The Parc Monceau is surrounded by some of the most elegant private mansions in Paris. The area was open meadows when the village of Monceau was annexed during the Second Empire. Immediately afterward, just as American developers of pricy suburbs place their houses around a golf course, the land around the park was sold as locations for large family houses to the very rich, with the added incentive that the owners of the surrounding houses would have a key to enter the park at night, after it was closed to the public. In the spring, when flowers are blooming, it is probably the most beautiful public area in Paris. It is dotted with serene ponds and charming stone bridges that go from nowhere to nowhere. All around there are faux ruins, broken Greek columns from an imaginary temple to Mars, a much-scaled-down Egyptian pyramid, and a huge stone arch that was once the entrance to the City Hall of Paris. There are swings and slides and sandboxes for children, grassy meadows where people lounge on blankets during nice weather, and monuments tucked here and there to grand figures like Chopin and Maupassant, whose monument is a little odd. His head is on top of a pedestal, looking down on a reclining woman in a clinging robe who is lost in reverie. The book she was reading, presumably one of Maupassant’s, dangles in her left hand. Has it put her to sleep?
Maupassant’s monument had recently been cleaned and was snowy white. As Céleste and I looked at the swooning woman, I began to think. I had come all this way at her invitation. Wasn’t she hoping, even expecting, that various things would happen? I certainly was. Shouldn’t I be the one to initiate something? And when would there be a better time? I leaned down and kissed her. She did not turn away, as she would at a much later time, but she didn’t participate in the kiss, either. Her mouth stayed straight, still, and closed. After a few moments, I backed off and stood straight. We both acted as if nothing had happened and walked on through the lovely park to the café.
I could not find that café again today, even knowing that it is somewhere on the west side of the park. Nor could I have found it again at the time. I was simply following her. A light, misty rain began as we entered the café. Although there were only two or three occupied tables, it was warmly lit and felt comfortable. We sat at a table against a wall. When the waiter came, Céleste ordered easily, and I ordered not so easily, but, still, I did it. I was feeling two unexpected emotions—pride and relief. Pride because I was here in Paris, dining with an appealing Parisienne whom I had just kissed in a park without getting reproached or slapped. And relief because maybe all that meant I belonged here, or could belong here.
The light rain was still falling when we left the café. Céleste had found a newspaper lying on a seat next to us. She unfolded it and held it over her head like a scarf as she ran along the sidewalk, with me following behind. She couldn’t run very fast because of her tight skirt, so her legs kicked out behind her at an angle. I didn’t want to catch up with her, and lagged behind to watch her legs as she ran. Later, she wrote me that she felt young and giddy and romantic during this run home through the rain. And, in fact, she was flushed and a little out of breath when we reached the door of her building. Inside her apartment, she brought us both one of the white towels from the stool by the bathtub. We dried off a little, but neither of us was really very wet. We had a glass of wine, and talked for a while in the living room. Though it was not yet late, I began to feel the effects of my sleepless night on the airplane. I told her I was tired and needed to go to sleep. I rose from my chair, walked two steps to her chair, and bent to kiss her. Once again, she didn’t turn away, but she didn’t respond, either. Her lips stayed straight and tight. The next morning, we left Paris for the countryside.
She belonged to a society of watercolorists who studied with a master who had a studio in the château she shared with her husband. It was two hours or so west of Paris, in the Perche. The château also contained rooms the students could rent while they worked in the studio. Céleste had one of these, and she had arranged for me to have a room as well for the three nights we would be there.
She followed busy expressways to get out of Paris, but soon we were on smaller highways that meandered through the rolling countryside. Beyond Paris, as I knew from my randonnées on horseback, France is basically one huge farm. We drove among perfectly tended fields of wheat and yellow canola, and also skirted along the edges of forests. The Perche is famous for horses. We passed impressive herds of huge Percheron draft horses, like those I had seen at Le Salon de l’Agriculture. They had thick, powerful legs and broad backs. As we passed by, they continued idly grazing.
The château had two connected wings around a central courtyard. One wing was devoted to the art studio, and the other had accommodations for the artists. On one side was a very large flower-and-vegetable garden. Three other artists were there when we arrived, all of them women, and all with their husbands. I was the only boyfriend, if that’s what I was. They were friendly with me, but reserved, and soon turned to their own concerns. The women went to paint, two of the husbands went to work in the garden, and the third simply vanished. They all appeared completely indifferent to where I might sleep—whether alone in my own room, or with Céleste in hers.
I spent the afternoon walking in the countryside, careful not to get lost, which would have been easy to do. That evening, we drove to a restaurant in a small town nearby for dinner. Her afternoon of painting in the studio had put Céleste in an expansive mood. She was really pleased with a still life of leaves and flowers she was working on. I could understand most of what she said. When I couldn’t understand, I sometimes asked her to explain, but more often I just let it go. I could always understand enough to ask a question or make a comment that kept the conversation going.
The restaurant was in the center of the village. There was a small bookstore she liked just around the corner; we spent fifteen or twenty minutes there, looking at the books and talking about the ones we had read or wanted to read. As we were leaving, she picked up a copy of Pierre et Jean by Guy de Maupassant and said, “I want to buy this for you.” I started to protest, but she shook her head, smiling, and said, “I want to. Let me do it.” It was dark by the time we arrived back at the château. We said good night and quietly went to our separate rooms.
I have that book beside me on the desk as I write. I suppose I will keep it forever. And I still have the bookmark the clerk slipped between the pages as she handed the book to Céleste. I’ve often pondered what it might mean that she wanted me to have this particular novel. It’s brilliant, and I read it with great pleasure. Céleste did—and does—love books. Perhaps there was nothing more to it than one reader’s impulsive gift to another. In the novel, an adultery decades earlier destroys the relations between two brothers. And, further straining their relations, both brothers are attracted to their neighbor, Madame Rosémilly, who is a pretty young widow. Céleste wasn’t a widow, but she was divorced. Or was she? I realized that I didn’t know. Maybe, under French law, there were reasons to live separate lives without the complications of a divorce. I somewhat resembled Jean, the younger of the two brothers, who had light skin and hair, and eventually wins Madame Rosémilly. I saw Céleste’s husband in a photograph. He was dark, like Pierre, the older brother. The novel is convincing and enthralling on its own, but thoughts like these, even though I knew they were probably unwarranted, gave it a vivid, pointed reality for me.
* * *
. . .
The next afternoon, as I was reading Pierre et Jean in the courtyard, a hand covered each of my eyes and I heard Céleste say, “Guess who.”
“Madame Pompadour.”
“Ha! No, but you’re close.” And she laughed and kissed me on the cheek. That surprised me, since there were others in the courtyard to witness this small display of affection. That night, there was a communal dinner at the château that everyone had had a part in buying and preparing. My share was a couple bottles of wine and a monumental amount of peeling and slicing. There was still dayligh
t when we finished eating, and Céleste wanted to take a walk. She drove us to a town where there was a well-known monastery with lovely gardens. We walked among them, talking quietly, while night fell.
The town and monastery were on a hillside. We climbed up a wide, paved sidewalk that curved around the hill, offering views across a broad valley. Lights from farmhouses flickered in the distance below us. When we passed a bench, Céleste said, “We could sit here for a while.” We sat, and I embraced her, and this time she kissed me passionately. What had happened? What had I done since the day before to make her change her mind, to decide to open her lips instead of keeping them tight and straight? Or was this something she had imagined from the start? Had she always intended to mark time after my arrival until this night?
These questions came to me only during the long flight home a few days later, when I pondered all that had happened. At the time, I was overcome and so happy that I couldn’t think at all. Her lips and her body pressed against mine consumed all my feelings. Why had I come back to Paris if not for this?
Back at the château, we climbed the curving wooden steps to her room as quietly as we could. A short time later, during some intense moments, she whispered a torrent of words into my ear. Her voice in a whisper was just as pleasing as when she spoke normally, but it was doubly intoxicating now, because I had no idea what she was saying. Later, we agreed that the bed was a little small for both of us to sleep together. I kissed her one last time and crept back down the stairs with my shoes in my hands.
The next day we acted like a couple as naturally as we could manage. She painted during the morning and afternoon, but we sat together during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That evening, everyone at the château attended a concert of music by Berlioz in a church nearby. It was cold in that ancient sanctuary. I draped my jacket around her shoulders, and we listened with our hands entwined.
The next day, we returned to Paris. Her sister Marguerite had arrived at Céleste’s apartment, where she was going to sleep on the couch. I liked her. She was a bright and lively scholar of medieval French texts. Though she hardly resembled Céleste at all, the two were obviously very close. Marguerite accepted me without hesitation. She asked me some questions about Texas and seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world that I was there, staying with her sister in her apartment. Céleste cooked, and the three of us ate dinner around a tiny table in the kitchen. Afterward, when the dishes had been cleared, I did some card tricks for them at the kitchen table. I don’t think that either of them had ever seen a trick done right before their eyes. They could not have been more amazed, and laughed wildly in astonishment.
I retired to the daughter’s bedroom to wait while they called their mother from the living room. Lying there on Céleste’s daughter’s bed, I could hear bursts of laughter and sometimes excited voices as the call went on and on; it lasted more than half an hour. Then I heard someone, presumably Marguerite, in the bathroom right across the hall, getting ready for bed. When she returned to the living room, I could hear her and Céleste talking as they made up the couch where Marguerite would sleep. Then I heard Céleste enter the bathroom and close the door behind her. She was there for the longest time. I realized that I wasn’t certain what was going to happen. Maybe, with her sister sleeping in the living room, she would go back to her own bed, in her own bedroom. But at last she quietly knocked, opened the bedroom door, and came to me. She was humid and fragrant from her bath, and wrapped in a white towel.
* * *
. . .
The following morning, I happily began a life as Monsieur Céleste. I went with her everywhere. She made her living by giving lectures on art to many different audiences—students, clubs, associations, members of museums, and so on. Sometimes the lectures were in a series, such as the course I had taken, but often they stood alone on a single subject. When a new exposition opened at one of the museums in Paris, she would prepare a lecture on the artist, complete with slides, and present it around the city to anyone who would invite her. I went with her to two such events. She was very good, as she had been during the course I took from her, clear and direct and informed, but also gentle and charming. Her eyes wandered here and there across the audience as lights on the podium created auburn highlights in her hair. Afterward, we held hands as we walked along the Paris streets.
One afternoon, Céleste, Marguerite, and I went to the Louvre together to see the Venus de Milo. Since I had written a book about the statue, I could discuss it down to the smallest detail. I showed them the cracks where the different pieces are joined together, and the significant hole near her navel, now filled with plaster. That hole once held a short metal rod that supported her right arm as she reached across her body to hold up her drapery. That evening, I did card tricks for them again at the kitchen table. Céleste and I shared a last night: I had to fly back to Austin the next morning.
We had talked a little about the future. Even before a single word was said, we had both assumed that there was a future. But there wasn’t very much that we could plan. It was the third week in August. My course at the university would begin in a few days and would meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until early December, so another trip to Paris before then was impossible. She had her obligations as well, which made her coming to Austin equally impossible. So we decided that I would return to Paris right after Christmas. She would cook New Year’s Eve dinner for us. After that the plans became hazy. In general, I would come live with her while she continued her life and I wrote a book. At the time, this rapidly sketched-in outline of our lives together seemed to make good sense. At Charles de Gaulle, we both agreed that short goodbyes were the best. We said a few words, and we kissed; I got out of her car and watched as she drove away.
* * *
. . .
During the long fall and winter months that followed, we wrote every day. Our correspondence became both more romantic and more filled with detail about out daily lives. She called me “mon très cher Greg” or “mon adorable Greg” and she was “Céleste, la femme de mes rêves”—the woman of my dreams—or “ma belle fleur.” At the end of each message, we said we were sending kisses and tender embraces and whispering sweet words. Since her messages and my messages were in French, I spent an hour or two or even more each evening, reading her latest message and carefully composing my reply.
Careful as I was and hard as I worked, I’m sure I made many mistakes. One in particular embarrassed me when I realized what I was doing. “Coucou Greg” she wrote. If only she had put in a comma! I took that to mean something like “sweetheart Greg” or “my dear Greg.” I began to use “coucou Céleste” throughout my messages. Instead, it just means “hello” or “hey, there.” I hoped she would find such mistakes more endearing than annoying.
Meanwhile, I was back at the university, teaching my course and diligently working on a book I was under contract to write. She was lecturing on the Borgias and also on Hokusai, an eighteenth-century Japanese painter who was then being featured in a large exposition at the Grand Palais. She was also painting and trying to create a series of classes in which she would teach both basic and advanced techniques for painting watercolors. She even had a small exhibition in a gallery. So we were both very busy. We told each other that being busy was all for the best, since it made the time go by more quickly. We often referred to the five days we had spent together. These memories stayed very fresh for me, and also for her. In October, after a few days of bad weather in Paris, she wrote: “When the weather is nice again, I’m going to go walk in the Parc Monceau. That is going to remind me of sweet memories with you. Time passes fairly quickly, and so I hope that December is going to come quickly.” I had already bought my ticket to leave for Paris on December 28.
We talked about her coming to Austin after I visited her in Paris, but she needed a new passport. She had let her old one expire, since she didn’t need it to travel in the E
uropean Union countries and she didn’t think she was interested in going anywhere else alone. But now she had a very good reason for getting a new one, and she was “going to inaugurate it in the spring by coming to see you.” That made me very happy. She often mentioned how much she wanted to come to Austin.
But that would be sometime in the future, whereas the date when I would come to Paris was already set and certain. I could think only of being with her there. In mid-October, two months since I had seen her, I wrote: “I miss you always, but there are some days when I am able to be philosophical. I know that our spirits are together and I know that it’s only that I have to wait and that knowledge is a comfort. But other days I wish that I could embrace you and that we could lie together in a bed with nothing else to do for hours. And later we would have dinner in a corner of a café where there is good food and good wine and where we could watch, hand in hand, the rest of the world going by where no one knows our secret. (Or perhaps everyone, in seeing us, knows precisely our secret.)”
And her feelings were just as strong and just as vivid: “I am happy because you are committed to us and our future. During our five marvelous days I felt so good with you, so happy to be with you, that what I desire most is for our history to continue. We have so much to share and to bring to each other.”
We sent each other gifts. Mine was a lavishly illustrated volume about the work of Pierre-Joseph Redouté, the great watercolorist of flowers whose patrons included both Marie-Antoinette and Napoleon’s wife, the empress Josephine. She sent me a bande dessinée—a fancy comic book—of Maupassant’s story “Le Horla.” This tale of supernatural terror is one of his most famous works. It’s the account of a man going insane who believes that he is possessed by a powerful, malign spirit from another dimension he calls the Horla. Maupassant makes the bizarre events almost plausible so the story is frightening enough to read. And the drawings in the bande dessinée add significantly to the terror the story produces. I knew that she loved Maupassant, but I did wonder—just a little, before dismissing the thought—why she chose this particular Maupassant to send me.
Paris Without Her Page 17
