Whispers from the Porte des Dunes

The day has been most enriching. I consulted documents about Boulogne-sur-Mer, family photographs, old postcards of the town, and I met people deeply involved in preserving its history. It is getting late ; the sun disappeared long ago. Lady Moon, shy as ever, reveals only a quarter of herself. Gentlemen, the clouds allow her to shine while the breeze carries them delicately through the darkness of the night.

As is my habit, I settled near the fireplace, drinking one last cup of tea before going to bed. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the cry of suffering coming from the other armchair. A shape had just collapsed into it without the slightest care. Surprised — frightened even — I dropped my cup. I rubbed my eyes ; the figure was still there. As my vision adjusted, I realised it was an old woman. Carved by time, withered, she looked at me and smiled. Her mouth was entirely toothless, and with every movement a cloud of dust escaped from her. Was she a hundred years old? A thousand? Who was she?

In a hoarse voice, she said :

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Rose. I understand you are interested in Boulogne-sur-Mer, and especially in a house near the Porte des Dunes.”

“Good evening, Madame. Who are you? Where do you come from? And what are you doing in my home?”

“Do not be afraid, Mademoiselle Rose. I mean you no harm. I am the spirit of the house, and I have many things to tell you.”

“The spirit of the LE PETIT house! But you were built in the seventeenth century!”

“Precisely. I shall be brief about everything that happened before your ancestors purchased the property. I was built at the same time as the ramparts that protected the town. And over time, from a simple farm, the various occupants transformed me into a true residence…”

The mass slumped in the armchair had fallen asleep. In her sleep, her memories rose back to the surface and took shape around her. Every breath carried scents with it : peat, thatch, manure, saltpetre, freshly cut stone, dried oak, wax, burnt wood, and once again the smell of damp mould. It became unbearable. I ran to the bathroom, soaked my handkerchief in mint extract, and returned to my intrusive visitor. I could barely see more than a metre ahead ; the room was filled with dust and wood shavings. Then came fresh scents of renewal : the house had just been purchased, it was coming back to life. With a grunt, the ancestor awoke. She stirred and straightened herself in the chair. I could hardly distinguish her shape. Holding my handkerchief over my nose, I walked towards her.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle Rose. I believe I drifted off. Let us return to our story. I think the last owner before your ancestors was Monsieur MALAHIEUDE. He first rented the house to Monsieur Joseph LE PETIT in 1859. Four years later, Joseph purchased it. Gustave, the eldest son, became deeply involved in the decorating business located at 14 Rue du Château, but he had grand ambitions. He wanted to move the company into my walls.”

“But that must have required enormous work to transform part of your structure into workshops for manufacturing, storage, and sales?”

“Indeed, Rose. With his father’s approval, Gustave began the work in 1870. Craftsmen of every trade passed through my rooms.”

Enthusiastic, she spoke and spoke, and the more she talked, the more the room filled with traces of construction. Scents of wood, plaster, and freshly carved stone spread through the air.

“Étienne died in 1873, leaving Gustave in charge of the business.”

“But Gustave had brothers and sisters?”

“Yes. His four sisters were well married, and his brother Georges lived in Calais.”

“My venerable lady, do you know why the two brothers never worked together?”

“No, Rose. That is a mystery only humans can solve. I no longer remember how long my transformation lasted, but I still had a central courtyard, a residential building, and workshops. I remember one day when everyone gathered in the atrium : the owners, the workers, and even the children. They remained there for a long while, and a photograph was taken. If I remember correctly, Gustave had already died, and it was Albert, the second son, who had taken over.”

“Atrium! My dear lady, you are confusing places and centuries!”

“Yes, yes! My memory fails me. It is not kind to mock me!”

A cloud of fine black particles began forming above her. I realised it would be wiser to apologise quickly.

“I am terribly sorry, my dear lady! You must have heard stories of Ancient Rome and countless other things. This family has always possessed great intellectual curiosity. I think you will be pleased to know that I have this photograph.”

“How delighted I am! I recognise Albert LE PETIT, and his son Emmanuel standing before him. Perhaps the accountant and the foreman seated on either side of Albert as well, though I can no longer be certain. You know, dear Rose, they had an excellent reputation, not only as decorative painters, but also as sign makers and lettering artists.”

“I thought they manufactured their own paint. So they were both merchants and decorators using the products on their worksites?”

“Exactly. Maurice, one of Albert’s brothers, opened a shop in Paris and created his own paints. Emmanuel carried on the business until 1963, the year it finally closed. Around 1930, he transformed the ground-floor rooms of the house into a framing shop for one of his nephews. In 1969, Bernard, Emmanuel’s eldest son, opened a shop in central Boulogne and managed it until his retirement. His brother Patrick, who had worked there until then, took over the business until 2005.”

“My good lady, you have been of immense help to me. I do not know how to thank you.”

“Simply, my dear Rose, by never forgetting that we are not merely stone and materials. We are the soul of a place. We keep the good and bad memories of those who lived within us.”

“I shall never forget it, I promise.”

The entity vanished. The drawing room was once again clean and peaceful. I approached the armchair. Not a crease, not a speck of dust remained. It had returned to its proper place on the other side of the fireplace. I stood there for many long minutes, wondering whether I had dreamed the entire encounter. I suspect the night ahead will not be a restful one.