The House I Loved

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Wherever he is now, all these years later, I have not forgotten him. Thirty years have swept past, and although I have never laid eyes on him again, I would recognize him instantly. I wonder what he has become. What kind of old man he has turned into. I wonder if he has ever had any inkling of the havoc he wreaked in my life.

  When you returned the following day, do you remember how I clasped you in my arms, how I kissed you? How I held on to you for dear life? That night you took me, and I felt it was the only way to erase the passage of the other man.

  Monsieur Vincent disappeared from our neighborhood soon after. I have never slept soundly since.

  THIS MORNING GILBERT IS back with fresh warm bread and some roasted chicken wings. He keeps glancing at me as we eat. I ask him what the matter is.

  “They are coming,” he finally utters. “The cold has broken.”

  I remain silent.

  “There is still time,” he whispers.

  “No,” I say firmly. I wipe my greasy chin with my palm.

  “Very well.”

  He stands up awkwardly and holds out his hand.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I am not going to stay here and watch this,” he mutters.

  To my dismay, tears spill out of his eyes. I cannot think of what to say. He pulls me to him, his arms wrapped around my back like two enormous gnarled branches. From very close, his stench is overwhelming. Then he steps away, embarrassed. He fumbles about in his pocket and hands me a withered flower. It is a small ivory rose.

  “Should you change your mind…” he begins.

  One last gaze down to me. I shake my head.

  Then he is gone.

  I am very calm, dearest. I am ready. I hear them now, the slow sure thunder of their approach, the voices, the clamor. I must hurry to tell you the end of my story. I believe you know now, I believe you have understood.

  I have tucked Gilbert’s rose into my corsage. My hand trembles as I write this, and it is not the cold, it is not the fear of the workers making their way here. It is the heaviness of the moment, of what I must unburden myself with at last.

  THE LITTLE BOY WAS very small still. He could not yet walk. We were in the Luxembourg Gardens, with the nanny (I cannot recall her name, a sweet, placid creature) by the Medicis Fountain. It was a fine windy spring day, the garden was full of children, mothers, birds and flowers. You were not there, of that I am certain. I had a pretty hat, and the blue ribbon kept getting undone, streaming behind me in the blustery breeze. Oh, how Baptiste laughed.

  When the wind tossed the hat right off my head, he fairly exploded with glee, his lips curled into a wide smile. There was a fleeting expression on his face. His mouth stretched out into a grin that I had already seen and that I had been unable to erase from my mind.

  A hideous grin. It was a vision of awfulness that pierced through me like a dagger. I clutched a hand to my bosom and stifled a scream. Alarmed, the young nanny asked if I was all right. I steadied myself. My hat had gone, frolicking along the dusty path like a wild creature. Baptiste whimpered, pointing at it. I managed to get my composure back and staggered along to fetch it. But all along my heart thumped dreadfully. How could I not have expected such a tragedy? The extreme agitation I had experienced after the attack had forced me to expunge the event from my mind, as well as its loathsome consequences.

  That smile. That grin. I was going to bring up my luncheon, then and there. I did. I do not know how I managed to walk home. The young girl helped me. I remember that when we arrived, I went directly up to our room and I spent the rest of the day in bed, with the curtains drawn.

  For a very long span of time I felt trapped in a cell with no windows and no door. I could not find my way out. The place was dark and oppressive. For hours I tried to find the door, I was convinced it was hidden somewhere in the wallpaper’s design, and I slid my palms and fingers along the walls, trying to find the crack of the door, desperate. This was not a dream. It rolled on in my mind, it endured as I went about my daily chores, looked after my children, my house, looked after you. Again and again the cell without any openings stifled me mentally. Sometimes I had to hide in the little cabinet behind our bedroom in order to breathe normally.

  I never put my foot on the exact place where the deed had taken place, not far from where Madame Odette drew her last breath. Little by little I was able to obliterate the memory of what had happened in that room. It took months, it took years. My shining love for my son, my deep love for you, triumphed over the stark monstrosity of the truth. I never told you. I never could. As I stepped over the spot on the carpet day after day, I stepped over the memory. I blanked it out. I wiped it away, like one would a stain. How did I manage? How could I have endured it? I simply did. I squared my shoulders, like a soldier facing battle. The years rolled by. The horror faded. The carpet where it had happened also faded, until one day it was finally replaced.

  Even today, my love, I cannot write the words, I cannot form the sentences that spell out the truth. I cannot. But the guilt has never stopped bearing down on me. And when Baptiste died, can you see now that I was convinced the Lord was punishing me for my sins?

  When our son died, I tried to turn to Violette. She was my only child, now. But she never let me love her. She remained aloof, distant, slightly supercilious, as if she considered me less of a fine person than you. Now, with the distance that old age gives one, I see that she may have suffered from my preferring her brother. I see now that this was my greatest fault as a mother, loving Baptiste more than Violette, and showing it. How unfair this must have seemed to her. I always gave him the shiniest apple, the sweetest pear. He must have the seat in the shade, the softest bed, the best view at the theater, the umbrella if it was raining. Did he ever make the most of these advantages? Did he taunt his sister? Perhaps he did, unbeknownst. Perhaps he made her feel even more unloved.

  I am trying to reflect upon all this calmly. My love for Baptiste was the most powerful force in my life. Were you convinced I could love only him? Did you also feel left out? I remember that once you did say something about my being besotted with the boy. I was. Oh, my love, I was. And when the hideous reality became evident, I loved him all the more. I could have loathed him, I could have rejected him, but no, my love surged even stronger, as if I had to desperately protect him from his frightful origins.

  Remember how, after he died, I could not discard any of his belongings. For many years his room became a sort of shrine, a love temple to my adored boy. I would sit there in a kind of daze, and cry. You were gentle and kind, but you did not understand. How could you? Violette, growing into a young girl, despised my grief. Yes, I felt I was being punished. My golden prince had been taken away from me, because I had sinned, because I had not been able to prevent that assault. Because it had been my fault.

  It is only now, Armand, as I hear the demolition team coming up the street, their loud voices, their crude laughter, their belligerence kindled by their horrific mission, that it seems the assault on me will take place again. This time, you see, it is not Monsieur Vincent who will bend me to his will, using his manhood as a weapon, no, it is a colossal snake of stone and cement that will crush the house to nothingness, that will propel me into oblivion. And behind that hideous snake of stone there is the one man in control. My enemy. That bearded man, that House Man. Him.

  THIS HOUSE IS LIKE my body, it is like my own skin, my blood, my bones. It carries me like I have carried our children. It has been damaged, it has suffered, it has been violated, it has survived, but today, it will collapse. Today, nothing can save the house, nothing can save me. There is nothing out there, Armand, nothing or nobody that I wish to hold on to. I am an old lady now, it is time for me to take my leave.

  After you died, a gentleman pursued me for a while. A respectable widower, Monsieur Gontrand, a jovial fellow with a paunch and long sideburns. He had taken quite a fancy to me. Once a week he paid his respects, with a small box of chocolates or a bun
ch of violets. I believe he also took a fancy to the house and to the income of the two shops. Ah, yes, your Rose is shrewd. His was a pleasurable company, I will concede. We played dominoes and cards, and I would offer him a glass of Madeira. He always left just before supper. After a while he became slightly more audacious. But he finally understood that I was not interested in becoming his wife. However, we remained friends over the years. I did not wish to remarry, like my mother did. Now that you are no longer here, I prefer being alone. I suppose only Alexandrine understands that. I must admit something more to you. She is the only person I will miss. I miss her now. I realize now that for all those years, after you left me, she gave me her friendship, and it was a priceless gift.

  Oddly enough, in these final, awful moments, I find myself thinking about the Baronne de Vresse. Despite the age difference, the social one, I did feel we could have become friends. And I will readily confess that at one point I did ponder about using her connection with the Prefect to attract his attention, to save our house. Did she not attend his parties? Had he not once but twice come to the rue Taranne? But you see, I never did. I never dared. I respected her too much.

  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.