The House I Loved (20 page)

I think of her as I huddle down here, shivering, and I wonder if she has any inkling of what I am going through. I think of her in that beautiful, noble house, with her family, and her books and flowers and parties. Her porcelain tea set, her purple crinolines and her loveliness. The large, bright room where she would receive her guests. The sun dappling the glistening ancient floorboards. The rue Taranne is dangerously close to the new boulevard Saint-Germain. Will those sweet little girls grow up in another place? Would Louise Eglantine de Vresse bear to lose her family home standing proudly on the corner of the rue du Dragon? I will never know.

I think of my daughter waiting for me at Tours, wondering where I am. I think of Germaine, my loyal and trustworthy Germaine, who is undoubtedly worried at my absence. Has she guessed? Does she know I am hiding here? Every day they must wait for a letter, a sign, they must look up when they hear the stamp of hooves at the gate. In vain.

The last dream I had down here was a foreboding one. I do not quite know how to describe it to you. I was up in the sky, like a bird, looking down at our city. And it was only ruins that I saw. Charred ruins, glowing red, of a ravaged city, consumed by a vast fire. The Hôtel de Ville was burning like a torch, a huge, ghostlike carcass about to collapse. All the Prefect’s work, all the Emperor’s plans, all the symbols of their perfect, modern city had been annihilated. There was nothing left, only the desolation of the boulevards and their straight lines, cutting through embers like bleeding scars. Instead of sadness, a strange relief surged through me as the wind swept a black swarm of ashes my way. As I winged away, my nose and mouth full of cinders, I felt an unexpected elation take over. This was the end of the Prefect, the end of the Emperor. Even if it was only a dream, I had witnessed their downfall. And I savored it with relish.

THEY ARE NOW RATTLING
about at the entrance. Crashes, bangs. My heart leaps. They are in the house, beloved. I hear them lumbering up and down the stairs, I hear their harsh voices ringing out into the empty rooms. I presume they want to make sure no one is here. I have closed the trapdoor to the cellar. I do not think they will find me because they will not care to look. They have received confirmation that the owners have vacated the premises. They are firmly convinced that Madame Veuve Armand Bazelet moved out a fortnight ago. The entire street is deserted. No one is living in the ghostlike row of houses, the last ones to be valiantly standing on the rue Childebert.

So they think. How many, like me? How many Parisians who will not surrender to the Prefect, to the Emperor? To so-called progress? How many Parisians hiding in their cellars because they will not give up their houses? I will never know.

They are coming down here. Footsteps thundering right over my head. I am writing this as fast as I can. Very scribbled handwriting. Perhaps I should blow the candle out! Can they see the flicker of the flame through the cracks in the wood? Oh, wait … They are already gone.

For a long while there is silence. Only the pounding of my heart and the scratch of quill on paper. It is a lugubrious wait. I am trembling from head to toe. I wonder what is going on. I dare not move from the cellar. From time to time, because otherwise I feel I shall go mad, I pick up a short novel called
Thérèse Raquin.
This was one of the last books Monsieur Zamaretti suggested before he left his shop. It is the lurid and fascinating tale of an adulterous, scheming couple. It is impossible to put it down. The writing is remarkably vivid, even more daring, I find, than Monsieur Flaubert’s or Monsieur Poe’s. Perhaps because it is so very modern? The author is a young man named Émile Zola. I believe he is not even thirty. The reaction to this book has been impressive. One journalist defined the novel as “putrid literature.” Another claimed it was pornography. Few approved of it. Whatever one may think, this is a young author who will assuredly make his mark, one way or another.

How you must be surprised at me reading this. But you see, Armand, it is true to say that when one reads Monsieur Zola, one is brutally confronted with the worst aspects of human nature. There is nothing romantic about Monsieur Zola’s writing. There is nothing noble about it either. For instance, the infamous scene at the town morgue (the establishment down by the river, where you and I had never gone to despite its growing popularity for visits by the public) is no doubt the most powerful piece of writing I have ever read in my entire life. It is even more macabre than what Monsieur Poe achieved. So how, you are surely wondering, can your meek, bland Rose approve of such literature? You may well ask. There is a dark side to your Rose. Your Rose has thorns.

Oh, suddenly I hear them perfectly, even from down here. I hear them clustering all over the house, a swarm of foul insects armed with pickaxes, and I make out the first blows, dreadfully sharp, up there on the roof. They attack the roof first, as you recall, then they work their way down. It will be a little while yet before they make their way down to me. But they will, eventually.

There is still time for me to flee. There is still time for me to rush up the stairs, unlock the trapdoor, the front door, and run out into the cold air. What a sight, an old woman in a dirty fur coat, her cheeks caked with grime. Another ragpicker, they will think. I am certain Gilbert is still out there, I am sure he is waiting for me, hoping against all hope that I will walk out that door.

I can still do it. I can still choose safety. I can let the house crumble down without me. I still have that choice. Listen, I am not a victim, Armand. This is what I want to do. Go down with the house. To be buried under it. Do you understand?

The noise is horrendous now. Each blow digging into slate, into stone, is like a blow delving into my bones, into my skin. I think of the church, placidly watching all this. The church will always be safe. It has witnessed bloodshed for centuries. Today will not make a difference. Who will know? Who will find me under the debris? At first I feared not being laid to rest by your side at the cemetery. Now I am convinced that it does not matter in the least if my remains are not next to yours. Our souls are already reunited.

I made you a promise and I will keep it. I will not let that man have our empty house.

It is becoming very hard to write to you, my love. The dust is snaking its path down here. It is making me cough and wheeze. How long will this take? I wonder. Horrible creaks and groans now. The house shudders, like an animal in pain; like a ship caught on the crest of a frenzied storm.

It is unspeakable. I want to close my eyes. I want to think of the house as it used to be when you were still here, in all its glory, when Baptiste was alive, when we had guests coming in every week, when food was laid on the table, and the wine flowed, and laughter filled the room.

I think of our happiness, I think of the happy, simple life that is woven through these walls, the fragile tapestry of our existences. I think of the long, tall windows glowing out to me into the night when I used to make my way home from the rue des Ciseaux, a warm, beckoning light. And there you used to stand, waiting for me. I think of our doomed neighborhood, the simple beauty of the little streets stemming from the church that no one will remember.

Oh, there is someone fiddling with the trapdoor, my heart leaps as I scribble this to you in haste and panic. I refuse to leave, I will not leave. How can they have found me here? Who told them I was hiding? Shrieks, shouts, a high-pitched voice, screaming my name, over and over again. I dare not move. There is so much noise, I cannot make out who is calling … Is it?—the candle is flickering in the thick dust, I have nowhere to hide. Lord help me … I cannot breathe. Thunder overhead. There, the flame is out now, this is written in blackness, in haste, in fear, someone is coming down …

Le Petit Journal
, January 28th, 1869

A macabre discovery was made on the old rue Childebert, torn down for the creation of the new boulevard Saint-Germain. As workers shoveled through the rubble, they came upon the bodies of two women hidden in the cellar of one of the demolished houses … The women have been identified as Rose Cadoux, 59, widow of Armand Bazelet, and Alexandrine Walcker, 29, unmarried, who worked in a flower shop on the rue de Rivoli. It appears they were killed by the destruction of the house. The reason for these women’s presence in an area that had been evacuated for the embellishments led by the Prefect’s team has not yet been made clear. However, Madame Bazelet was granted an interview last summer by the Hôtel de Ville where it was noted that she had not agreed to move out of her property. Madame Bazelet’s daughter, Madame Laurent Pesquet, from Tours, claimed she had been expecting her mother for the past three weeks. When reached by our journalist, the Préfecture’s legal counsel replied that the Prefect had no comment whatsoever to make concerning the matter.

Also by Tatiana de Rosnay

A Secret Kept

Sarah’s Key

TATIANA DE ROSNAY is the author of ten novels, including the
New York Times
bestselling novels
Sarah’s Key
and
A Secret Kept. Sarah’s Key
is an international sensation with over five million copies sold in thirty-eight countries worldwide, and has now been made into a major motion picture. Together with Dan Brown and Stieg Larsson, Tatiana was named one of the top three fiction writers in Europe in 2010. She lives with her husband and two children in Paris, where she is at work on her next novel. Visit her online at
www.tatianaderosnay.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE HOUSE I LOVED.
Copyright © 2012 by Éditions Héloise d’Ormesson, Paris. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Photograph of rue d’Erfurth and Fountain by Charles Marville, ca 1865 by Charles Marville. Paris, Musée Carnavalet. © Musée Carnavalet/Roger Viollett/The Image Works. Reprinted with permission by The Image Works.

www.stmartins.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Rosnay, Tatiana de, 1961–

The house I loved / Tatiana de Rosnay. — 1st ed.

        p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-59330-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4299-5047-3 (e-book)

  1.  Paris (France)—History—1848–1870—Fiction.   2.  France—History—1848–1870—Fiction.   3.  Urban renewal—Fiction.   4.  City planning—Fiction.   5.  Widows—Fiction.   6.  Family secrets—Fiction.   7.  Domestic fiction.   I.  Title.

PR9105.9.R6H68 2012

823'.914—dc23

2011033230

eISBN 9781429950473

First Edition: February 2012