Authors: Tatiana de Rosnay
“Come and have some warm soup, dearest,” I begged, “it will do you good after that long walk.”
Your eyes were glassy and wide, and I knew you kept seeing the façades crumbling, the swarms of workers hacking away at the buildings and the flames blazing in the pit.
I got up to try to coerce you back to the table, but you pushed me away, quite savagely. I did not know what to do. So I sat there, helpless, immobile, till the food became cold and it was cleared away in silence. Getting you to come to bed that night was also an ordeal. Again you shoved me away, wordlessly, with a new vehemence that shocked me.
It was in those moments, I believe, that the first signs of your illness became most apparent. I had not noticed these signs before, but now they were obvious. Your mind was undergoing a sort of confusion. You were agitated, distracted, you seemed lost.
It was from then on that you refused to leave the house, even for a short walk to the gardens. You remained in the sitting room, your back upright, facing the door. You would sit like that for hours, heedless of me, of Germaine, of anyone speaking to you. You were the man of the house, you muttered, yes, that was exactly what you were, the man of the house. No one was going to touch your house. No one.
After your death, the destructions went on, led by the merciless Prefect and his bloodthirsty team, but in other parts of the city. I was too intent on learning how to survive without you.
But two years ago, well before the letter arrived, an incident took place. And then I knew. Yes, I knew.
It happened as I was leaving Madame Godfin’s shop with my chamomile tisane. I noticed a gentleman standing on the street corner in front of the water fountain. He was painstakingly setting up a camera, and a deferential assistant was hovering nearby. It was early, I recall, and the street was not yet busy. The man was short and sturdy, with graying hair and a mustache. I had not seen very many cameras before, only at the photographer’s on the rue Taranne who had taken our portraits.
I slowed down as I approached him and watched him at work. It seemed a most complicated affair. At first I could not comprehend what he was photographing, as there was no one in sight apart from me. His apparatus was facing the rue des Ciseaux. As he fiddled about, I discreetly asked the young assistant what their business was.
“Monsieur Marville is the Prefect’s professional photographer,” announced the young man, his chest fairly bloating with pride.
“I see…” I answered. “And who is it that Monsieur Marville will be photographing at present?”
The young fellow looked down at me as if I had said something incredibly stupid. He had an oafish face and bad teeth for his age.
“Well, madame, he does not photograph people. He photographs streets.” Another swell of his torso. “According to the Prefect’s orders, and with my help, Monsieur Marville is photographing the streets of Paris that are to be destroyed for the renovations.”
Vaucresson, April 26th, 1857
My dear sister,
We are now installed in our new abode, in Vaucresson. I believe it would take you a mere couple of hours to get to us, should you and Armand care to drop by, which I very much hope you will. But I understand that your eventual visit will have to do with your husband’s strength. The last time I saw him, he had already much declined. I am writing this to tell you, dear sister, how unfair I find your situation. For the past years, you and Armand have struck me as being a profoundly happy couple. Such happiness is rare, I find. You recall, no doubt, our miserable childhood, the threadbare affection our mother (bless her soul) bestowed upon us. I believe I do not share with my wife anything quite as deep and meaningful as what you share with your husband. Yes, life has been cruel with you, and I still cannot bring myself to write my nephew’s name. But despite the blows that fate has dealt you, Armand and you have always seemed to rise above those blows and I admire that tremendously.
I think you would like this new house, Rose. It stands on a hill, and has a long, green garden which the children enjoy. It is large, and sunny, and most cheerful. It is far from the noise and dust of the city, far from the Prefect’s works. I sometimes think Armand would be happier in a place like this than in the dark rue Childebert. He would revel in the sweet perfume of grass, the nearby woods, the song of the birds, but then, of course, I remember how both of you love your neighborhood. Odd, isn’t it? Whilst I grew up, with you, in place Gozlin, I already cherished the fact that one day I was going to leave. Even if Edith and I lived a long while on the doomed rue Poupée, I fully knew that I would not end my days in the city. When we received the letter from the Préfecture informing us that our house was to be destroyed, I realized that this was the change I had always been waiting for.
I know you believe the rue Childbert is safe, Rose, because it is so near the church at Saint-Germain. I know how much Armand’s family home means to him. But don’t you believe that attaching such importance to a house is unwise? In his state of mind, losing his abode would be an utter disaster. Do you not think that it would be more judicious to move away from the city? I could help you find a charming place near us, here in Vaucresson. I think you would appreciate the calm and harmony of this little village. You are not yet fifty, there is still time to move on and start again, and you know that Edith and I would help. Violette is happily married, living in Tours, raising her children, she does not need her parents anymore. There is nothing to hold you back in Paris.
I beseech you, Rose, do think this over. Think of your husband’s health and of your well-being.
Your affectionate brother,
Émile
IT IS A SWEET
relief being certain that no living soul will ever set eyes on what I have been scribbling away at, down here. I feel liberated, and my confessions, although a burden, appear slightly alleviated. Are you with me, Armand? Can you hear me? I like to think you are right here, by my side. I do wish I possessed a camera, like Monsieur Marville, and that I could have photographed every single room of our house in order to immortalize it.
I would have started with our bedroom. The heart of our house. The other day, when the movers came to pack up our furniture to send it to Violette’s place, I spent a long moment in our bedroom. If walls could speak, would they not have related so many tales? They have witnessed death and life. I stood where the bed was, facing the window, and I said to myself, This is where you were born, this is where you died. This is where your father passed away, and probably his father as well. This is where I brought our children into the world.
I would always remember the canary-yellow wallpaper, the bordeaux velvet drapes, the arrowheaded curtain rods. The marble fireplace. The oval mirror with its gilded frame. The graceful bonheur du jour, its drawers full of letters, stamps and pens. The small table inlaid with rosewood where you put your spectacles, your gloves, and where I stacked the books purchased from Monsieur Zamaretti’s shop. The wide mahogany bed with brass fittings, and your gray felt slippers by the left side, where you used to sleep. Yes, I will always remember how the sun shone here, even on a winter morning, running a triumphant golden finger along the walls, lighting the yellow to an incandescent gold.
When I think of our room, the acute pain of childbirth comes back to me. They say women forget with the passing of time, but no, I shall never consign to oblivion the day Violette was born. My mother had not spoken to me about the matters of life before I got married. But then, what did my mother speak to me about? Search as I might, I cannot recall an interesting conversation, a memorable moment. Your own mother had murmured a few words before my confinement for our first child. She had said to be brave. The words sent a chill down my spine. The obstetrician was a placid gentleman who never spoke much and the midwife who came to visit me was always in a hurry, as there was another lady in the neighborhood who needed her assistance. I had started the pregnancy well enough, with hardly any queasiness or other disorders. I was twenty-two years old, and healthy.
The scorching heat of July. It had not rained for weeks. My labor had already commenced and the ache in my back gradually grew more and more pronounced. I suddenly wondered if what was lying ahead for me would not be utterly dreadful. I dared not complain for the moment. I lay on the bed, Maman Odette patting my hand. The midwife arrived late. She had been caught up in a mob and turned up breathless, her bonnet tied crookedly. We had no idea of what was happening outside. She informed you and Maman Odette in a low whisper that people were starting to manifest, that it was getting ugly. She thought I could not hear, but I did.
As the hours ticked by and as I began to comprehend with rising anguish what Maman Odette had meant when she had said to “be brave,” it became clear that our child had chosen to make its entrance into the world in the midst of a seething revolution. From our small street, we could hear the growing grumble of insurrection. It started with shouts and cries, and the clatter of hooves. You were told by panic-stricken neighbors that the royal family had fled.
I heard all this from far away. A damp cloth was held to my forehead, but it neither eased the pain nor lessened the heat. Sometimes I retched, my insides churning in agony, bringing up nothing but bile. In tears, I confessed to Maman Odette that I was not going to be able to carry this ordeal through. She tried to pacify me, but I could tell she was anxious. She kept going to the window and peering outside. She went down to talk to you and to the neighbors. The riots were everyone’s priority, not this baby. Nobody cared, it seemed, about this baby and me. What would happen if you all left the house, even the midwife, if you all had to go and to leave me here, helpless, unable to move? Did all women go through this horror, or was it only me? Had my mother felt this, did Maman Odette when she had you? Unthinkable questions that I never dared voice and that I can only write now because I know no one will read this.
I recall that I began to sob uncontrollably, pain and terror ripping my stomach apart. As I lay twisting with pain in a bed drenched with sweat, I could hear yells of “Down with the Bourbons!” coming in through the open window. The deep boom of cannonballs startled us, and the midwife kept crossing herself nervously. The sharp rattle of gunshots was heard not far off and I prayed for the baby to come, I prayed for the insurrection to end. I did not care in the least for the fate of our King, of what was going to happen to our city. How selfish I was, thinking only of myself, not even of this baby, only of me and the monumental pain.
It lasted for hours, night sliding into day, and the constant agony tearing me open with prongs of fire. You had discreetly slipped away, you were no doubt downstairs in the sitting room with Maman Odette, and I did everything I could to keep my gasps silent within me, at first. But soon the excruciating waves took over again, higher and higher, and I had to let the screams out, trying to muffle them behind my moist palm or a pillow, but soon nearly delirious with pain, I gave full vent to the shrieks, heedless of the open window and of you, sitting below. Never had I screamed so loudly, so strongly, in my entire life. My throat was parched. No more tears came. I thought I was going to die. And at moments, when it became unbearable, I even wanted to die.
It was when Notre Dame’s loudest and deepest bell boomed out in warning, in a never-ending litany that penetrated my exhausted brain like a sledgehammer, that the baby was born at last, during the worst of the riots, the last of the three bloody days, whilst the Hôtel de Ville was stormed. Maman Odette was told that the tricolor flag of the people flew high over the rooftops and that the white and gold flag of the Bourbons was nowhere to be seen. You heard there had been many civilian deaths. A little girl. I was too drained to be disappointed. She was put to my breast and as I peered down at her, a shriveled, grimacing creature, I inexplicably felt no surge of love, nor pride. She pushed me away with tiny fists and a mewing of complaint. No, it was not love at first sight between me and my daughter. And thirty-eight years later, nothing has changed. I do not know why this happened. I cannot explain. It is a mystery to me. Why does one love a child, and not another? Why does a child push a mother away? Whose fault is it? Why does it happen so early, at birth? Why can nothing be done about it?
I felt her resentment grow, year after year. Do you remember, a couple of years after Maman Odette’s death, that scene in the dining room? Violette was still a child, and already so brittle. I cannot recall how the argument sparked off, where it came from. She had been complaining, as usual, and I had reprimanded her.
“Try to see the bright side, darling, you are persistently negative,” I said smoothly, with a warm smile.
Oh, how she scowled at me.
“When I grow up,” she spat, “I want to be nothing like you, Maman. You are too pretty, too good, too nice. I want others to respect me.”
I remember you rebuked her, with your customary mildness, however. She remained silent for the rest of the meal, but her words had wounded me, deeply. Too pretty, too good, too nice. Was that how my own daughter, a mere girl, considered me? A mealymouthed, spineless belle?
She has become a hard woman, all bones and angles, not an ounce of your gentleness, or my kindness. How is it that we can bear children of our flesh and blood and yet feel no link to them, so that they seem like strangers? She looks like you, I presume, your dark eyes and hair, your nose. She is not pretty, but she could have been, had she smiled more. She does not even possess my mother’s petulance, her coquettish vanity that was sometimes amusing. What does my son-in-law, the prim and proper Laurent, see in her? A perfect housewife, I imagine. She is a good cook, I believe. She runs that country doctor’s household with a hand of steel. And her children … Clémence and Léon … I know them so little … I have not laid eyes on their sweet faces for years …