The Dwelling and Its Childhood Treasures

As a child, I would run between the two bell towers, eager to reach her side. The belfries tolled for the milestones of life communions, baptisms, and final goodbyes. The small gate of that ancient house stood eternally open, as did the front door when the air grew mild, ready to welcome kin, friends, the postman, or the dairyman. It was Marguerite’s sanctuary, where every corner served as a vessel for a memory.

When my parents were away, my heart overflowed at the prospect of taking up residence there. Nights beneath the heavy feather eiderdown were true expeditions; its weight would pin me down, requiring cunning and whispers for my clandestine escapes. Beneath the bed slumbered a secret universe: dried linden blossoms, dog-eared books, forgotten medicinal herbs, a silent violin, and a dismembered doll. There were piles of calendars inherited from my grandfather’s days as a postman and old comic books—a true inventory of dreams.

In my grandmother’s room, I knew treasures lay hidden: sparkling jewels deep in the drawers, elegant hats, and velvet handbags. At dawn, the aroma of coffee rose like a soft murmur. My grandfather would devote himself to the slow art of shaving and whistling before the barber’s mirror, while the great grandfather clock punctuated the rhythm of those fortunate days.

After breakfast, I would dash into the garden to find my faithful companion, Toto. The poor dog was regularly drafted into my plays, enduring my costumes with saintly forbearance, though he always wore the air of a resigned victim. Toto kept company with the fowl—who seemed to cluck with open irony at his expense—and the local weasels. I spent my hours tending to the mother rabbits and their kits, shielding them from the "sinister truck" that occasionally passed by. And always, there was the elegant, inseparable pair of doves watching over us.

The Fabric Workshop and the Aronde’s Expeditions

I found boundless joy in visiting my great-aunt, a dressmaker who wove magic from her home. Her husband, a tailor, operated his own shop nearby. In her atelier, I would lose myself in reverie, watching the birth of white wedding gowns. Her workshop was a realm of creative chaos; I swam in a sea of fabric scraps that covered every surface a precious interlude teeming with textiles and imagination.

Wednesdays were sacred. The moment my grandfather cranked the engine of the Aronde—a car that seemed to run on sheer enthusiasm I knew we were embarking on a long-haul journey, at least by the measure of childhood mileage. The expedition felt endless, though it often led only to the next hamlet.

The Aronde transported us toward homes brimming with life, or sometimes toward a stillness so absolute you could hear a pin drop. My grandfather would amiably lead us to visit former colleagues and distant cousins. The reward was entering residences so splendid they felt like portals to another century. We listened with deference to the stories of lives lived, gathering memories I treasure to this day.

In every detail, there is a breath of her: her light, her modesty, her tenderness. She was the discreet flame that never imposed itself, yet without which the whole house would sink into shadow. She carried her memories like rare pearls a silent rosary whose thread only she knew.