Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  Every morning we met in the breakfast room. One of the bus boys attached himself to Beverly. He wore a t-shirt that said “new kid on the block” indicating that he was a trainee. She asked for coffee and coffee appeared in front of us in no time flat. He brought her pancakes, a fried egg, more coffee. All without her even asking. He asked her about her impressions of India. (“It’s beautiful! I love it!”) He asked her where she had been. He brought her more eggs.

  On our last morning in India the infatuated boy piled our table with coffee, eggs, pancakes, eager to talk to his beloved and hear more about her love for his home country. She was in a rush. She wanted to hit the gift shop and see about that pearl necklace in the shop window. And then she had to pack. Off she went. I flagged the lad down and asked for a cup of coffee.

  “Later” he said, “I have to clean these tables.”

  So my point is, everyone adores Beverly and it’s impossible to begrudge her any of the love that is showered on her. Dave really really adores Bev. He shouts it from the highest social networking platform. He tells anyone who will listen how he was so lucky to have been the man she agreed to marry.

  They got engaged in Paris, at Chez Francis over a dinner of Sancerre and oysters while the lights of the Eiffel Tower twinkled. They had a Parisian themed wedding with mini Eiffel Towers awash in twinkly fairy lights on every table. The tables were named after Parisian landmarks; Champs de Mars, Grand Palais, Pont d’Alma.

  The wedding was beautiful. When the doors to the venue for the ceremony opened and Ed Sheeran belted out “Take me into your loving arms”, Beverly literally ran down the aisle to her waiting husband-to-be. She of course was gorgeous. Dave was radiant. He had won the golden ticket. There was not a dry eye in the house. Everyone adores Beverly.

  They honeymooned in France; two weeks in Paris and the Côte d’Azur. Beverly in a bikini at fifty something. At the office she planned her packing out loud. She was taking twenty four different dresses for two weeks. The question was, how many pairs of shoes?

  Twenty four dresses! I don’t own twenty four dresses! I don’t own five dresses!

  What would it be like to be so adored? For most of my life I have felt appreciated, valued, cared for, but never out and out adored. I wonder if I’m maybe a bit like Groucho Marx, I would never really want to be a member of a club that would have me. I think it would be very hard to be around someone all of the time. If someone adores you all of the time do they become less… less… less what? Less worthwhile? Less desirable? Just less?

  I sit and write. Philippe sits on a stool across from me. He hums. He whistles. He watches me write.

  What do I want?

  Beverly and Dave are arriving in Paris tonight. We are having dinner on Friday. I wonder if I can get some one-on-one time with her. I could talk to her. But I’m afraid that maybe she is too busy being adored by Dave to get that one-on-one time. Maybe that is the downside of being adored.

  Le Dépositaire

  Ninon looked into the mirror on her dressing table. She was ready, she felt, to receive her old lover M. d. Gourville. Yes, she was sad when he left. At the time she cared about him deeply. But his affiliation with the Prince of Conde and that whole mess of la Fronde… when his effigy was hanged and burned in the square it was obvious that he needed to leave Paris quickly.

  He had a great deal of money that he was unable to take with him. Hedging his bets he divided it between two caskets. The first he left with the Le Grand Penitencier, the Cardinal, of Notre Dame. The second he entrusted to Ninon. And off he went just in the nick of time saving himself from sure death.

  Ninon had missed him. He was a good partner and an excellent lover. But of course he was easy to replace. In no time at all her bed was warmed by another and she had forgotten poor Gourville. And also forgotten the casket of cash under her bed.

  Until the messenger arrived yesterday. He had a lovely note from Gourville. “Cher Ninon, Enough time has passed and the political climate has changed adequately for me to finally return to Paris. Of course my first thoughts are with you!” (And, he did not add, the immense fortune of cash that I have left in your care.) “I beseech you to allow me to visit you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Oh dear” sighed Ninon.

  “I have missed you desperately and the moments we have shared.” He did not mention the extreme anxiety he experienced on discovering that the Cardinal had used the money that was left in his care, claiming that any such deposit was destined for charity under the rules of the Penitentiary. In other words, too bad, so sad, your money is gone!

  “Until I cast my eyes upon your lovely visage, I am forever yours. G”

  Of course Ninon had no way of knowing that Gourville had also left a large sum of money with the Cardinal. Furthermore, she did not know that money had been squandered on the Cardinal’s purposes and that the desperate Gourville was aware of the breach. She simply was not looking forward to informing the dear man that her heart, and all of the delicious private time that came with it, was no longer his.

  But Ninon was nothing if not familiar with this conversation. She looked again in the mirror, took a deep breath and prepared for the confrontation.

  Gourville was standing in front of the fireplace in the Grand Salon when Ninon entered.

  “Ah my dear! You are a sight for sore eyes! You have no idea how I’ve missed you.”

  Ninon allowed Gourville to take her hand and grace it with the gentlest of kisses. “Monsieur Gourville, I am delighted that circumstances have allowed you to return to Paris! I look forward to your rejoining our Salon. Will you be with us Friday evening?”

  Gourville blanched at Ninon’s use of the formal “vous” instead of the more intimate “tu” that he had enjoyed during their partnership. But he was encouraged by the invitation to return to Ninon’s coveted Salon.

  “Please have a seat. Can I offer you tea? Coffee? Un verre de vin?”

  Taking a seat on the overpadded settee did little to increase Gourville’s comfort level. How would he bring up the casket? At this point, he was assuming that Ninon had spent the money in the same way the Cardinal had. He was destitute! He was broke!

  Ninon had poured Gourville a glass of wine from the decanter on the lacquered sideboard. She took nothing for herself, other than a deep breath.

  “Ah Gourville,” she began, “A great misfortune has happened to me in the consequence of your absence.”

  Here it comes, Gourville thought. I am a pauper! He could not meet Ninon’s eye, such was his distress.

  Ninon, for her part, was certain that he was distraught at the loss of her love. She quickly went on, pulling the bandaid off the wound, “I’m sorry if you still love me, for I have lost my love for you, and though I have found another with whom I am happy, I have not forgotten you. Here,” she turned to her escritoire, “Here are the twenty thousand crowns you entrusted to me when you departed. Take them, my friend, but do not ask anything from a heart which is no longer disposed in your favor. There is nothing left but the most sincere friendship.”

  Gourville was, of course overjoyed. Certainly the icing on the cake would have been resuming his love affair with the beautiful Ninon, however, given the duration of his absence he did not expect that to be the case. After the distressing news from the Cardinal he was astonished by her loyalty.

  He quickly masked his glee and put on a morose mask. “My dear Ninon. Of course I am distraught at the loss of your love. I trust he who now enjoys your passions is worthy. My love for you is such that I wish you only the most perfect happiness.” He turned away from Ninon to take a deep breath.

  Upon confessing the betrayal of the Cardinal, and his expectation that he would find the same from Ninon she was highly offended.

  “You do not surprise me.” she said, with a sly smile. “But I am surprised that you suspected me on that account. The prodigious difference in
our reputations should have assured you of that.” She added with a twinkling eye, “Am I not the guardian of the caskette?”

  The Boys, Writing around Craziness, and Postulating about Intimacy in France (Paris?)

  Philippe is so happy when he’s with the boys. There are three of them today. One a pudgy grey haired fellow, perhaps fifty who is often sitting at the bar, drinking a glass of wine. The second, a slightly less pudgy, a bit younger dark haired guy, also drinking chablis. And the third a very handsome guy probably no more than forty, slim, wearing some interesting wrist jewelry. He drinks chablis as well. Philippe drinks champagne. He seems to like champagne as it’s his tipple of choice at the Wednesday night jazz nights. The four of them stand and sit at the bar just feet in front of me. They talk quickly and I pick up about ten percent of what they say.

  Philippe pops away every so often to greet a new customer, bring them l’ardoise, say merci and avoir to someone who leaves. The conversation with the boys goes on.

  He’s not any less happy to see me and he dances to the music in front of my table, making sure that I see him. Since I gave him a bottle of wine for his birthday he’s brightened considerably. He seems genuinely happy when I show up. He seems nearly gleeful the entire time I’m here. A different Philippe from the guy who was getting to be just tired. Maybe it’s because he loves summer?

  Today’s weather is perfect. The canicule has broken. Yesterday it rained and thundered and washed Paris clean. Today there is a bit of a breeze and the temperature is a perfect 70 degrees. Yesterday was perfect as well even though it was a bit rainy and overcast.

  Yesterday I opted to write at Cépage. Sometimes I think that Philippe can use a break from me. Or at least maybe it’s good for him to miss me; to not take for granted that I will write here every day.

  Crazy Caroleen was there; sitting not in her usual spot by the power outlet but at the end of the banquet I usually sit on. It was too drippy to sit outside. I paused for half a step and then braced myself, walked in and sat at the far end of the same banquet. I was not going to let her chase me away.

  A new waiter greeted me warmly. Crazy Caroleen and I purposely did not look at each other. She was evidently nursing her cafe creme and had her smartphone earpieces in and was speaking to someone; probably letting her equally crazy husband know that I was there.

  The waiter brought me la carte and I made a quick easy decision; magret de canard and un verre of chablis. I was having dinner with Elliott et all so didn’t think a carafe was a good idea today. My poor foie is taking the brunt of my good life in Paris.

  I opened my laptop and started to write. Shortly my duck arrived. The new waiter admonished me, “Quand vous travaillez, travaillez. Quand vous mangez, mangez!” What’s with these guys? Are they cut from the same cloth? I closed my laptop and enjoyed my duck, purposefully not looking at Caroleen who was purposefully not looking at me.

  Soon her regular seat near the power outlet became available and she moved. On her way she purposefully greeted and dispensed les bisous as if to show me, “See, I have friends here! I belong more than you do!”

  I finished my lunch, opened my laptop again and became serious about writing. Ninon was certainly more fascinating than the crazy one and I was transported again into seventeenth century Paris. When I looked up again two hours had passed and I had finished my writing for the day. Caroleen was gone and I hadn’t even see her leave.

  I paid my bill, packed up and headed home to prepare for my evening out.

  The boys have moved to Philippe’s regular round table to eat lunch. They are on their fourth glass of white wine each (Philippe is on his fourth glass of champagne, it seems an odd choice for lunch). They continue to rattle on and I still can’t understand much of what they say. And I thought I was getting so fluent.

  The afternoon manager just arrived. He walks in and immediately stops at my table to say hello and give me a handshake.

  A handshake. He goes to the boys table and shakes the hand of each of them. He stops at the day waiter and shakes his hand. Soon Guillaume will arrive. Whose hand will he shake. Surely mine. He always does.

  In French there is no simple word for “hug”. That doesn’t mean that French people don’t hug. You could say étreindre, but that doesn’t really capture the simplicity of a hug. Embrasser sounds like what you want to say, but that actually means to kiss, bigger than la bise, a real kiss, a romantic kiss. The French don’t hug casually. That coming together of bodies, the physicality of embracing someone is saved for far more intimate relationships.

  Yesterday I collected eighteen bisous. Every coming together and parting of a group takes literally forever while each person deposits the requisite two bisous on each person’s cheeks. Often I am expected to deposit la bise on the cheeks of someone I am just meeting. It seems that la bise is warranted or not by virtue of the connection with another. If I am meeting someone who is the friend of someone I regularly would greet with la bise, la bise is in order.

  Guillaume arrived for work, forty five minutes early. All four of the boys got la bise; Philippe got a handshake. I got a friendly handshake and a “ça va”. The girl behind the bar got very playful bisous. A short time later the afternoon bartender arrived, the three boys got bisous, Philippe got a handshake. Is it a respect thing?

  The boys have just opened a bottle of red. I ordered a tarte au citron.

  Back in the “Nunnery”!

  Jealousy is a wicked thing. Many of the women of breeding and beauty were habitués of the Palace. Ninon was a rare creature indeed; raised by a liberal and forward thinking father, long absent her conservative and pious mother, she was free to socialize and read and think and discuss and create. Her admirers were many and at times her enemies were even more numerous - generally the women of Paris.

  Some women were blessed with a naturally svelte figure, some with lovely complexions, some had beautiful shining hair, some had intriguing smiles, some even with good teeth. Seldom did a woman possess all of these in a perfect combination along with a brilliant wit and intelligence and the ability to charm and win the confidence and admiration of every… man.

  Anne the Regent Queen did not have an easy start to her time in the Court. Spanish by birth and beautiful by Spanish standards she didn’t look, sound or act like a French lady. Betrothed to Louis XIII at only eleven to insure a military alliance between France and Spain, and married by proxy a short time later, she had been forced to consummate her marriage to Louis at the very early age of fourteen. The two did not like each other much and their forced couplings were met with resentment and unhappiness. Anne detested her mother-in-law, Marie de Medici. It was only a short time before that situation was remedied. At sixteen Louis formed alliances with the Duke de Luynes to make progress in removing his mother, resulting in a coup d’etat.

  With Marie out of the picture, he then turned to Frenchify Anne, sending away her Spanish staff and replacing them with French ladies. The Duke encouraged Louis to become a real husband to Anne, resulting in a series of miscarriages and stillbirths. These of course took their toll on Anne and she grew hard and embittered. Any genuine affection that had developed between the King and Queen died when Anne fell down a flight of stairs, causing her final miscarriage and the end of any pretense of love between the King and Queen. The King spent most of his time after that away from the Palace and Anne spent most of hers gossiping and making trouble with her ladies in waiting.

  As part of Spanish Royalty, Anne’s job was to visit churches and convents across France. This offered her another great opportunity to make trouble and she developed close and controversial relationships with several convents. These controversies aside, it was easy enough, when Anne got good and fed up with the complaints and whining of her ladies in waiting about Ninon to banish her from Paris to a convent.

  Anne’s first choice for Ninon was le couvent de filles repenties, the Convent of Repenta
nt Girls. At this point M. Baudon, one of the highly respected Oiseaux who enjoyed the ear of the Queen, cagily approached Anne and hinted that maybe this was not the best choice. After all, Ninon was neither a girl nor a repentant. “This could be very embarrassing for you, your highness.” He craftily suggested.

  Anne was nothing if not malleable to the suggestions of a handsome man. The order was revised allowing Ninon the choice of her future prison. Ninon was not too concerned. She knew that her legions of admirers would not abandon or fail her and she would be out shortly. She cleverly made her selection.

  “I am deeply sensible of the goodness of the court in providing for my welfare and in permitting me to select my place of retreat, and without hesitation I decide in favor of the Les Grands Cordeliers.”

  The joke was on Anne. Les Grands Cordeliers was a select monastery very specifically only for men. Women were expressly prohibited. As the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, who brought Ninon’s message to Anne was one of the Oiseaux, the preference was honored and Ninon became the first woman resident of house. But of course, it had been years since Ninon declared that she would “be a man”.

  Ninon’s retreat was short lived as her admirers and fans entreated the Queen with a thousand reasons to commend Anne, noting her brilliant qualities of mind and heart, rather than a need for her punishment. When the Duc d’Enghien, not known for lightly praising the values of women joined the hue and cry, the Queen had no choice but to save face and let Ninon go home.

  As a result of the escapade, Ninon’s popularity soared. Her cheekiness at choosing Les Grands Cordeliers, the magnitude of the protestations and appeals for her release, the humiliation of the Queen, all gave Ninon a cache even greater than she had before. All of Paris resounded with her wit, her spirit and her philosophy. Everyone wanted to get close to her. Entree to her salon was THE ticket of the day. Even the cleverest of Paris’s women saw the wisdom of gaining access to her charming circle.