Authors: Tatiana de Rosnay
Do you recall when you helped me deliver those white lilies to the place de Furstenberg, when the painter Delacroix died in his studio? (A couple of years ago.) Whilst we were in the studio, arranging the flowers, I overheard a gentleman talking to another. I never told you this because I did not want to bother you. And I never believed that your house would be in danger. But now that I have witnessed how fast the works are going, their tremendous pace, their massive organization, I do sense danger. One gentleman (elegant, well-to-do person, with twirling mustache and well-pressed suit) was talking to another (younger, less important, obviously) about the Prefect and his team. I was not listening with great attention, but I did catch this: “I’ve seen the layout at the Hôtel de Ville. Those small, dark streets around the church, right around the corner from here, are going to go. Too humid, too narrow. Good thing old Delacroix isn’t around anymore to see that.”
I thought then, as I led you out of the building onto the rue de l’Abbaye, that this would take a while to be acted out. I also believed that perhaps the rue Childebert was not included, as it was indeed so near the church. But I now realize that this may not be the case. Oh, Madame Rose, I am afraid.
I am sending this letter up now with Blaise, and I beg you to read it to the end. We need to think about what will happen if worse comes to worst. We have time yet, but not that much time.
I am sending up a little bouquet of your favorite roses. The pink ones. Every time I handle them, smell them, sell them, I think of you.
Your affectionate,
Alexandrine
HARDLY ANY ACHES THIS
morning. I am astonished at how sturdy my body is. At my age! Do you think it is because I am young at heart? Because I am not afraid? Because I know you are waiting for me? Outside, a pale sun is shining. The cold has deepened. There is no snow. Only the sunshine and blue sky I can see from the kitchen window. Our city, or rather that of the Emperor and the Prefect, is at its best under the winter sun. Oh, I’m perfectly happy not to lay eyes on those boulevards anymore. Did I not read a while ago what one of the Goncourt brothers wrote about them? “The new boulevards, so long, so large, so geometric, as boring as endless roads.” How I had chuckled!
Alexandrine had dragged me, one summer evening, to walk along the new boulevards behind the Madeleine church. It had been a hot, stuffy day, and I longed for the cool serenity of my living room, but she would not hear of it. She made me put on a pretty dress (the ruby and black one), readjust my chignon and slip my feet into those tiny boots you used to love. Frankly, an elegant old lady like me, I needed to go out and see the world, instead of staying at home with my tisane and my mohair blanket! Did I not live in a beautiful city? Did I not want to be out tonight with her on the town, instead of alone, at home? I let myself be gently bullied.
We took a crowded omnibus to get there. I cannot tell you how many human beings lined those long new avenues. Could Paris hold that many citizens? We could hardly pick our way along the brand-new sidewalks dotted with chestnut trees. And the noise, Armand. The constant roll of wheels, the clattering of hooves. Voices and laughter. Newspaper vendors yelling out their trade. Flower girls proffering violets. The blaze of shop lights, of the new streetlamps. It was like being in the middle of the day. Imagine an endless stream of carriages and passersby. Everyone seemed to be parading, showing off finery, jewelry, a sophisticated hat, an ample bosom, the curve of hips. Red lips, curled coiffures, sparkling stones. Boutiques exposed their goods in a dazzling profusion of choice, fabrics and colors. Luminous cafés spilled their customers out onto the pavement in rows and rows of little tables, with waiters speedily rushing in and out, trays held high.
Alexandrine fought boldly to get a table (I would never have dared) and we finally managed to sit down, a group of loud gentlemen right behind us, knocking back their beers. We ordered prune liqueur. On our right, two very rouged ladies preened themselves. I noticed their décolletage and their dyed hair. Alexandrine rolled her eyes at me discreetly. We knew what they were and what they were waiting for. And soon enough, one of the men from a nearby table lolled over, bent to murmur a few words. A few minutes later he staggered off, a creature on each arm, accompanied by the cheers and whistles of his companions.
Revolting
, mouthed Alexandrine. I nodded and took a sip of my liqueur.
The more I sat there, a helpless spectator to the flow of vulgarity, the angrier I became. I glanced up at the huge, pale buildings facing us on the monotonously straight avenue. Not a light burning in luxurious apartments built for citizens who had money. The Prefect and the Emperor had built a stage décor, to their image. It had no heart, it had no soul.
“Isn’t it grand?” murmured Alexandrine, her eyes wide. As I looked at her, I could not bring myself to voice my own discontent. She was young and enthusiastic, and she loved this new Paris, like all the people around us, reveling in the summer evening. She was soaking up the tawdriness, the display, the shallowness.
Oh, what had become of my medieval city, its quaint charm, its sinuous dark alleys? It seemed to me that tonight Paris had turned into a florid, overripe harlot flaunting her froufrous.
BY MY SIDE IS
a stack of books. They are most precious to me. Yes, books. Now I hear you chuckling. Let me tell you at last how this happened. And you will understand why Monsieur Zamaretti, after Alexandrine, became that second important person to give a new meaning to my life.
One day, as I was leaving the flower shop, my head full of scents, colors and petals, of Baronne de Vresse’s ball gowns, Monsieur Zamaretti asked me most politely to visit his boutique whenever I had a free moment. (He had of course noticed how Alexandrine’s recent decorations had helped her commerce to flourish, and he had decided to redesign his own shop. I had never been in there, although I know you had, as you were fond of reading. Monsieur Zamaretti had also noticed that I spent many hours with Alexandrine, since the past couple of years. Was he not a mite envious of our friendship? He had once popped in on a rainy June day, when Alexandrine and her clients were gossiping about the sensational execution at the Roquette prison of young Docteur Couty-Pommerais, who was accused of poisoning his mistress. Masses of people had gone to watch the man being guillotined. Monsieur Zamaretti gave us all sorts of gory details, as one of his friends had actually witnessed the beheading from very close up. The more we shrieked with horror, the more he seemed to be enjoying himself.)
I accepted his invitation, and went to the bookstore one afternoon. The first thing I noticed as I walked in was the intoxicating smell of leather and paper. It was pleasing. He had done a very decent job. The walls were pale blue, most soothing, and one could sit down in comfortable armchairs under good lamps and read to one’s heart’s content. Monsieur Zamaretti had a high wooden desk covered with pencils, notebooks, magnifying glasses, letters and clippings. His shop was longer and darker than Alexandrine’s, the atmosphere was studious and intellectual. There were rows of books of all sizes and colors, and there was a long ladder in order to reach them.
Alexandrine’s boutique was full of chatter and noise, the rustle of the paper she used to wrap the flowers up, the clang of the bell at the door, Blaise’s frequent cough. Here, silence reigned. I noticed a gentleman in a corner, reading quietly. It was almost like entering a church. I congratulated Monsieur Zamarreti on his taste and was about to take my leave. And then he asked the same question that Alexandrine had, all those months ago. Except, of course, his query regarded his trade, not hers.
“Do you like to read, Madame Rose?”
I was taken aback. I did not know what to say. Of course, it is embarrassing, is it not, to have to admit one does not read. One comes across as an idiot. So I mumbled a few words and looked down at my shoes.
“Perhaps you would like to sit here and read for a while?” he suggested, with that smooth smile of his. (He is not good-looking, as you recall, but one must point out his hazel eyes and white teeth, and the fact that he dresses with great care. You know how fond I am of detailing clothes, and I can tell you that on that day he was wearing dark blue checked trousers, a purple and pink check waistcoat and a frock coat trimmed with astrakhan.) He ushered me to one of the armchairs and made sure the lamp was turned on. I sat down meekly.
“As I do not know your tastes, may I make a couple of suggestions for today?”
I nodded. He beamed, and clambered nimbly up the ladder. I admired his emerald-green socks. He came down again, carefully balancing a couple of books on his hip.
“We have a few authors here that I’m certain you might like. Paul de Kock, Balzac, Dumas, Erckmann-Chatrian…”
He placed the leather-bound volumes with their titles in gold lettering on the little table on front of me.
The Barber of Paris. L’Ami Fritz. The Black Tulip. The Colonel Chabert.
I looked at them dubiously, biting my lip.
“Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I have an idea.”
Up he rushed again. This time he reached out for one book only. He handed it to me as soon as his feet touched the ground.
“I know you will love this one, Madame Rose.”
I took it gingerly. It was rather thick, I noticed with a sinking heart.
“What is it about?” I asked politely.
“It is about a young woman. She is beautiful and bored. She is married to a doctor and she is stifled by the banality of her provincial existence.”
I noticed that the silent reader from across the room had lifted his head, nodded and was listening intently.
“And what happens to this beautiful, bored lady?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.
Monsieur Zamaretti glanced down at me as if he were reeling in a promising catch on a good fishing day.
“You see, this young woman is an avid reader of sentimental novels. She longs for romance and finds her marriage dreary. So she indulges in affairs and tragedy inevitably rears its head—”
“Is this novel suitable for a respectable old lady like myself?” I interrupted.
He gasped with mock horror. (You remember how he has a tendency to exaggerate.)
“Madame Rose! How would your most humble and dignified servant ever dare propose a book that is not fitting to your rank and intelligence? I only dared suggest this one because I happen to know that ladies who are not ardent readers succumb to this book with passion.”
“Most probably egged on by the scandal concerning the trial,” remarked the solitary reader from the other side of the room. Monsieur Zamaretti jumped as if he had forgotten his very presence. “Everybody wanted to read that book all the more.”
“You are indeed right, monsieur. The scandal did help the book sell furiously, it must be said.”
“What scandal? What trial?” I asked, feeling foolish once again.
“Well, this must have been three or four years ago, Madame Rose, around the time your husband passed away. The author was charged with outrage to public morals and religion. Full publication of the novel was blocked and this prompted a lawsuit that was very much commented upon by the press. And then everyone wanted to read the novel that had stirred up such a scandal. I myself sold dozens of copies a day.”
I looked down at the book, opened the flyleaf.
“And what do you think of it, Monsieur Zamaretti?” I asked.
“I believe that Gustave Flaubert is one of our most greatest authors,” he said. “And that
Madame Bovary
is a masterpiece.”
“Come, now,” scoffed the reader from his corner. “That’s going a little too far.”
Monsieur Zamaretti ignored him.
“Just read the first few pages, Madame Rose. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pursue.”
I nodded again, took a deep breath, and turned to the first page. I was doing this for him, of course. He had been so kind since your death, always sending warm smiles my way, waving to me when I passed his shop. I nestled comfortably in the deep armchair and said to myself that I’d read for twenty minutes. Then I’d thank him and go upstairs.
The next thing I remembered was that Germaine was standing in front of me, wringing her hands. I could not quite recall where I was, nor what I was doing. I seemed to be coming back from another world. Germaine stared down at me, at a loss for words. I suddenly realized I was in the bookshop down below. It was pitch-dark outside and my stomach was rumbling.
“What time is it?” I asked feebly.
“Well, madame, it is getting on for seven o’clock. Mariette and I have been most worried. Dinner is ready and the chicken is fairly overdone. We did not find you in the flower shop and Mademoiselle Walcker said you had been gone for ages.”
She looked intently at the book I held in my hands. Then I understood that I had been reading for over three hours. Monsieur Zamaretti helped me up. His was a smile of triumph.
“Would you like to come back tomorrow and continue your read?” he asked mellifluously.
“Yes,” I replied in a daze. I let myself be led upstairs by a stern Germaine, who kept clicking her tongue and shaking her head.
“Is Madame all right?” whispered Mariette, hovering by the door, surrounded by the tempting scent of roast chicken.
“Madame is fine,” snapped Germaine. “Madame was reading. She forgot everything else.”
I think you would have laughed, my love.
LITTLE BY LITTLE, I
ended up spending my mornings in the bookshop and my afternoons with Alexandrine. Studious mornings when I read for a couple of hours, then up to a quick luncheon prepared by Mariette and served by Germaine, then down again to the flower shop. You see now how reading and flowers became my personal patterns, became the secret way I was able to hold on to life after you left.