Train full of men, of soliders bursting out like butterflies from their shells. The railways were one of the hearts of warfare, endless supply trains, and trains for various troops.
Walter was tired from the journey, the crossing of the channel had been harsh, few men from his company did make outrageous plans over the crossing, in the style that Ken would be approving Walter wondered. With small, but content smile, Walter glanced around, with glad ravenous eyes; in front of him shimmered La Gare du Nord. The well-known station, its glass and iron structure, and grand hall, were packed with people, coming and going like so many ants in the seething nest. Walter was in Paris only for a day, or so, before underground bunkers, No Man´s Land, and trenches and trench-life would begun in earnest.
The Eiffel dominated the skyline, and the boulevards seemed to glow, in vague sunlight, sky above Seine was clear and clouds were reflected upon it. The mood was high, as Paris was still standing, as frontlines were slowly moving further north, or so one newspaper declaired, as Walter bought it from a nearby stall. The headlines were permeated with accurate war censorship and propaganda that praised the strength of the French people and gave hope. Curious, Walter glanced at the literature corner, there were some war poems, by well-known modernists. One solider near Walter remarked in offhand manner, while lighting his cigarette,"Newspaper boys, they always seem like one step away from Gavroche, do you think so, too Blythe?"
Walter, only smiled, and answered him in flowing acadian patiois, that he had picked up, from Kingsport, that made all parisians in vincinity stare in befuddlement, as company sauntered onwards, to the temporary barracs. After rigrorous roll-call, Walter´s commanding officer glared at the rows of troops in front of him, and finally he said. "Listen up lads! You all have to be here tomorrow, in time for morning call, at 6.00, but remember that you are all soliders in duty, even if you are not yet, in the front. Enjoy la belle Paris!" With a vibrant cheer that echoed in the old building, in ones and twos Walter observed as his army companions melted into Parisian streets. Walter sat alone, and enjoyed silence, and solitude. Walter took, small green canvas-bag, from the floor and with a glimmering smile he got up and went to face the wonders of Paris.
Suddenly familiar landmark was in front of Walter, it was magnificent, as it caressed the heavens, was powdery off-white stone, with pure French Gothic architecture. Slowly reverently Walter walked inside Notre Dame de Paris. Dramatic, gothic scenes and architectural history of medieval Paris, from Hugo's memorable novel glowed in his mind, as his steps echoed in the vaulted high stone halls, and for a long time Walter stopped to look at the large rose window, everywhere light haunting incense smelled, as Walter lit a few candles, to his family and to Alice.
Curious, Walter walked around looking at the different details, of various carved saints, and decorated treasures, of paintings, atmosphere, of light and shadow. Then he noticed beautiful bluish-purple rose window, in the western side of the church, there was extremely beautiful and large pipe organ its organ case was deep reddish-brown, with decorative woodwork, and the pipes were gleaming faintly in the shade. Suddenly an unknown calm voice said, "Good soldier, if you come back here on a Sunday afternoon, anyone can play it freely."
Walter turned, and saw a man with a white hair, he was dressed in a dark suit of a offical of somekind. Walter said calmly, "Thank you for the offer, but I don't think I would dare touch it, even if I can play a little, but I do love Charpentier´s compositions."The man nodded at him and smiled in a kind way, as he vanished from view. In no time at all blissfull organ music sweeped along the church, and Walter listened eyes closed, leaning on a cold stone pillar.
A wash of feelings, it was like a tide, it revolved, solwly, as Charpentier´s Te Deum prelude, Marche et rondeau glowed brilliantly and powerfully victorious, and the echoes, repeated the pattern of the music, rising and echoing high in the vaults of Notre Dame.
Pale sun shone in the sky, that kind of watery-sunlight, everything were shaded with pale grey as Walter wandered in aimless manner in the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. The garden cemetery was peaceful oasis of calm, stark branches of trees.
For a few silent moments Walter stopped at Wilde's grave. Then digging writing-paper out of his bag, he leaned on a bench nearby, and wrote a letter to Dorian, blowing on his chilled fingers.
Dorian, bonjour pour Paris!
Across from me is Wilde's tombstone, and Cimetière du Père-Lachaise is absolutely stunning, it's more like a labyrinthine garden than a cemetery. I happened to go to an old antique bookstore, and I tell you, I've rarely been so grateful for anything as I was for my French classes at Redmond, because of course the salesperson didn't speak English. He grumbled at my accent. After poking around in the dim shop, for few moments I found such treasures a really beautiful illustrated work of Baudelaire, a new volume of Verlaine,(because earlier one is in tatters and on loan to Di) and Alyousious Bertrand, of Gaspard de la Nuit, fame, and a thin yellowish volume called Du Vert au Violette, by Renee Vivien, for my sister, as I think Di might especially enjoy Vivien's production, or maybe Alice, all the violets, from the poems that I peeked, and she does languages.
The coffee here is strong and the tea rough. I haven't had time to do a cabaret yet, or let alone opera, because soon, my troops are going "over there,"but I often think of Puccini, his bohemians, poets and painters, in the attics. I wish I could see attic room of old French house, they are said to be romantic places.
The light of the Seine is wonderful, it is indescribable. The clouds shimmer in it, and the sun when it shines. And architecture, well you know, youve visited here.
Referring to your previous letter from October, here's a little advice. Don't pressure Alice. You complained that Di and her are together almost constantly, that's only natural since they live together, in Primrose Hollow. The upcoming ball at Gardiner Hall sounds extravagant. And I can almost see house in festive lighting, and as for your tie, definitely go for the emerald one, it suits your eyes.
Thank you for the candied apples, and chocolate, and especially, cologne.
Best wishes,
W.C.B.
Ps. I can't carry these books with me, to the front, so I'll send them to you, in a package.
Walter soon found his way to a small cafe with red and white checkered tablecloths, there he wrote a few cards to Ingelside. He, then took out a folded map of Paris, and a note, written in familiar beloved handwriting, between his red notebook, and set out to navigate toward 16th arrondissement, eventually he found the right house, in Passy. It was done in 1890s style, and the color of soft cream, like something out of a Colette story. The doorman glanced at him curiously, but he let Walter in. The stairwell was high, and the slender stairs circled it.
Walter quickly walked to the third floor and pressed the buzzer of a blue door. The door opened, with a small squeak, and Walter lifted the roses, pale pink roses, he had bought, into a better position, and handed them to the person on the other side of the door. It was a woman, with silvery-blonde hair. She was no longer young, but still vibrant with a delicate other-wordly air, and a gleam of merriment in her large golden-hazel eyes, she was dressed in a misty blue dress with a long hem, and her thick, slightly wavy hair was carelessly braided with a pale cream ribbon. The woman looked at slight surprise, in her eyes at the dark haired young solider, with roses in his arms, at her doorstep. Walter said"Greetings from my mother, from Ingelside, Little Elizabeth. She requested that I come to greet you here, if I could. It has been years since you visited Ingelside, as I was only a child then, I´m Walter Blythe."
At his words delicate smile came on the features of the blond woman, and she said, in slight french accented english " Walter, well, come on in. You're sure to be exhausted if you've walked around Paris."
With curious eyes, Walter looked at the apartment that opened in front of him, it was not large, three rooms, or so, but the rooms were high and the dominant feeling was intense sofistication.
It was one of the most beautiful set of rooms, that Walter had never been in. There were plants in pots, delicate ferns and various hothouse roses in vases, and lot of books, by shelfs in wide walls, in english and french, electic mix of prose, and poetry and general history, or so it seemed. There was a large desk in front of a window, with very fine malachite ink bottles. Windows, were shaded with creamy gossamer curtains, and on the living room there was beautiful piano. On the piano chair was folded a beautiful embroidered dressing gown, its color was emerald green, it did not seem to fit Elizabeth's color scheme at all.
However, as Walter knew very well from his sisters, dressing gowns were an extremely personal matter, and it was not appropriate to talk about them. There was also a screen which had hand-painted Japanese cherry blossoms, in the japoniserie style, which was very popular in the late 1800s and early 1900s.
On woven basket, in a floor there was small half-grown black kitten, with jewel green eyes. There was a clatter of teaservice as Little Elizabeth brought a tray to the living room, and put it on low table with lion legs.
Little Elizabeth sat down on a stiped empire sofa, and waved her hand, across the tea service, there were sandwitches, and on a small plate, Madeleines.
A light smile appeared on Walter's face as he tasted the pastry. The flavors seemed to dance, but Walter had to admit that Una's version was lighter, somehow. The kitten came to sit right next Walter, and Little Elizabeth smiled softly, like a ray of sunshine and pointing her words at the kitten, "Tosca, do not beg for scraps." The kitten glared at Walter arrogantly, and jumped on the striped couch, the small nails just scratching the cover.
Elizabeth's light brown, gold-colored eyes had an intense and soft look that demanded nothing from him. Alice had also that skill, and presence, to be in that one moment, totally, without artiface, the familiar way had relaxed Walter, almost instantly and he felt that he could talk almost openly to Elizabeth, of his experiences and studies in Redmond and his training in England, as he was now with his company enroute to front. "And tell me, how is dear Anne?" Elizabeth asked, with gracefull smile on her features, caressing teacup between her hands. "Mom is brave and full of wim and will, as usual, but of course the enlistment of first Jem at the first days of war in 1914, and now my enlistment has caused a gap in the harmony of the Ingelside."Walter replied with a slight nod, with restless fingers, he flicked napkin, with the result that Tosca the kitten, took an interest, and leapt with one graceful leap into Walter's lap, determined to seize the napkin for herself.
Hour or so passed, and all the tea had been drunk.
A rococo bell on the table rang brightly, and Elizabeth startled with a glint of merriment in her eyes she said "Walter, since you've just come to Paris, you've probably walked through museums and churches. Soon I'm going to a friend's show, and if you'd like it would be wonderful if you come with me, as my cavalier. The palce is not far from here, and I think that you, just might enjoy it."
Walter pondered for few moments, but there was still time, and he was feeling curious, images from various novels, from cabarets were mixed with visions of refined recitals, so he nodded with a slight smile. Soon Elizabeth returned, she was now dressed in a narrow purple dress, and a wide hat. The ensemble was so stylish that Walter wondered that back in Glen, Irene Howard would easily commit murder, if she could get her hands on a dress like that, epitome of Parisian style.
Elizabeth and Walter walked towards their destination, café-cabaret, Ventilateur Rouge on the bank of Seine, only few minutes away from Elizabeth´s apartement. The building was beautiful, clean-lined, and elegant, and in front of the door was an advertisement, poster. It was done in the style of Lautrec's posters, and showed a slender red-haired woman, in a dark dress, against a bright yellow background, in red calligraphy, were written following sentence. Tonight musical evening. Well known compositions and songs by Faure, Saint-Saens, and Gustave Charpentier. Performed by Lucie de Remy.
The café-cabaret, was large and semicircular, and here and there were small tables, and stage, on one large wall. Feeling nervous Walter glanced in the mirror, his uniform, was in proper order, and so feeling more calm, he walked stedily onwards, few people nodded to Elizabeth as dainty golden-silvery haired woman confidently walked across the room. Walter's attention was immediately drawn to the glittering chandelier, full of small light prisms of rainbows, they sparkled, vividly, in the walls, of deep red brocade. Walter and Elizabeth went to one of the table´s there were red roses in every table, as the lights dimmed.
Delightful, tune echoed in the room, and tall russet-haired woman, dressed in a dark hued dress came out of the darkness, in gilding, flowing steps. Her complexion was peaches and cream, and she looked vaguely like Di, in Walter´s mind, but that was the only similarity, it must be the hair.
The unknown singer, Elizabeth´s friend controlled the audience with effortless grace, of a born performer, as she stood queenly in the stage. One day Alice may be as good, as that woman, Walter pondered, if she gets the chance to try her wings, although her voice register is different, naturally. As piano melody shone, Walter closed his eyes as the trained bright soprano voice sang, with caressingly gentle, and sweet, full of peculiar soothing calm, of Faure´s compositions, as the song cycle Le jardin clos, slowly wound to closure.
Then a small orchestra played a few excerpts from Saint-Saens's Carnival of the Animals, and when the music stopped for a moment, Lucie returned to the stage, in a pale dress, the same shade as bluebells in Rainbow Valley. In her voice there was golden central register, and bell-bright and shimmering high notes, as she sung, Depuis le jour, from Charpentiers opera Louise.
Walter looked around at the audience, and saw drawn and pinched features of soliders, looking grim, as they listened Lucie. There was a shadow in the mens gazes, french soliders, as they were clearly on leave from front. A shadow of expericence, expericence that he, too would soon know.
Then Lucie had sung all the songs, of the evening, and with a gentel shimmering laugh, and a nod, as she had thrown roses, and few hothouse violets into audience. The audience stood as one and clapped, frevently and there was a light touch of a womans hand on his sleeve, and Elizabeth´s voice broke Walter´s musings, "I will go to the backstage, to greet her, so if you can wait here, for few moments." And with a gentle soothing smile, Elizabeth too vanished, from Walter´s sight.
Alone, but not lonely Walter observed the well-connected opulence around him, the carousing soliders, with drinks in front of them, and the dazzle of wine and roses, and the lingering, wistful haunting notes, of music. There on the stage small orchestra were playing, Saint-Saens opus 40, Dance Macabre.
Walter noticed a familiar blond head, and a Canadian uniform and profile, few tables away from him. It was the same solider who in Salisbury had qouted Verlaine at him, his name in the nametag had been, , Walter had seen it vaquely, only just, in the half-light. Private Dejardin looked bleak. There was full ashtray in front of him, and slim fingers were tapping restlessly on a chair. Private Dejardin stood up and as he passed Walter´s table, Walter gathered his nerves and called out, softly
" Private Dejardin,"but he did not turn around. Soon blond, slight, slender figure in uniform had disappeared among the other various French, English, or Canadian uniforms in the café-cabaret. It appeard that this place were popular with the allied soliders, then. Walter sighed, and was startled as the champagne cork flew off past the table, almost touching the shimmering roses.
There was a rustle of hems as Elizabeth returned, but she was not alone. Walter noted that away from the strong stage lights, Lucie´s hair was more dark copper than red, and her eyes were aquamarine blue, not green as Walter had assumed from his mother and Di.
Lucie twined her bare gloveless, fingers calmly together and said in a soothing resonant voice,"It's always an honor to meet Lizzie's friends, especially from early days, she's often said of your mother, how blessed her arrival at Summerside really was." A soft, quick look, of those aquamarine eyes that seemed to have many different levels fell on Elizabeth for a moment. In Elizabeth´s face there was a delicate flush and Walter saw in the corner of his eye some fleeting emotion cross over Elizabeth´s face, and her pale slender fingers seemed to tremble a little, as she glanced towards her friend. Some aborted moth of a feeling hovered thickly in the café, just one instant, and then it vanished, like it never had been there at all.
Walter´s last glimpse of Elizabeth had been slight wavering shadow of a woman, in the balcony of her elegant apartment, with Lucie behind her. Both of the women had waved scraps of lace at him.
In the distance the pale form of the Sacre Cour shone.
It was almost twilight, but not quite, yet. Walter looked at the vaque shimmering parisian splendor around him, it was as far from the almost Eden-like stillness of Rainbow Valley, as possible.
A figure rose from a nearby bench and walked beside Walter, and a soft voice said "Private Blythe, I've been waiting for you, for quite some time, now."In the light of the street lamp, private, C. Dejardin smiled, his blond hair were slightly wavy, there was a light blue silken scarf around his neck, his eyes were very green. He walked almost beside Walter, from and now and then drowning in the shadows. Dejardin, opened his backpack, there was a small bottle of red wine. Smiling openly Walter sat on a bench, shimmering streetlights, created a nimbus of light around them. Walter asked,"If we´re going to share wine, I would like to know your first-name, even if, we´ll use surnames, normally, I´m Walter."
Dejardin sweeped few errand strands of curly blond hair away from his wide forehead, and said "Camille."
And softly they, Walter and Camille, drunk, warm red wine, and broke some fragrant baguettes to go with it. Camille recited with his precise acadian tinged french, a stanza from Rimbaud´s Le bateau ivre, all while glancing Walter quickly and fleetingly.
J'ai vu le soleil bas, taché d'horreurs mystiques,
Illuminant de longs figements violets,
Pareils à des acteurs de drames très antiques
Les flots roulant au loin leurs frissons de volets!
Walter smiled and quoted Hardy in response
"Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One
Who spread a heaven beneath the sun."
I said to Love.
Silently, as if by unspoken agreement, Walter and Camille, rose from bench and walked carefully across Montmartre's meandering cobblestone streets. This was another Paris behind shiny facades, where like-minded souls had always met, in the twilight of bars, cabarets, street lights and parks.
Soon Moulin Rouge, and boulevard du Clichy opened before Walter's eyes, Place Blance, and now closed Palmyre's Bar, that much-hyped place that Colette and others had made famous, soon after it´s opening in 1909. Palmyre´s had offered a new kind of model, seductive entertainment for those walking in the shadows, rich, flaneurs, and those looking for new experiences, cabarets, and all kinds of teatrical and flamboyant creations. But the death of Palmyra and the war had changed everything, it had been the final chapter of golden fin de siecle era. As most places of entertainment in Montmartre were closed by order of the authorities. So Montmartre was now no longer the hectic, glowing, jovial den of sin and decadence.
Camille turned on one corner, and knocked on to the dull green door, on the courtyard side, Walter had seen that they were on Rue Noellet.
The door opened, and a slender darkhaired woman, dressed in a frayed striped shirt and red suspenders and dark rolled up pants, opened door. Camille, stepped inside, to a gloomy staircase, and embraced her. The womans eyes were green wide, and catlike, and with a slight smile she wishpered something, in low and amused tone of voice, some joke, or maybe not, in guttural street-french, that Walter could not translate. Camille just smiled, as he beckoned Walter to follow him.
Paraffin lamp crackled and cast shadows on the walls, in pockmarked tiny atticroom, from a half-open window, slight breeze ruffled, torn and stained curtains, whose color was hard to tell. There was one military-issued backpack on the floor.
Small, iron framed bed, was made with hospital-corners, like Susan had taught, to all Ingelside children. With soft fingers Walter brushed, blonde unruly hair from Camille's forehead, and the young man laughed lightly, and tackled Walter in bumpy pillows.
Slowly shimmering rose blush of dawn creeped across Parisian sky, soon pale rose had lightened into lavender, and slowly Walter took his notebook, out of his canvas-bag, with swift fingers and with a barest look at the still slumbering Camille, beside him, Walter started to write, few fragments of verse came, and with eagerness Walter chased them down, the poem was written, but only partly it lived and breathed, of homeland, but something were still missing from it. Satisfied, Walter looked at moisture-damaged walls, where plaster and mortar had cracked.
Suddenly Camille´s warm husky voice inquired, "Walter, surely we have time for breakfast." Walter turned, and met Camille's green gaze, which in this pale morning light was impenetrable. Walter smiled and picked up his bag, there were remnants of bread, Camille smiled and gently he said "fresh, always fresh, because soon, we only dream of fresh bread, or any kind of privacy."
Soon tiny attic room smelled of fresh coffee and a steaming hot baguettes, and croissants.
Feeling fevered and trembling, Walter urgently took a deep breath and suddenly time didn't matter anymore, not even war, or obligations, just a slight scent of Camille´s warm skin smelling of light marseille soap, and the slight rasp of a stubble, that he wanted to drown in, and he did.