It is barely four o’clock in the morning, and sleep has vanished without warning. I toss and turn in my bed ; there is no point remaining there. Groping in the darkness, I search for the matches for the lamp, but instead my hand touches a switch. I press it, and a bright light bursts forth. I press another switch, and the whole room is illuminated. Electricity has been installed in the apartment! But when did I have these modifications made? Time itself is playing tricks on me. At the foot of the bed stands a trunk. Where did it come from? I open it cautiously. It is filled with clothing. I begin piling the garments upon my bed, but where is the corset, where are the bustle, the petticoats, and the detachable train?
Crinoline, corset, and bustle.
Instead, I find stockings of divine fineness, corsets shaped far more naturally to the female body, delicate undergarments for the bust, and many other unfamiliar items. I am impatient to go outside. Only three more hours remain before the first newspaper vendor opens.
Undergarments of the 1920s
I cross the sitting room towards the kitchen. The fire is nearly extinguished, yet the day promises to be mild. My chaise longue has been replaced by a small sofa far more comfortable than before. In this room too, the chandeliers have changed. Upon my desk sits a curious machine. I move closer : keys bearing the letters of the alphabet, little hammers arranged in a semicircle, engraved with the same letters and other symbols I do not recognise — surely an improvement upon the typewriter. Tick-tock goes the clock ; bang-bang goes my impatient heart. I hurry to prepare breakfast. An enamelled stove reigns proudly in the kitchen, accompanied by modern utensils. I make myself a coffee and spread butter upon a sliced loaf baked in a mould. Even the jam jar bears a brand name ; industrialisation has reached this as well. Satisfied, I make my way to the washroom. Once refreshed, I return to my bedroom to dress.
A pair of bloomers I find absurdly small, a brassiere, a corset fastened with clips, stockings held by suspenders attached to the corset, a fluid dress falling only to mid-calf, comfortable little shoes, necklaces, rings, earrings. I gaze at myself in the cheval mirror. The result pleases me ; my tall silhouette suits this new fashion. I put on a coat, place a hat upon my head, and step outside.
I lengthen my stride towards the corner of the street and buy my passport to the day : the newspaper dated the 5th of April 1921. I enter Saint-Pierre Park, settle upon a bench, and begin leafing through the daily paper. I was so impatient to discover the date that I failed to notice the scars left by the war. I did not even see the town hall, nearly completed upon the Place du Sahara. I walk up Rue Gambetta in search of further information. The bombed houses have been replaced by smaller buildings whose façades are far less ornate. On Rue Lafayette, a shopfront catches my eye : “Maison de la Presse.” That is exactly the shop I need. There are not only newspapers, but illustrated magazines printed on finer paper, and books affordable to every purse. I purchase a book about the evolution of technology, a fashion magazine, and several newspapers.
Once home, I put on a sweater, settle comfortably upon the sofa, and begin reading. One article captures my attention : a captain is marrying the daughter of a family of industrialists from Calais. I decide to join the crowd and witness the wedding myself. Time flies ; my stomach cries out from hunger. I prepare a meal from whatever I can find in the pantry. Satisfied, I return to decide what I shall wear for the wedding.
Yvonne VENDROUX
Despite the crowd, I manage to enter the town hall. I slip through the throng and succeed in reaching the upper floor, but soldiers guard the wedding chamber. I remain quietly beside the door, elbowing gently to hold my place. The couple ascends the grand staircase. Captain Charles de GAULLE almost brushes against me as he passes, his future bride Yvonne VENDROUX walking at his side. The whispers of the crowd gathered in the hall prevent me from hearing their vows. I hurry back downstairs, but the crowd outside is even denser. The VENDROUX family employs many people in Calais ; they have all come to congratulate the young bride.
Marriage certificate
The weather is unsettled ; the sun struggles to pierce the clouds, and the air remains cool on this 7th of April 1921. The bells of Notre-Dame Church ring out joyfully, while a cloud of birds rises in fright from the tower at the joyous clamour. The most beautiful church in Calais hosts the grandest wedding of the year. I manage to enter the church ; I know every hidden corner of it. Concealed behind a pillar, I wait until the families are seated before slipping quietly near the exit. The couple enters. The tall silhouette of Captain de GAULLE stands out against the doorway as he advances towards the altar upon his mother’s arm. Yvonne VENDROUX, dressed in a white satin gown with a trailing train and a veil crowned with orange blossoms, walks radiant upon the arm of her father, Jacques-Philippe VENDROUX. They exchange their vows before a priest who is a friend of the family.
I step outside. The surroundings of the church are black with people. In the crowd, I believe I recognise a young soldier I have met before. I deliberately drop my handkerchief, which the young man hastens to pick up. I thank him with a smile and compliment the young woman standing beside him. Reassured, he tells me that he too will soon place a ring upon his beloved’s finger. Charles COURAGEUX and Germaine FAVART invite me to their wedding in September. I accept with pleasure. The bells begin ringing once more. The newlyweds emerge, and a thunder of applause accompanies them to the cars carrying the wedding party away. I have heard whispers that they will spend their honeymoon in Northern Italy. I have the feeling this couple will one day be spoken of again… though perhaps it is only a feeling.
Historical document : the marriage record of Charles de Gaulle and Yvonne Vendroux.
A rebrousse temps généalogie 