Samuel the tailor

This month of July is particularly pleasant. I must visit a dressmaker in Rue des Fontinettes ; I would like two new gowns to wear to the opera.

To Bathe in Complete Privacy

The morning is magnificent. A sun already warm despite the early hour makes me squint, while a light sea breeze, the rhythm of the waves, and the gentle warmth filling every part of my being plunge me into perfect bliss. I open my eyes.

For a few coins, bathing machines are made available to bathers so they may be carried close to the water while preserving their modesty. Young men pull these carriages all day long. I recognise young Ernest, a neighbour, and wave to him. Sheltered from curious eyes, I am able to put on a bathing costume, step out discreetly, and plunge into the water.

The first contact is rather unpleasant. Despite the heat and the gentle breeze, the water is quite cold, but the body quickly adapts and the experience becomes delightful. I paddle about, trying different swimming movements, yet between the instructions read in magazines and reality, there is quite a difference! I have lost count of how many times I swallow seawater. I cough and splutter ; around me, more and more bathers arrive. It is time to come out.

I climb back into the bathing machine and change my clothes. My hair is soaked and my chignon barely holds together by some miracle. Ernest brings me back near the pier and tips his cap before leaving to collect another client.

The Casino is only a few steps away, but I shall return another day. I walk the few hundred metres separating me from Rue Royale before jumping aboard the tramway. I get off in Rue de la Gare near my home.

It has already been several months since I moved to Saint-Pierre-lès-Calais, to the first floor of one of those bourgeois houses near Saint-Pierre Park. On the ground floor lives Mrs WEST, a descendant of John WEST. Her son, John Louis, asked me to look after his mother, and I accepted with great pleasure. She is a charming, cultivated woman, full of resource despite her age.

For over a year now, I have published my articles under the initials RW. Everything is done through correspondence in order to conceal my identity. I have friends who help me both in France and in England.

Upon her death, my dear Miss BONNET made me her heiress. Her impatience, her endless chatter, even the rustle of her skirt brushing against the furniture — I miss them all. I do not know what I would give to relive just one more day in her company, but life goes on. I sold the building and invested my modest fortune wisely.

The apartment, elegantly furnished, is far larger than the one I had in Calais. I have a kitchen, a sitting room, a bedroom, a small room where I installed my writing desk, and, on the landing, a bathroom. The windows of the sitting room and kitchen overlook the park ; the bedroom and office face an inner courtyard — more of a small English garden — and the railway line.

From my former home, I brought my chaise longue, my writing desk, various ornaments, crockery, a parasol, gloves, and a shawl given to me by Miss BONNET. I delight in opening my windows and gazing upon this green space while the fragrance of flowers and different kinds of wood drift softly towards me.

These gentlemen, the English and French lace manufacturers, besides building ever-larger factories, also construct housing for their employees. According to social standing, the homes differ greatly : large houses for themselves, terraced homes for skilled workers, and tiny cottages for labourers.

In nearly every district of Saint-Pierre-lès-Calais, this same social structure is reproduced. After eleven hours of work, labourers return to their little homes where, much like in the countryside, overcrowding is unavoidable. Foremen and office employees are better housed. Upstairs, they have one or two bedrooms, which allows for more spacious living areas.

Saint-Pierre Park around 1900

After a frugal meal, I work peacefully in my office. I close my notebooks ; it is already eight o’clock. The weather is so mild that I decide to stroll through the little green paradise opposite my home.

I am not the only one enjoying this evening among the tree-lined paths. The sun will soon set ; the shadows of the trees grow longer, flowers close their petals, and birds return to their nests. The air fills with the scents of night ; the earth exhales a warm and gentle fragrance. The essence of all those beings and things that have existed in this place continues to disturb my senses. I return home.

To sleep with the windows open and wake to birdsong — is that not a dream?

A coffee, a slice of bread, and I am ready to leave. I am going to visit a tailor for a few sewing alterations. It is Monsieur Samuel BOURGEOIS who receives me.

“Repairs and alterations are done by the house, Miss, but not dressmaking itself. I am very sorry.”

I leave the shop. I have barely walked ten metres when Monsieur BOURGEOIS catches up with me, letters in hand. He used posting the mail as an excuse to speak with me. He offers to make my dresses himself. Discreetly, he slips me his address ; his wife will take my measurements and handle the fittings.

“Sunday around ten o’clock, if that is not too early for you.”

Perfect.

Samuel and Catherine BOURGEOIS-POINTEZ live with their five children at 19 Rue du 29 Juillet. Catherine and her eldest daughter work for a lace company.

I am welcomed by a young woman approximately my own age — Léonie, I presume. Madame BOURGEOIS, a small woman with almost white hair, offers me a cup of coffee, which I gladly accept. She works as an “effileuse,” removing the threads attaching the lace to the loom.

Léonie, sixteen years old, works in the factory ; Berthe, twelve ; Fernand, ten ; Alice, seven ; and Gaston, six, are enjoying their July holidays. In two years’ time, a little girl named Marguerite — our Catherine’s grandmother — will be born, but hush!

The house is not very large, yet it is impeccably kept. Everything has its place, and every place has its purpose.

Monsieur BOURGEOIS joins us. In only a few sentences, I explain what I desire. He disappears into a cupboard near the fireplace and emerges carrying fabrics and lace.

“You need light fabrics and pale colours.”

I give him an advance payment so he may purchase the necessary supplies.

Catherine and Léonie take me upstairs to measure me. From the bottom of the stairs, Samuel shouts his instructions, though the ladies already know the routine. The measuring tape glides across my body while Catherine carefully notes every measurement given by her daughter.

While I dress again, Léonie hurries downstairs to scold her brothers and sisters, who are creating joyful chaos.

Catherine offers me another cup of coffee, which we drink quietly in the courtyard. Berthe tries to join us, but Léonie catches her before she reaches the door.

People trust me easily and often confide in me.

Catherine speaks of the four babies she lost before their first birthday, of Léonie who refuses to marry, of her younger children, and of her life.

Samuel joins us carrying several sketches.

“The shape of this skirt with this blouse, but with sleeves like those…”

Everything is perfectly understood between us.

First fitting next Sunday.

I take my leave. I walk back along Rue Gambetta, stop at my favourite grocer’s shop in Rue Lafayette, and return home.

In those days, I bought very little at a time because food spoiled so quickly. I still use the preserving method taught to me by Miss BONNET — though not during this weather.

The week passes very quickly, and I am impatient to see Samuel and Catherine’s work.

Berthe and Alice greet me with broad smiles. Coffee awaits me upon the little table in the courtyard, while Léonie keeps me company as Samuel gives instructions to his wife.

I go upstairs and put on one of the dresses, taking great care ; the temporary stitching is fragile. Catherine calls for her husband.

He inspects every seam. With one precise movement, he removes a sleeve he finds badly adjusted. He disappears into another room while I try on the second dress.

I had sent him a piece of very fine lace, and it now adorns the bodice beautifully.

The smile illuminating Samuel’s face tells me he is proud of his work.

I could not be more satisfied ; the result is impeccable. I shall be able to parade about in these princess-like gowns.

The dresses are delivered the following Sunday to my home.

The entire little family arrives. Samuel unwraps the dresses.

They are magnificent.

I sense he wishes me to try them on. Catherine offers to help me, and I gladly accept.

I parade through my sitting room beneath the delighted “wows!” of the little girls. Samuel is visibly pleased with his work.

Discreetly, I hand him an envelope containing the remainder of what I owe him.

I have prepared sandwiches and lemonade and suggest that we eat together upon the grass. The children cry out with joy.

Samuel insists on paying for the meal, but I propose an exchange instead : sewing work in return for this picnic. Catherine smiles ; Samuel graciously agrees.

He takes the basket and we head towards the park.

After luncheon, I delight in playing with the younger children. Exhausted, I finally rejoin the adults, and we speak of many things while time passes peacefully.

It is time for them to leave. I offer to call them a carriage, but they prefer to walk.

I promise to visit them again soon. In any case, I have mending work that I shall gladly entrust to Catherine.

Happy after such a lovely day, I return upstairs.

Everything is quiet once more. The ticking of the clock is no longer drowned out by the chatter of children. I tidy the room and begin cleaning.

The glass door is covered in tiny fingerprints — if only Léonie could see that!