Marguerite 

About Marguerite

 The Intimate Portrait of Marguerite

My shop bears the delicate name of Marguerite, echo of an ancestress small in stature, yet immense in heart. My grandmother taught me to cherish what chooses not to shine, the silences that are eloquent, and the gestures that linger in the soul.

She traversed the turmoil of the war. The farm was a precarious rampart for her family, but hardship was not spared. Yet, Marguerite never allowed bitterness to take root. She pressed on, animated by a serene dignity that never faltered.

She moved through the seasons with the same grace as one treads the morning dew: courage was at her fingertips, humility rooted in her very being. Her hands plunged into the soil, and the aches buried in her bones narrated this story over the years. Her gaze pursued faith like a source of light.

Every Sunday, she attended mass, and I accompanied her very often. She answered my questions about Jesus and Mary with patience, all while keeping a watchful eye on my grandfather, positioned at the back of the church, whose only thought was to rejoin his cheerful companions. Her shawl impeccably folded, her jewelry discreet, she walked as one honors a ritual, with the nobility of those who comprehend the power of silence. She passed down ancient customs to me, like a song whose words warm the spirit.

The Dwelling and Its Childhood Treasures

As a child, I ran quickly between the two bell towers to reach my grandmother as soon as possible. The belfries tolled for communions, baptisms, funerals… The small gate of that ancient house was always open, as was the front door when the season's mildness permitted, ready to welcome relatives, friends, the postman, the dairyman. It was Marguerite's home, where every nook was the repository of a memory.

When my parents were away, my heart overflowed with joy at the thought of taking up residence at my grandparents' house. Nights under the large feather eiderdown were the object of genuine expeditions; its mass imprisoned me, requiring cunning and subterfuge for my clandestine escapes. Beneath the bed slumbered a secret universe: dried linden flowers, dog-eared books, forgotten medicinal plants, a voiceless violin, a dismembered doll, piles of calendars inherited from my grandfather the postman, old comic books—a true inventory of dreams. In my grandmother's room, I knew that treasures lay hidden—sparkling jewels deep in the drawers, elegant hats, handbags—at dawn, the aroma of coffee exhaled like a murmur. My grandfather slowly devoted himself to the art of shaving and whistling, facing the barber's mirror, while the large grandfather clock punctuated the rhythm of fortunate days.

After breakfast, I dashed out to the garden to find my faithful canine companion, Toto, who, poor creature, was regularly dressed up in my disguises (he endured it with a saintly forbearance, yet never without adopting the air of a resigned victim). Toto kept company with the fowl who overtly mocked him (one could perceive the irony in their clucking!), as well as the weasels. I spent my time looking after the baby rabbits and their mothers, whom I eagerly retrieved to shield them from the grasp of the sinister truck that sometimes passed by and took them away. Not to mention the elegant and inseparable pair of doves.

 The Fabric Workshop and the Aronde's Expeditions

I experienced boundless joy in visiting my great-aunt, a dressmaker who worked from her home. Her husband, also a tailor, operated from his own shop. At my great-aunt's place, I would lose myself in reverie watching all those beautiful wedding dresses! Her workshop was a veritable creative chaos: I swam in the fabric scraps, they were everywhere! It was a highly valued interlude, teeming with textiles and imagination.

Wednesdays were devoted to the sacred. From the moment my grandfather started the Aronde, a car that seemed to run on sheer enthusiasm, I knew we were embarking on the equivalent of a long-haul journey... measured in childhood mileage! The expedition felt endless to me, although in reality, it often led only to the neighboring hamlet. The Aronde transported our household towards dwellings brimming with life, or sometimes towards a stillness so absolute one could have heard a pin drop. My grandfather would drag us (amiably, of course) to visit his former colleagues, old friends, and all the relatives. The advantage was the opportunity to enter such splendid residences that one wondered if we hadn't crossed into another century. I preserve invaluable memories from those times. And above all, we listened with deference to the stories of life.