DOROTHEA STRAUS
39
nine cave of remembrance. Furthermore, I could discover no trace of
family likeness in his daughter's plain face. As she displayed with pride her
mother's abandoned possessions, I examined her carefully. The genes are
often capricious - could this middle-aged, weathered woman, dressed in
dowdy country tweeds, wearing sensible ground-gripper oxford shoes, be
the offspring of the correctly good-looking de Jouvenel and Colette?
Had she ever been that child-sprite, "Bel-Gazou" (her mother's pet name
for her), known to us from the memoirs? Rather, she resembled a French
version of Miss Marple, the mannish British heroine of Agatha Christie's
mystery novels.
"This is my mother's shawl ," she was saying.
But I shrank from the gossamer wrap, as though it had been a
shroud.
A light rain was falling outside in the courtyard where the treble
voices of children were proclaiming the scorings of their game of ball. I
wished to escape into the semi-open air of the roofless quadrangle.
"Where should we go for lunch?" my husband asked.
"When I am in Paris I always dine in the Palais Royal, at the restau–
rant Grand VeFour. They reserve my mother's table for me," Colette de
Jouvenel answered. And, grabbing her oversized, serviceable, mannish
black umbrella, she preceded us down the dark narrow stairs, and ac–
companied by the persistent smell of cabbage, we left the apartment.
"Wait for me here,
I'll
be right back. I must fetch my little dog,"
Colette called, as she trotted out of sight.
Beneath the balcony of the writer's apartment, the words engraved
on the brass plaque had lost their import.
The restaurant Grand VeFour nestles within the historic compound
of the Palais Royal. Many generations of famous diners have come and
gone, as well as the anonymous imprint of a child tourist in Paris (that
other self that I used to be) - in the company of my father, an enthusi–
astic gourmet. As my eyes grew accustomed to the twilight in the temple
devoted to culinary art, a host of nymphs in scanty draperies bearing
cornucopias overflowering with fi-uits and flowers emerged painted on
the glass panels of the walls. Years later, they arc still there, they still offer
up their bounty to the senses; just as in a cathedral the saints depicted on
stained glass pay homage to the soul.
The maitre d' greeted Colette de Jouvenel with ceremony and led
us
to
her mother's special table in a corner of the room. Dressed in
swallowtails and pin-striped trousers , he might have been a red-robed
cardinal officiating in the false night of a cathedral. As I slid along the
banquette, making rool11 for little Colette and Sacha, her miniature
brown poodle, I felt like the boy Marcel Proust, had he been privileged
to enter the aristocratic, historic pew of the Duchess de Guermantes in
