Free The House I Loved by Tatiana De Rosnay

and Léon … I know them so little … I have not laid eyes on their sweet faces for years …
    That is my only regret now, dearest. As a grandmother, I would have liked to bond with my offspring. It is too late. Perhaps being a disappointed daughter turns one into an inadequate mother. Maybe the lack of love between Violette and me is my fault. Maybe I am to blame. I imagine you patting my arm with that tut, tut expression of yours. But you see, Armand, I did love the little boy so much more. You see, it is conceivably my doing. Now, in the winter of my life, I can look back and state these facts, almost without pain. But not without remorse.
    Oh, my dear, how I miss you. I look down at the last photograph I have of you, the one of your deathbed. They had dressed you in your elegant black suit, the one you wore for best occasions. Your hair, hardly touched by gray, was swept back, and your mustache had been groomed. Your hands folded on your chest. How many times have I looked at that photograph since you have gone? Thousands, I believe.

 
     
    I HAVE JUST HAD the most terrible fright, dearest. My hands are shaking so much I can barely write this. Whilst I was poring over each detail of your face, there came a loud rattle of the front door. Someone was trying to get in. I leaped up, my heart in my throat, knocking my cup of tea to the floor. It fell with a deafening clatter. I froze, horrorstruck. Would they hear it? Would they understand someone was still in the house? I crouched down very low, close to the wall, and made my way slowly to the entrance. There were voices out there, the shuffle of feet. The handle jounced again. I glued my ear to the panel, breathless. Men’s voices, rising loud and clear in the frosty morning.
    “This one is due to go soon, the work will start next week, most probably. The owners moved out, it’s as empty as an old shell.”
    A shove against the door made the wood jiggle against my face. I moved back quickly.
    “The old door’s mighty sturdy still,” remarked another male voice.
    “You know how fast those houses come down,” sneered the first voice. “Won’t take long to raze it, or the entire street, as it were.”
    “That’s right, this little street and the one round the corner will be down in a jiffy.”
    Who could these men be? I wondered, as they at last drew away. I spied at them from a crack behind the shutters. Two youngish fellows in formal suits. Probably from the Prefect’s team, in charge of the renovations and embellishments. Resentment surged through me. These people were heartless, no better than ghouls. They had no heart, no emotions. Did they even care that they were pulling people’s lives to pieces by destroying their homes? No, they did not.
    The Prefect and the Emperor dreamed of a modern city. A very great city. And we, the people of Paris, we were mere pawns in this huge game of chess. Sorry, madame, your house is on the future boulevard Saint-Germain. You will have to move out. How had all my neighbors gone through this? I mused, as I carefully picked up the pieces of the broken cup. Had it been easier for them? Had they collapsed in tears when they had left their house, when they had turned around to look at it for the last time? That charming family just up our street, the Barous, where were they now? Madame Barou, like me, had been heartbroken at the idea of leaving the rue Childebert. She too had come here as a young bride, had given birth to her children in that house. Where were they all now? Where had they gone? Monsieur Zamaretti had come to bid me farewell, just before the order to evacuate the street. He had found another business on the rue du Four Saint-Germain, with a fellow bookstore. He kissed my hand in a most Italian-like fashion, bowing and scraping, promising to visit me in Tours, at Violette’s place. Of course, we both knew we would not see each other again. But I shall never forget Octave Zamaretti. After you departed, he