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The days stretched long in the five years that Philo kept his vigil in Paris waiting for news of Bart and Dash.
During that time, he watched with interest as the character of his beloved Place Dauphine went from elegant to bohemian, becoming known as a temple of art. Many of the old houses were subdivided into flats and ateliers.
Philosophical about the change, Philo delighted in the surge of creative vitality provided by the sudden influx of artists, models, and writers. Long a student of its history, he realized that the Place Dauphine, or Crown Prince Place, was actually reverting to a character abandoned when it became a bastion of First Empire chic in the days of Napoleon.
Often, he stood at the tall windows of his study, hands folded behind his back, gazing down into the park, reflecting on its colorful past. It never failed to move him that this very spot was the cradle of Paris, born as a fishing village into which Julius Caesar marched in 52 B.C. to proclaim it a conquest of the Roman Empire.
In 1606, construction of the first stone bridge across the Seine was completed. Named the Pont Neuf, or "New Bridge," it crossed the river in two spans linked by the boat-shaped Île de la Cité. Laid out in 1607 and named for Louis the Thirteenth when he was the Dauphin, the triangular park at the prow of this island marked the geographical center of Paris. By order of Louis' father, Henry the Fourth, all of its buildings were uniformly constructed of rose-colored brick, embellished with white stone, and roofed with peppercorn slate. Intended as a hub of commerce, the ground floors were first let to merchants, lawyers, and banks.
An equestrian statue of King Henry faced the narrow passageway that formed the western entry to the Place Dauphine from the Pont Neuf.
Before the Revolution, the bridge comprised the busiest thoroughfare in the capital. Many a drunk fell into the clutches of the lowest women of the streets, whose pimps robbed them and beat them and left them for dead in alleyways. The Pont Neuf was also a favored haunt for unscrupulous recruiters who cajoled meandering young men into joining the King's army.
The Place Dauphine, so peaceful behind its noisy entry, attracted artists and poets in abundance to sketch or compose in the shade of its chestnut trees. During the First Empire, the houses gradually came into the hands of famous writers, politicians, and the theatrical elite.
Sweeping transformations were effected during the Second Empire in the mid-nineteenth century. Napoleon the Third and his modish Eugénie turned central Paris into a masterwork of architecture and style. Wide boulevards sprang from the medieval mishmash of alleyways and lanes, new bridges spanned the Seine, massive slums dissolved into smart shops, glamorous hotels and restaurants, theaters, townhouses, and expensive flats.
As the city achieved new glory, the mundane stalls on the Pont Neuf disappeared. Nor did the Place Dauphine escape the renovators' swath. During Philo's early tenure in 1874, the houses at its eastern end were demolished to make way for an enlargement of the Palace of Justice and the widening of the Rue de Harlay, but a sense of separation was maintained by a fringe of bushes and trees.
Philo's house had stood for nearly three hundred years. Despite numerous internal renovations, it still retained the external appearance approved by Henry the Fourth. Philo thought of himself almost fiercely as the temporary guardian of these few rooms of Parisian history. He resolved he would preserve it as his home till he died. He shared profoundly the sentiments of a courtier in the reign of Louis the Sixteenth, who was so fond of Paris that he said he would rather live in prison there than in freedom elsewhere.
Now, in these lonely years between 1890 and 1895, the heart of Paris did indeed become a sort of prison for Philo as he awaited the answer to his prayers for Bart's safety. Surrounded by Adrienne and a small household staff, he led a relatively cheerless existence which the housekeeper attempted to assuage with elegant cuisine and constant attention to the details of running a private establishment which was home to a prominent world figure.
He was somewhat comforted by long, exuberant letters from Annie in Martinique, relating her adventures as a grandmother and as a presiding celebrity in island society.
Most comforting to him were frequent reports from Ardie that Romelle was doing well. He was moved to tears when her first note came in a childish scrawl as she turned six in 1892. She begged permission to "come home, to be with you, dear Grandpapa," and asked for news of her father.
It was enclosed in a brief letter from Bridget, whose long-ago intimacy with Bart was something at which Philo had only guessed and which had never been confirmed. He understood from Ardie that Bridget's husband, Michael Foley, had become general manager of Cargo, proving remarkably able in the work.
Bridget wrote: "Romy and Kathy are inseparable and secretly think of themselves as twins. I suppose thinking makes it so because you would be amazed if you were to see them together. They've taken on each other's habits and gestures and often make a game of saying the same thing at the same time. They are both Brad's darlings. He's become quite a decent lad in spite of his mother's being a bit too possessive for my taste. We get letters from Miss Annie all the time, inquiring about everything to do with Romy. I don't think Madam (that would be Irene to you, Captain!) appreciates them so much, but then she's quite busy these days. She's carved herself a place in Baltimore society, much more so than in Boston. Forgive my saying it, sir, but up there she's just another fur-trapper's granddaughter, while down here she's Missus Duncan Cargo! Don't you worry, Captain, the Master (that's your Ardie) and I see to it that our Romy is the darling of the house."
Despite Bridget's assurances, Philo noted that ensuing letters from Romelle always referred to the Place Dauphine as home and how much she wanted to be with him. He began to wonder if perhaps the child sensed something in the Baltimore house that was not apparent to Bridget.
The aching of her childish heart was more than he could bear. Every word from her drove him to tears. He sensed as never before the devastating separation from his loved ones.
He was grateful at least for the hope that Bart was still alive. He had received only one report since the mad scramble between the Russian and the Manchu in the spring of 1890.
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