The House I Loved Page 6

  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 …

  That is my only regret now, dearest. As a grandmother, I would have liked to bond with my offspring. It is too late. Perhaps being a disappointed daughter turns one into an inadequate mother. Maybe the lack of love between Violette and me is my fault. Maybe I am to blame. I imagine you patting my arm with that tut, tut expression of yours. But you see, Armand, I did love the little boy so much more. You see, it is conceivably my doing. Now, in the winter of my life, I can look back and state these facts, almost without pain. But not without remorse.

  Oh, my dear, how I miss you. I look down at the last photograph I have of you, the one of your deathbed. They had dressed you in your elegant black suit, the one you wore for best occasions. Your hair, hardly touched by gray, was swept back, and your mustache had been groomed. Your hands folded on your chest. How many times have I looked at that photograph since you have gone? Thousands, I believe.

  I HAVE JUST HAD the most terrible fright, dearest. My hands are shaking so much I can barely write this. Whilst I was poring over each detail of your face, there came a loud rattle of the front door. Someone was trying to get in. I leaped up, my heart in my throat, knocking my cup of tea to the floor. It fell with a deafening clatter. I froze, horrorstruck. Would they hear it? Would they understand someone was still in the house? I crouched down very low, close to the wall, and made my way slowly to the entrance. There were voices out there, the shuffle of feet. The handle jounced again. I glued my ear to the panel, breathless. Men’s voices, rising loud and clear in the frosty morning.

  “This one is due to go soon, the work will start next week, most probably. The owners moved out, it’s as empty as an old shell.”

  A shove against the door made the wood jiggle against my face. I moved back quickly.

  “The old door’s mighty sturdy still,” remarked another male voice.

  “You know how fast those houses come down,” sneered the first voice. “Won’t take long to raze it, or the entire street, as it were.”

  “That’s right, this little street and the one round the corner will be down in a jiffy.”

  Who could these men be? I wondered, as they at last drew away. I spied at them from a crack behind the shutters. Two youngish fellows in formal suits. Probably from the Prefect’s team, in charge of the renovations and embellishments. Resentment surged through me. These people were heartless, no better than ghouls. They had no heart, no emotions. Did they even care that they were pulling people’s lives to pieces by destroying their homes? No, they did not.

  The Prefect and the Emperor dreamed of a modern city. A very great city. And we, the people of Paris, we were mere pawns in this huge game of chess. Sorry, madame, your house is on the future boulevard Saint-Germain. You will have to move out. How had all my neighbors gone through this? I mused, as I carefully picked up the pieces of the broken cup. Had it been easier for them?
Had they collapsed in tears when they had left their house, when they had turned around to look at it for the last time? That charming family just up our street, the Barous, where were they now? Madame Barou, like me, had been heartbroken at the idea of leaving the rue Childebert. She too had come here as a young bride, had given birth to her children in that house. Where were they all now? Where had they gone? Monsieur Zamaretti had come to bid me farewell, just before the order to evacuate the street. He had found another business on the rue du Four Saint-Germain, with a fellow bookstore. He kissed my hand in a most Italian-like fashion, bowing and scraping, promising to visit me in Tours, at Violette’s place. Of course, we both knew we would not see each other again. But I shall never forget Octave Zamaretti. After you departed, he saved my life, as Alexandrine did. Saved my life? I can imagine you looking perfectly astonished. I will get around to that later, Armand. I have a good deal to tell you concerning Octave Zamaretti and Alexandrine Walcker. Bear with me, dearest.

  Monsieur Jubert had vanished into thin air shortly after the expropriation decree had been issued. His printing house had a forlorn and neglected air about it. I wondered where he went. I wondered what happened to the dozen workers who came there every day to earn their living. I did not care much for Mademoiselle Vazembert and her crinoline, no doubt she found herself a protector, ladies with those kind of physiques do that with ease. But I already missed Madame Godfin and her stout figure, her smile of welcome as I came in to purchase my tisanes, the spick-and-span shop that smelled of herbs, spices and vanilla.

  It is difficult to imagine that my little world, made of the familiar, everyday figures of our street, Alexandrine and her irresistible window displays, Monsieur Bougrelle and his pipe, Monsieur Helder greeting his customers, Monsieur Monthier and the enticing wafts of chocolate emanating from his boutique, Monsieur Horace’s guttural laugh and constant invitations to sample his latest delivery, were all doomed to disappear. Our colorful street with its low buildings sheltering near the church was to be wiped off the face of the earth.

  I knew precisely what the boulevard would look like. I had seen enough of what the Prefect and the Emperor had done to our city. Our tranquil neighborhood was to be flattened out so that the monstrous, noisy new artery could spring forth right here, just by the church. The enormous width of it. The traffic, the noise, the omnibuses, the throng.

  In a hundred years’ time, when human beings will be living in a modern world that no one can even fathom, not even the most adventurous of writers or painters, not even you, dearest, when you liked to imagine the future, the small, quiet streets branching out like a cloister from the church will be buried and forgotten, forever.

  No one will remember the rue Childebert, the rue Erfurth, the rue Sainte-Marthe. No one will remember the Paris that you and I loved.

  THERE IS A SLIVER of glass down here, amidst the rubbish Alexandrine did not have time to throw out. I can see my face in it, if I tilt it in a certain fashion, taking care not to slice my fingertips. In age, my face has lost its ovalness, it has become longer, less graceful. You know I am not vain, yet I do take pride in my appearance, I have always been careful about my clothes, my shoes, my bonnets.

  Even in these last, strange moments, I will not look like a ragpicker. I do my toilette as I can, with the water Gilbert brings me, and the perfume I keep at hand, the one the Baronne de Vresse gave me last year, when Alexandrine and I met her at her house on the rue Taranne to go shopping at the Bon Marché. I have heard the rue Taranne is safe, for the moment. But for how long? Will they dare destroy its splendor? Will the ravenous boulevard devour it as well? Swallow it up in one gulp?

  I still have the same eyes, the ones you loved. Blue or green, depending on the weather. My hair is silver now, with the faintest trace of gold. I never thought of dyeing it, the way the Empress does, and that I find so vulgar.

  Ten years is a long time, is it not, Armand? Writing this letter to you brings you remarkably close. I can almost feel you looking over my shoulder as I write this, your breath on my neck. I have not been to visit you at the cemetery for a long while. It is painful for me to see your grave, your name etched out on the stone, and Maman Odette’s, but even more heart-wrenching is the name of our son, Baptiste, just below yours.

  There, I have written his name for the first time in this letter. Baptiste Bazelet. Oh, the pain. The dreadful pain. I cannot let that pain in, Armand. I must fight against it. I cannot surrender to it. If I do, I will drown in it. If I do, I will have no strength left.

  The day you died, you gathered up a last spark of lucidity. You said to me, upstairs, in our bedroom, my hand in yours: “Watch over our house, Rose. Don’t let that Baron, that Emperor…” And then your eyes were coated over by that film of strangeness and you once again gazed at me as if you did not know me. But I had heard enough. I knew fully what you demanded of me. As you lay there, the life gone from your body, with Violette’s sobs at my back, I was aware of the task you had left me. I was to honor it. I made you that promise. Ten years later, my dearest, and now that the time is coming, I have not wavered.

  The very day you left us, the fourteenth day of January, we learned that a terrible attack had been planned on the Emperor near the old Opéra, on the rue Le Peletier. Three bombs were thrown, nearly two hundred people were wounded and a dozen died. Horses were torn to pieces, and all the windowpanes of the entire street were shattered. The royal carriage was turned upside down, and the Emperor narrowly escaped death, as did the Empress. I later read that her dress had been drenched with a victim’s blood, but that she went to the Opéra all the same, in order to show her people that she was not afraid.

  I did not care for that attack, as I did not care for the Italian who perpetrated it, Orsini (who was later to be guillotined), nor did I care about what his motives were. You were slipping away and absolutely nothing else mattered to me.

  You died peacefully, with no pain, in our room, in the mahogany bed. You seemed relieved to be leaving this world and all the things about it that you no longer understood. Over the past years, I had watched you gradually slip into the illness that lurked in the recesses of your mind and that doctors talked about prudently. Your disease could not be seen or measured. I do not even think it had a name. No medicine could ever cure it.

  Toward the end, you could not stand the light of day. You had Germaine close the shutters of the sitting room as of noon. Sometimes you would jump in your seat, startling me, and you would cock an ear, straining, and you would say, “Did you hear that, Rose?” I had not heard a thing, be it a voice, a bark, the slam of a door, but I learned to say that, yes, I had heard it too. And when you began to say, agitated, over and over again, your hands twitching, that the Empress was coming over for tea, that we must have Germaine prepare fresh fruit, I also learned to nod my head and to soothingly murmur that all that was being done, of course. You liked to read the paper thoroughly, every morning, poring over it, even the advertisements. Every time the Prefect’s name was printed, you let forth a stream of insults. Some of them were very rude.

  The Armand that I miss is not the old, confused person you were at fifty-eight, when death overcame you. The Armand I long for is the strong young man in his knee breeches with the gentle smile. We were married for thirty years, dearest. I want to go back to those first days of passion, your hands on my body, the secret pleasure you gave me. No one will ever read these lines, so I can tell you how well you pleased me, and what an ardent husband you were. In that bedroom upstairs, you and I loved each other like a man and a woman should. But then, when the illness started to gnaw away at you, your loving touch relented and slowly withered away with the passing of time. I suspected I no longer sparked any desire. Was there another lady? My fears abated and a new anxiety dawned when I understood you no longer felt any desire, for another lady, or for me. You were ill, and desire had waned forever.

  There was that abominable day, toward the end, when I was returning from the market with Marie
tte, and we came upon Germaine in tears in the street in front of the house. You had gone. She had found the sitting room empty, and your hat and cane had disappeared. How could this have happened? You hated leaving the house. You never did. We searched the area high and low. We went into every single shop, from Madame Paccard’s hotel to Madame Godfin’s boutique, but no one, from Monsieur Horace, who spends a lot of time loitering on his threshold, to anyone from the printing house having a pause, saw you that morning. There was no sign of you. I rushed to the commissariat near Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin and explained the situation. My husband, an elderly, confused gentleman, was missing, and had been so for the past three hours. I loathed having to describe your malady, having to tell them you had lost your head, that sometimes you were frightening, when your derangement took over. You often forgot your name, I told them, and therefore how would you ever make your way back home, if your address also escaped you? The commissaire was a kindhearted fellow. He asked for a precise description of you. He sent a dispatch out to look for you and told me not to worry. But I did.

  In the afternoon a huge storm broke. Rain drummed over the roof with tremendous force and thunder boomed so hard the foundations shook. In anguish I thought of you. What were you doing now, had you found shelter somewhere, had somebody taken you in? Or had a loathsome stranger, making the most of your confusion, committed a heinous deed?