I am both excited and troubled at the same time! It is the first time I am going to travel by train and the first time I am going to Paris, but I am not lacking in adventures! I have learned that Monsieur Allart BERNEL will be performing on the stage of the Théâtre de Belleville on January 1st, 1860, and that his show will be worth seeing.
Packing my suitcase was no easy task. I had placed my finest dress inside for going out, along with a few pieces of costume jewellery, but these ladies did not agree. An Englishwoman brought me a magnificent dress adorned with black lace, a lovely pearl necklace lent by one of her fellow Ladies, and a blouse enhanced with tulle around the neckline. These ladies wanted me to be an ambassador for the craftsmanship of Saint-Pierre-lès-Calais. As for Miss BONNET, she lent me a coat, hat, gloves and other fripperies. I blushed with pleasure and giggled out my thanks. My luggage finally packed, the last details for the journey arranged, I went to bed knowing full well that I would not be able to sleep.
At dawn, I get up, place logs in the fireplace and heat a large quantity of water. Once again I have carried the tub up from the cellar to take a bath. Time passes, I will have to wash in lukewarm water if I do not want to be late. Knocks sound at my door, I recognise the delicacy of my neighbour, she is a strong woman, tall and sturdy as a man. I open the door, she enters carrying a huge steaming bucket of water in each hand. In two movements she has rid herself of her burden and leaves again at once to fetch the last bucket. I want to thank her with a few coins but she refuses, she looks at me and her eyes light up: « Bring me a trinket from Paris. » With great pleasure, dear neighbour! I close the door and slip into this delight.
I am ready, I leave my home and head towards the coach terminus. It is bitterly cold during this last week of 1859, and more than once I slip on patches of black ice. Everything seems frozen by the cold. There was no wind during the night, the branches of the trees remain imprisoned by frost, beneath the pale glow of the moon the road is nothing more than a long sparkling blue stretch, stalactites hanging from gutters and shutters appear to have been carved by a stonemason, and on certain windows the frost has sketched delicate symmetrical patterns, almost unreal. I quicken my pace.
Inside, room follows room: sculptures, paintings, the Mona Lisa in the Salon Carré, and many other wonders from different periods and places. I no longer know where to rest my eyes; I am amazed by the talent of these artists. After two hours, I leave with my heart and soul filled with joy. Despite the persistent cold, I head towards the Bois de Boulogne where work is planned for the creation of an acclimatisation garden. A few rare walkers stroll along the paths of the wood, the mud hides the patches of black ice, the walk becomes too dangerous, and I return home.
l’accompagne, c’est l’une des petites mains engagées pour la circonstance. Le duo est charmant, le temps passe plus vite. Maud nous appelle pour nous faire admirer la décoration de la salle à manger. Elle rougit sous nos applaudissements. Une bonne odeur sort de la cuisine mais Maud ne nous laisse pas approcher. Il est l’heure d’aller nous changer. Une jupe de velours noir, une chemise en lin brodée et réhaussée de dentelle, le camée de ma grand mère, un chignon plus élaboré, un léger voile de parfum et je suis prête. Maud fait retentir la cloche, il est temps de descendre. Elégamment, Edward nous conduit à nos places attitrées. La jeune chanteuse a été priée d’animer la soirée de sa voix de rossignol. Les plats se succèdent aussi succulents les uns que les autres, les vins et boissons alcoolisés font rosir les joues des femmes et hausser le ton aux hommes. Il est minuit, personne ne déroge à la règle, les accolades et les baise-mains se succèdent. Nous nous dirigeons vers les petits salons, les hommes pour fumer et boire sans nous déranger et surtout pour rester entre eux, les femmes pour papoter sur les hommes et pour boire un petit Cherry. Il est plus d’une heure quand nous montons nous coucher. Pas d’heure imposée pour le petit déjeuner, nous sommes servis dans notre chambre à la demande. Cet après-midi je me rends au théâtre de Belleville à la périphérie de Paris. Je profite de ces quelques heures pour écrire ou, tout au moins, noter mes souvenirs, mes impressions. Je me lasse vite de cette tâche et rejoins ces dames au petit salon. Les discutions sont animées et entrelacées de rire, j’ai emporté quelques cartes pour que mes compagnes du jour puissent visiter les manufactures et acheter de cette dentelle à la qualité irréprochable et au prix plus que raisonnable. Contente, je vais me changer pour le spectacle. J’avais prévu une superbe robe noire mais, selon mes hôtes et les habitués de la Capitale ma tenue est bien trop chic pour le quartier. Je m’habille plus simplement, prends un coche et me rends dans ce théâtre. Lors de ma dernière visite à Boulogne, Etienne LE PETIT m’a demandé de remettre des documents à ses enfants Joséphine et Etienne. Tous deux vivent à Paris et vont justement assister à ce vaudeville. Je les retrouve devant l’entrée. Etienne et sa femme nous ont réservé une table bien placée, nous nous installons.
We are on December 31st, 1859. The BROWNS have invited the boarders who remained behind to celebrate the New Year with them, and they have hired extra staff for the occasion. I have settled into the small drawing room with the ladies; some are embroidering, others are chatting. I try to write, but it is not easy when one is interrupted every minute. For a moment I think of going upstairs to my room, but that would be completely improper of me. Edward begins to sing, accompanied by a soft and melodious female voice; it is one of the young women hired for the occasion. The duet is charming and time passes more quickly. Maud calls us to admire the dining room decorations. She blushes beneath our applause. A delightful smell drifts out from the kitchen, but Maud does not allow us to come near. It is time for us to get changed. A black velvet skirt, an embroidered linen blouse enhanced with lace, my grandmother’s cameo, a more elaborate hairstyle, a light touch of perfume and I am ready. Maud rings the bell, it is time to come downstairs.
Elegantly, Edward escorts us to our assigned places. The young singer has been asked to entertain the evening with her nightingale voice. Dish after dish arrives, each more delicious than the last; wines and spirits bring colour to the women’s cheeks and raise the men’s voices. It is midnight, and no one departs from tradition, embraces and hand-kisses follow one another. We make our way to the small drawing rooms, the men to smoke and drink without disturbing us and above all to remain among themselves, the women to chat about the men and enjoy a little sherry. It is well after one o’clock when we finally go upstairs to bed.
There is no fixed hour for breakfast; we are served in our rooms whenever we wish. This afternoon I am going to the Théâtre de Belleville on the outskirts of Paris. I take advantage of these few hours to write or, at the very least, note down my memories and impressions. I quickly grow tired of the task and join the ladies in the small drawing room. The conversations are lively and filled with laughter; I have brought along a few cards so that my companions of the day may visit the factories and purchase lace of impeccable quality at more than reasonable prices. Pleased with myself, I go and change for the performance. I had planned to wear a magnificent black dress but, according to my hosts and the regular visitors of the Capital, my outfit is far too elegant for the neighbourhood. I dress more simply, take a carriage and make my way to the theatre.
During my last visit to Boulogne, Étienne LE PETIT asked me to deliver documents to his children Joséphine and Étienne. They both live in Paris and are in fact attending this vaudeville performance. I meet them outside the entrance. Étienne and his wife have reserved a well-placed table for us, and we take our seats.
« The lights go out, the curtain rises and, with a confident stride, Allart BERNEL steps onto the stage of the Théâtre de Belleville. “Oh Belleville folk! No, not Belleville folk… Oh Parisians of the outskirts. Parisians! Greetings! Greetings to you too, ladies of Paris!” he calls out mischievously. Laughter bursts through the audience, though some of it is forced. For the New Year’s performance carries a special tone on this first day of January 1860. Since midnight, Belleville is no longer an independent commune. Worse still, this town of 65,000 souls has been torn apart and divided between two new districts of Paris. “And now, too bad for those from Belleville, homeland of clustered currants,” the comedian continues. “They went to sleep yesterday as natives of the canton of Pantin and woke up this morning as Parisians!”
In a single night, Paris has gone from twelve to twenty districts. Charonne, Belleville, La Villette, Vaugirard, Grenelle, Passy, Auteuil, Batignolles-Monceau, Montmartre, La Chapelle and Bercy are now part of Paris, and the Wall of the Farmers-General has been demolished. Tax collection offices are being established along this new boundary. The inhabitants living between the Wall of the Farmers-General and the new outskirts will now have to pay the city toll like all Parisians.
« It is to bid farewell to that wall, but above all to the inexpensive pleasures one could enjoy beyond it, that Allart Bernel begins to sing on the stage of the Théâtre de Belleville: “I, the pride of the Paris street lads, loved to roam beyond the barrier, skipping school like a child of Paris.”
Despite the somewhat tense atmosphere, I had a pleasant time in a village condemned to become nothing more than a district name. I enjoyed listening to the accent of the Parisian street lads; their wit and cheeky humour help these good people accept the inevitable.
At the end of the performance, Joséphine, Étienne and Geneviève invite me to spend a few days in Paris. I shall stay with Étienne and Geneviève. We will be able to talk about this hectic life in the City of Light and about our beloved region. Barely had I stepped outside when a carriage stopped in front of me; it was the same man as on the outward journey. I bid farewell to my companions from the theatre and climb into the carriage. This good gentleman knows perfectly well when theatres and other places of entertainment let out. He must have thought that with a young lady there would be no risk of drunken trouble and that she always has an extra coin to give. Once back, I head towards the dining room where they are all sitting at the table waiting for me. Between courses, I give them a brief account of the evening. I tell them about Mr Bernel’s song written for the occasion, the palpable tension and the worries these people have for their future. The discussion is lively and we all remain in the dining room. For some it is only justice, for others it is accepted with a certain bitterness; gone are the outings to those villages where everything was cheaper. I take my leave with difficulty, tomorrow I must rise at dawn to return home.
Awakened at dawn as expected, I hear people bustling about in another room. Gentle knocks sound at my door and a maid lets me know that my bath is ready. What a thoughtful gesture for a poor girl who is about to return to her wash basins. It has been prepared in the bathroom on the landing. There is one person who will blush with jealousy. Quickly, I wash, close my suitcase, say goodbye to those already awake, jump into the carriage, board the train and enjoy this journey home. It is still just as cold, but the sun has risen. Landscapes, people and animals seem to be awakening from a long night. Fewer of us are returning to the North. Faces look tired and drawn, everyone remains curled up in their own corner and I fall asleep. It is the stop in Amiens that pulls me from my drowsiness. I try to write, but the train is far from comfortable. I put my things away and return to contemplating the landscape. The sun sets, setting the horizon ablaze before disappearing. Numbed by the rolling motion, I drift into a half-sleep. Every light and every sound makes me jump. The train slows and stops, we have arrived in Lille. A few more hours by stagecoach and the journey will be over. Arriving in the middle of the night, despite the weight of my luggage, I decide to walk to the building where I live, climb the two flights of stairs, open my door and collapse into my armchair. My dear, my very dear Léonie Bonnet has lit the fire and a soup has been left warming in the hearth, at just the right temperature. I add a log and relax on the chaise longue. At daybreak, I am still on the sofa; sleep caught me there. I have stories to tell my friends and gifts to hand out. I am happy to be back, I never thought I would come to love this region and its people so much.
Awakened at dawn as expected, I hear people bustling about in another room. Gentle knocks sound at my door and a maid lets me know that my bath is ready. What a thoughtful gesture for a poor girl who is about to return to her wash basins. It has been prepared in the bathroom on the landing. There is one person who will blush with jealousy. Quickly, I wash, close my suitcase, say goodbye to those already awake, jump into the carriage, board the train and enjoy this journey home. It is still just as cold, but the sun has risen. Landscapes, people and animals seem to be awakening from a long night. Fewer of us are returning to the North. Faces are drawn with fatigue, everyone remains curled up in their own corner and I fall asleep. It is the stop in Amiens that pulls me from my drowsiness. I try to write, but the train is far from comfortable. I put my things away and return to contemplating the landscape. The sun sets, setting the horizon ablaze before disappearing. Numbed by the rolling motion, I drift into a half-sleep. Every light and every sound makes me jump. The train slows and stops, we have arrived in Lille. A few more hours by stagecoach and the journey will be over. Arriving in the middle of the night, despite the weight of my luggage, I decide to walk to the building where I live, climb the two flights of stairs, open my door and collapse into my armchair. My dear, my very dear Léonie Bonnet has lit the fire and a soup has been left warming in the hearth, at just the right temperature. I add a log and relax on the chaise longue. At daybreak, I am still on the sofa; sleep caught me there. I have stories to tell my friends and gifts to hand out. I am happy to be back, I never thought I would come to love this region and its people so much.
A rebrousse temps généalogie 