At MaisonCléo, the bride answers to names from another era: Constance, Javotte, Berthe, Madeleine, Isabeau. Off-white silk, organza, and Calais lace shape a trousseau drawn freely from grandmothers’ wardrobes—a foundational touchstone for the house. Marie Dewet cites her own grandmother’s closet, brimming with ruffles, florals, and puff sleeves, among her earliest inspirations.
I returned from the Midi this summer with the look of a fallen bride. Yet there was no husband to mourn, no wedding to undo. In truth, I was rather happy. The SNCF announced a thirty-minute delay. Second class, coach 8, at the very end of the platform. I walked with the stride of a bride-to-be, though my procession left something to be desired. A full-blown freak show, with its ruined little faces, distorted memories, and “what-ifs” posing as carnival creatures. Such is the wreckage we trail behind us after a breakup. I left them my suitcases, in lieu of sugared almonds.
A whistle blew, and I hurried to my window seat in a four-seater bay. A head table with three strangers for guests, and for a wedding cake, a shrink-wrapped croque-monsieur. In my Create headphones, Camille Lellouche sang Baby Alone in Babylone, accompanied by André Manoukian on piano. I knew the story behind that song: Gainsbourg had written it for Birkin after their parting. She had gone, and he kept offering her words carried by Brahms’s melody, endlessly.
All summer long, I paraded my Marjolaine dress—its florals, sequins, and ruffles as crooked as my heart. In hand, Rilke. In mind, questions. We are born alone, we die alone, and in between, we must learn to keep ourselves company. All that remained was to become my own betrothed; upon reflection, it spared me any nasty surprises. After a few days without a phone or social media—Pauline Crusoe, a willing castaway—I discovered the pitfall of desert islands. You only converse with yourself, and I tended to repeat myself. Heading home, I packed only my dowry: my sensitivity, my absurd humor, my shakti, and the lessons learned the hard way.
Aboard the train, the off-white silk of my blouse brushed against my skin, embracing with every jolt the curve of my small breast—the guardian of a generous heart. At last, I was opening up to the world outside. Farewell Marjolaine, my summer fig leaf. Hello Constance, ready to soak in future encounters, the gentle murmur of nearby conversations. I was that bride offering her thigh at the reception, eyes closed, letting the garter slip away—a final defense, a first “yes” to life. My thoughts turned to Charles Pépin and his essay La Rencontre: “Our truth lies not within us, but between us.” I had found my wedding ring. Camille’s husky voice needed Manoukian’s notes; Gainsbourg needed Brahms to weep for the woman who walked away; I needed Marjolaine to fold into myself, and Constance to unfurl. My MaisonCléo blouse, too, hung by a single thread: “The lace belonged to my aunt’s mother, who passed away last year and worked in one of the Calais lace mills when she was young, like nearly all my family.”
Paris, the end of the line. His fingers brushed my ankle, his gaze traced my leg, and he stood up, holding a white ribbon that still held my pulse. “Is this yours?” The one who catches the garter, they say, is next.
FOOTNOTES
Listen Les Pianos de Gainsbourg – André Manoukian
A piano-led reimagining of Gainsbourg’s repertoire, featuring Camille Lellouche on Baby Alone in Babylone.
Read Letters to a Young Poet – Rainer Maria Rilke (1929)
Ten letters on solitude, love, and artistic creation, addressed to the young poet Franz Xaver Kappus.
Read La Rencontre, une philosophie – Charles Pépin (2021)
An essay on otherness and the ways our encounters transform and reveal us to ourselves.
