Proust's Overcoat - Lorenza Foschini [11]
Learning of this interest in Marcel Proust, Werner expressed frustration, regretted their not having met just a week earlier. In the previous eight days, the contents of Mme Proust’s apartment had been packed up and moved out, and in the process mountains of paper were taken out into the courtyard on avenue Hoche and burned. Perhaps unconscious of the cruel pain he was inflicting, Werner began to enumerate methodically what had been destroyed: masses of paper covered in writing; lengthy, cobbled-together “paperoles,” bound folios of notes that were ripped apart; notebooks; letters, more letters, innumerable letters. There had been too much paper for them to burn it all.
In an increasingly anguished state, Guérin interrupted him to ask what had become of the notebooks written in Marcel’s hand once shown to him by the doctor. Werner told him that Mme Proust had instructed him to save those because of the doctor’s personal attachment to them. They had been carefully stashed away. A publisher had alerted their daughter Suzy to the possibility that these papers might be worth a fortune, so she had taken them and locked them away in a safe. When Marthe heard about their potential value, she stopped the burning. All the books and papers left behind had been offered to Lefebvre, who bought them all, and then Guérin had purchased everything from him.
So that’s that, thought Guérin, as he listened to Werner. Treasures were spared from Marthe’s destructive folly only when she became remorseful at having destroyed things that might have been lucrative. But the feeling that had seized Guérin back in the doctor’s apartment was rekindled in him now, a confused but determined need to try and remedy what devastation had been wrought. Guérin had no way of knowing exactly what had been burned and what might have been spared. It would take him many years of desperate searching before he could rest, confident he had done everything possible to preserve what remained of Proust’s earthly possessions.
Hoping that some more material might yet be salvaged, Guérin urged Werner to undertake a thorough search of everything he had carted away. He asked him to report back about whatever he might find; surely there were some “paperoles” still left unburned. He instructed Werner to tell Marthe that she could set any price she wanted. He showed Werner out and took himself off to bed.
The following evening, after having moved everything out of the avenue Hoche apartment, Werner found his way back to the house on rue Berton. The young secondhand goods dealer came in holding an old hatbox that had come from Lewis, the celebrated turn-of-the-century fashion boutique on rue Royale, its yellow label still pasted on. Werner was barely acknowledged by Guérin, who grabbed the box out of his hands, desperate to see what it held. Rifling through the hastily gathered papers stuffed inside, Guérin was able to make a connoisseur’s quick, knowing assessment: letters, drawings, photographs, three or four books. As determinedly as he had opened the box he closed it up again. He counted out three thousand francs, handed them to Werner, and dismissed him.
Once alone, Guérin reopened what he must have looked upon as a treasure chest. Night was falling and there was scant daylight coming in through the room’s large windows. Under the light of a lamp, he pulled from the hatbox letters Proust had once received, as well as letters he had written but never posted. With intense regard, Guérin glanced at delicate sheets of white, ivory, and turquoise paper and then at several heavier Bristol sheets embossed with insignias or interlaced initials. He recognized the signatures of Jean Cocteau, André Gide, Robert de Montesquiou, Sidney Schiff, Reynaldo