What was Milady doing in Paris?
And, you may well ask, what was I?
“The lady with the red cushion made a great effect, for she was extremely beautiful, on the lady with the black mantilla, who saw in her a rival truly to be feared; a great effect on Porthos, who found her prettier than the lady in the black mantilla; a great effect on d’Artagnan, who recognised her as the lady from Meung, Calais and Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had greeted with the name of Milady.”
Dear Dumas, that is some sentence, right?
August 2017
MIJE Fourcy, Marais, a hostel in a welcoming seventeenth century building, caters mainly to school tours with a smattering of random travellers looking for a seventeenth century experience. Dans le lit en la chambre des les femmes et un sour unfriendly lot my companions appeared to be. I put my earphones in a less than handy spot so I couldn’t listen to my book. It made me Rustling Queen of the Torchlight because the sourpusses climbed up on my bunk and turned off my light before I returned.
Not sure about these beds with no lockers. I support hostels that provide lockable cupboards or cages so you had some semblance of security as you wander about touristing. I worried about my earbuds. I was sure I put them in my bag. I must have missed them due to tiredness. I didn’t hear them fall. I did it before I climbed up on the bunk.
When I did climb up on the twentieth century bunk, I swung up in such an energetic way the whole two-bed structure pulled away from the wall and gave the impression it might like to fall on top of me. I’m not exactly the heaviest gal in the entire world, but for the first time, I began to think there might come a time when I’m too old for this top bunk caper. But I was in Paris for research, not capering.
On Sunday morning I invited Gabriel (@edirudo) to mass. Turned out, this was his first Catholic ceremony. Having pilgrimaged through Spain I’d borne witness to several, and was able to allay his doubts.
Église Saint Leu-Saint Gilles en la rue Saint Denis
Built in 1235, completed in 1611, I made it to the little church where Porthos teased his lady supporter and where Milady turned up with her glamorous footboy and went off in her grand carriage to St Germain, pursued by that low-down scoundrel d’Artagnan.
The pillars where they dodged and glimpsed were certainly there. The water shell at the front door was there, but empty. Instead of grand ladies and chevaliers there was a wonderful collection of folk; a family, the young girl in a white lace dress cut superbly to fit her. Her little brother, curious and alert to everything. Their dignified mother, with a long shift and bare arms, watchful. At the microphone, to our left, at the front of the church, sat an elderly white man with a mop of grey hair. Another white man with a sharp angled face and khaki fishing jacket seemed to be in control of the place. Between them sat an earnest bird of a lady - also of pointed features. She had bright henna hair. She was awake to her duties, coming in promptly and loud on her solo singing cue so as to make us all jump in surprise.
The priest hid himself amongst his flock, between sharp Man with the Mic, and thin, stooped floury nun. She had a black veil, a shapeless pale beige basic covering with long sleeves and a thin black belt. She wore sandals. The priest was the exception to the French-people-never-get-fat rule. His poor swollen ankles puffed out of comfy brand name sports shoes, looking either cut down or trodden-upon - down at heel. He was wearing a green and gold chasuble (cope?), looking like a very large shiny beetle. He never spoke loudly although at times he was forceful. He did pray for peace in America and North Korea. Gabriel told me he’d recounted a tale of trouble in the parish involving a doctor who was accused of assaulting patients. He advised his congregation he could not perform miracles, that any help from the church or from God was gentle, subtle and needed patience and quiet work.
When they got going, and more folk arrived after us, there was quite a choir. The pasty thin nun, with her high cheekbones and demeanour of private amusement, had a lovely clear voice and Man with Mic deferred to her leadership now more amplified than his.
There was a wonderful bass voice thrilling in the church heights coming from somewhere in front of us, to the left. Perhaps from the smartly dressed man a couple of rows ahead. The stretched white fabric of his short-sleeved shirt looked very well against his black skin. When he went up to perform his duties during communion you could see he could no longer fasten his sleeve buttons because of the size of his biceps.
Four of the congregation were pressed into service to prepare the Host in pottery bowls. Another four to stand and deliver. At least three collected the cash while two came quietly, and at no rush, to read from the Bible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more a more practiced congregation. Everyone seemed to know what was going on, singing a jazzy hymn at one point with open hands. The greeting was heartfelt. It felt like a living church.
Following Milady (who was followed by that unspeakable roué and bounder, d’Artagnan) I returned to St Germain-des-Pres to find the same jazz band I’d seen the year before and restorations a bit further on but no further clues.
I thought I’d try to find Cardinal Richelieu. The Musee Carnavalet was shut and would be for the next three years. Tourist Info suggested the Bibliotech National Richelieu. Given his name’s in the title I felt ridiculously Nancy Drew about it although that building too was being renovated. I was able to visit a pretty little performance exhibition featuring stage design maquettes, masks and a couple of marionettes. No Richelieu.
Visited La Conciergerie, part of the Palais de Justice, but Richelieu was not there. He’d been overtaken by the Revolution and that domineering Napoleon fellow. I was overwhelmed by the curves and enormity of the building. I wanted a sense of the cells but they had all been arranged to showcase the Revolution. The Bastille is long gone.
I found an Alexandre Dumas metro stop and a Rue but he never held continuous residence here.
Perhaps Paris was just a nice place to visit.
What a memorable experience for Gabriel!