Thomas, come and listen to this!”
November 1907
Monsieur de J., 2 n., 2000
Monsieur de B., Deauville, 6000
P de G., 2 w.: 1 bracelet (Boucheron), 1 diamond ring (Boucheron), 1brooch, 10 bouquets, dresses by Worth
December 1907
G.D. Serge, 3 w.: 1 necklace Chaumet, rubies and diamonds + rings
February 1907
Monsieur C., 2 n., 2000
Monsieur de H., 3 d., 4000…
All of the pages were filled with the same small, neat handwriting, year after year until 1910. I read her notes but didn’t truly comprehend them. Thomas exploded with laughter.
“You discovered her record book!”
Perplexed, I looked at him.
“It’s obvious!” he exclaimed, ripping the book from my hands. “Two n. for two nights, w. for week, and so on and so forth. And next to each gentleman’s name, the amount that it cost him! Violette’s mother was a kept woman… a prostitute, if you prefer!”
My mouth remained half open as Thomas continued.
“A high-class prostitute, but a prostitute all the same! That’s why everything is closed up. Violette wanted to hide her mother’s scandalous past. Incredible.”
In the 12 years we’d known each other, Violette never spoke with me of her mother. She told me about Margaux, her nanny, and the long walks around the Luxembourg Gardens with its puppets and old wooden merry-go-round, her vacations on the Deauville shore. But her mother seemed absent from her life.
“In the next room, there’s a portrait of a woman. That must be her… Come have a look!”
A superb creature, with full lips, a fine, straight nose and an engaging gaze. Her figure was perfect, with smooth, milk-white skin. She seemed to say to us in an amused tone, “You didn’t expect this, now did you?”
It took us nearly a week to clean and organize everything. I bought trunks at the BHV department store: one for the clothing, another for the letters, notebooks, telegrams, business cards and photos. An appraiser would be coming for the furniture, rugs and paintings. As I moved furniture to better clean the apartment, I discovered several pieces of jewelry. Violette hadn’t known all of her mother’s hiding places. Hortense—that was her name—kept everything.
Her many lovers, often incredibly rich, had been generous with this woman who we learned was authoritarian and spirited. Hortense took note of everything in a cold and administrative fashion. She even left behind a journal, but I only found part of it. One sentence came back again and again: Don’t end up like Nana. Contrary to Zola’s heroine, who threw her money out the window, Hortense saved and counted like an old bourgeoise woman.
She became greedy, and her notebooks were a testament to that. She inspected the kitchen every morning and every evening, forbidding and punishing wastefulness. She would ask the cook to use the leftovers the next day and would save the last drops of wine to make vinegar. Even bread was weighed and counted. They ate meat onc
e a month. Hortense lived in fear of returning to the poverty of her childhood. The days of not having to put up with men, as she wrote in her notebook, she ate soup and bread. In 1897, she “tortured” and fired four cooks: Not clean enough and not frugal enough, she noted each time in her journal.
As I gathered all of the elements, after several days of reading and sorting through documents, I little by little put together the story of Hortense de Cléry, or Hortense Gibier, to use her real name.
I even seek help from a genealogist, who assists with the research. Hortense, born January 4, 1873, is the daughter of a family of vegetable sellers from Gâtinais. Impoverished, she escapes this misery at age 15 for Paris and for a man. We catch up with her in 1890 in a Montmartre theater. A newspaper clipping Hortense kept in an album mentions her as a terrible actress but a great beauty. In 1895, we find her at the Européen theater in her dressing room. She is surrounded by bankers, grand dukes, Russian princes, the King of Bavaria, the King of Portugal, the Prince of Wales, French political figures… Perhaps she was a pitiful actress, but what a path she traveled in the period of a few years.
The notebook from 1894, when she was only 21, is a long list of numbers and almost a jeweler’s catalog, listing the price, description and size of stones offered by her lovers. In some cases, she even noted the weight of the jewels. I discover that Hortense is ambitious. She takes Russian language classes and her first investment with the money she made “lying down” is to learn to read and write. In 1901, she leaves for Russia for a few months and comes back extremely wealthy, forever shielded from the grips of poverty.
Other books—this time hidden in the bathroom—tell me where the money is invested: in the French railroads and apartments. She refuses to have anything to do with Russian borrowers! She prefers to keep a close eye on her investments.
After learning her habits, I’m now used to looking under each piece of wooden flooring or rug, double checking hems, inspecting the nooks and crannies of vases and even pages of her books! It’s as if I’m on a treasure hunt. Each object discovered, even if holding no monetary value, fills me with a childlike joy. Obsessed with Hortense, I stop working.
I find no trace of her daughter—either in photos or notebooks. I ask myself if Violette destroyed everything or if it is her mother’s indifference that pushed her to construct a wall separating herself from the memories?
One evening, as I explore a nightstand, I discover a packet of letters hidden under a marble panel. One hundred and seventy-two love letters and three photos of a handsome soldier with a charming mustache. He looks to be about 30.
He is a pilot. They wrote from February 5, 1913 to December 28, 1916. In one of the photos, he poses in front of his airplane. He is younger than Hortense, and I understand that he is Violette’s father. Tied with a ribbon, a short letter from a fellow pilot dated January 3, 1917 tells Hortense that Louis Goldstein has died in combat. It is at this date that all of Hortense’s notebooks stop, as if counting, stacking and organizing no longer would be important from this moment forward.
Violette
Frédérique Veysset
Thomas m’avait appelée pour m’annoncer la mort de Violette. J’en avais eu le pressentiment au moment de quitter Paris. Mais c’étaient les vacances scolaires et mes parents voulaient voir Paloma. En l’accompagnant, je m’étais octroyé quelques jours de vacances. Mon retour en train sur Paris, fut triste et long. Je ne pleurais pas alors que j’en avais tellement envie.
Violette était entrée dans notre vie douze ans plus tôt. Nous venions d’emménager rue Servandoni, elle était notre voisine et très vite nous étions devenus amis. Elle était déjà âgée, mais toujours jolie, fraîche, souriante et bien coiffée, sentant toujours une eau de toilette à la rose. Nos appartements, voisins, se trouvaient au troisième étage sans ascenseur. J’avais pris l’habitude de faire ses courses avec les miennes. J’avais ses clefs. On passait quand on voulait pour lui déposer une soupe, un gratin ou un gâteau. Tous les après-midis, de retour de l’école, Paloma nous attendait chez elle en faisant ses devoirs : un solide rituel respecté, malgré l’adolescence… Violette, amoureuse de la langue française et des belles histoires, lui avait appris à lire quand elle avait à peine quatre ans.
Je ne m’en étais jamais aperçu jusqu’à ce que sa maîtresse de maternelle, un matin, m’interpelle :
— Madame Layracque, ce serait bien que Paloma attende les autres pour apprendre à lire.
— Comment ça ?
— Oui Paloma sait lire et elle est décalée par rapport à ses camarades de classe. Il faudrait qu’elle les attende.
Elle séparait bien les mots en parlant et hochait de la tête, comme une poule.
— C’est trop tôt, c’est dans deux ans qu’elle pourra apprendre, pas avant !
En effet, le soir j’avais pu vérifier avec fierté que Paloma, sans pour autant être capable de déchiffrer Le Monde, pouvait facilement lire ses livres d’enfants.
Le studio de Violette était petit mais lumineux et il donnait sur le Jardin du Luxembourg. La gardienne montait tous les matins faire le ménage puis l’aide-soignante passait pour la toilette. Quand je récupérais Paloma en fin de journée, on parlait de tout et du petit rien de la vie, de mon travail. J’aimais ces moments calmes avec elle à boire une tisane de sauge. Au début de notre arrivée, Violette venait avec Paloma et moi au Luxembourg, mais très vite les trois étages à descendre puis à remonter étaient devenus trop fatigants.
— C’est mon arthrose ! se plaignait Violette.
Son dos était tout courbé mais curieusement ses mains étaient impeccables, toujours manucurées, les doigts ornés de bagues.
La notaire de Violette s’était occupée de tout, elle avait reçu des instructions très précises pour la messe, le cimetière, les fleurs. Quelques jours après l’enterrement, elle nous avait convoqués pour la lecture du testament.
— J’espère qu’elle n’avait pas de dettes de jeux… m’avait soufflé Thomas.
La notaire l’avait entendu et nous avait regardés par-dessus ses lunettes d’un air consterné.
— Mademoiselle Violette Caron, née le premier août 1917 à Paris.
Je ne me souviens de rien d’autre sauf que nous héritions de l’appartement de la rue Servandoni et de tout son contenu. Appartement de 150 m2 avait précisé la notaire.
— 150 m2 ? Vous devez faire erreur, le studio ne fait que 25 m2 ! avait coupé Thomas.
Irritée la notaire avait répété :
— Je lègue à Monsieur et Madame Thomas Layracque (…) l’appartement lot numéro 6 au 17, rue Servandoni Paris 75006, d’une surface de 150 m2 au troisième étage, avec tous les meubles meublants, bijoux et objets divers qui le garnissent.
Je regardais Thomas, incrédule.
— C’est une blague ? Il n y a pas d’autre appartement que le nôtre à cet étage, le numéro 6 est un studio !
La notaire, tout en poursuivant sa lecture, poussa vers nous un dossier sur lequel, d’une belle écriture de directeur d’école du siècle dernier, était noté : Violette Caron. 17, rue Servandoni Paris 75006. Thomas était immobile, silencieux, son sourcil droit remontait légèrement : preuve qu’il était concentré.
— Violette n’avait pas de descendance ?
— Non, et vous étiez devenus sa famille. Elle était très isolée avant votre arrivée. A part vous, elle ne voyait personne et s’en portait très bien. D’ailleurs, les gens l’exaspéraient en général. C’est votre fille qui l’a conquise, elle était folle de cette enfant puis de la jeune fille qu’elle est devenue.
Nous étions repartis, intrigués, tristes de l’absence de Violette mais heureux d’apprendre que nous avions été importants pour elle.
— Ah j’oubliais : vous héritez aussi du petit Renoir.
Bien sûr, en remontant chez nous, nous nous étions arrêtés au studio. Rien n’avait bougé : l’odeur de rose, le peignoir en soie bleu pâle, accroché derrière la porte, et le fameux petit Renoir que
j’avais toujours pris pour une très bonne reproduction d’un couvercle de boîte de chocolat. Je me mis à rire nerveusement.
— C’est dingue, non ? dis-je à Thomas.
Thomas faisait le tour du studio, scrutant les murs et les caressants de la main.
— Si la notaire parle de 150 m2, c’est qu’il y a 150 m2 ! Et c’est forcément de ce côté parce que ce mur donne chez nous.
Il prit une cuillère et se mis à donner des petits coups.
— Ecoute : ça sonne creux !
Je me penchai vers le mur.
— Pas du tout, ça sonne pareil partout !
— Je vais chercher mes outils, on verra bien, ajouta Thomas déterminé.
— Tu ne vas pas démolir le mur quand même ? Il y a peut-être une autre ouverture ? Fouillons ce placard, il pourrait dissimuler une porte…
Sur l’étagère du bas, il y avait des dizaines de rouleaux de papier hygiénique, de quoi essuyer les fesses de tout l’immeuble, puis des boîtes de kleenex, des sacs de lavande et des produits d’entretien. Sur les étagères du milieu, du linge de maison, de quoi garnir tout un hôtel et sur celles du haut, des boîtes en carton de couleur, méthodiquement empilées. Cela nous prit plusieurs minutes pour tout vider, ôter les étagères et tomber sur une grosse planche en bois recouverte de peinture blanche. Mal fixée, la planche céda sous les coups d’épaules de Thomas. Comme je le pressentais, l’armoire avait été conçue de façon à dissimuler une ancienne porte.
Je cherchais une lampe de poche dans un tiroir de la table de la cuisine. J’étais excitée mais j’avais un peu peur. Thomas aussi, je crois, car il n’avait pas osé s’aventurer sans lumière dans cette ouverture noire. Main dans la main, éclairés par le rond blanc de la lampe électrique, on avançait dans un couloir, recouvert d’un papier peint à fleurs. L’odeur sèche, de poussière et de renfermé, était suffocante par moment. Je me heurtai à un meuble.
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