One fine morning in the month of May, an elegant woman was riding a handsome sorrel mare, amid the flowers, down the avenues of the Bois de Boulogne. The rider was – in the estimation of the young poet seated nearby, awaiting her approach – the most beautiful woman in the entire world. Not many years a woman, he had previously observed, but of marrying age to be sure. Though full-figured, she retained the glow of adolescence, the unblemished skin of her broad face yet the perfect canvas for two beautiful sea green eyes and a minutely aquiline nose. And beneath that nose, two pink lips – soft as rose petals – seemed painted as if by God himself to form a perfect pout of concentration.
As the rider emerged from the avenue of chestnuts, her fair hair caught the sunlight, flaming a brilliant gold. Hers was the sort of hair that is its own indefinable colour – a full spectrum, depending upon the light. From the homely warmth of harvested grain to the searing flash of molten silver, sunlight in honey or daffodils in bloom, one could never predict how it might appear – a quality the poet took for a sign of an artistic spirit, and thus of their sure compatibility.
He prayed he was right, for today he had resolved they would meet at last. Though not now, as she approached. Later, upon her return along the avenue. That would give her time first to observe him, absorbed in his writing. And for the image of the artist so absorbed to get to work on the young lady’s fancy. To consider for herself how good it would be to make his acquaintance on such a fine morning.
The young man felt his pulse quicken as the rider drew near and began to wonder if his nerve would hold upon her return. But as he feigned interest in his notebook, the steady clop-da-clop of hooves fell apart, while a disgruntled snort told him that she had brought the animal to a halt not five yards away. He looked up warily to see the rider bending down to adjust a stirrup. Even the stern frown of consternation that pinched her brow as she reached for the wayward tack seemed to him impossibly attractive. But it was gone in a flash as she sat upright again, replaced by a look of quizzical delight at finding a handsome stranger eyeing her with such evident interest.
“Bonjour Monsieur.”
“Bonjour Mademoiselle!”
Oh, that he should live to enjoy even so simple an exchange! He felt as though he’d been drawn unexpectedly up into some heavenly realm – a state of grace thoroughly undeserved, though often dreamed of.
The young woman seemed glad enough, too, at the chance to regain her composure, joining the poet in taking in their splendid surrounds.
“Such a day, no?” the man remarked airily.
“Heavenly!” the young woman declared, drawing back her shoulders and craning her neck to breathe in the sunshine.
“And such a horse,” the man went on, both surprised and emboldened by his own audacity. He stood and approached the front of the animal, proffering a hand and allowing it to mouth his fingers. “My mother – may she rest in peace – had one the same when I was little. A sorrel mare, quite the same.” In truth, the poet’s mother had owned a piebald pony, but it loomed fair and large in his boyhood memory. Besides, he reasoned, if he couldn’t exercise his artistic licence in a moment such as this, whenever could he? At ease with the embellishment, he leant back and eyed the horse with the air of someone much better informed.
“Seventeen hands?”
The rider’s face told him he’d made a good guess. “Josephine is nearly sixteen hands,” she said, ruffling the animal’s mane, “but she’s still growing, aren’t you, ma chérie?”
“Did you say… Josephine?” The man’s expression was now one of honest surprise – surely, this was a sign from above.
“Yes. Why? What is it?”
Hand on heart, the man replied: “Why, my name is Joseph. Joseph Grand.”
The young woman seemed to bloom at the news.
“What a coincidence!” she cried. “Did you hear that, ma chérie? This gentleman says he knows you!”
Laughing together, M. Grand felt the height of summer draw perceptibly closer. The young woman’s body convulsed as she laughed, sunlight playing in a few strands of hair that had broken free from beneath her riding hat near the nape of her neck, still moist from her recent exertion. Somewhere nearby a clock tower began striking midday. At the stroke of twelve, as if on cue and in order to seal their acquaintance, the young woman introduced herself:
“My name is Brigitte Baudin.” The young woman lowered a gloved hand, which the poet cordially accepted.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Baudin.”
Every hope that had compelled him to seek his fortune in the great city seemed instantly fulfilled in this chance encounter with the elegant rider of the sorrel mare, whom he had long admired from afar. For while he had devised his own plan to speak with her, this wholly unforeseen encounter seemed to carry the weight of a higher authority, confirming as fate what he had discerned by instinct.
“Are you often riding in the gardens?” he asked, flinching slightly at his forced eloquence. Of course, he knew the answer full well, but prolonging the moment seemed worth the pretence.
Mlle Baudin happily confessed that, indeed, she rode most days, though more often now that spring had sprung. “In the summer my parents and I retire to the country,” she explained, “which I much prefer for riding. The open ground, the rivers, the forests… far less manicured and all… laid out.” From high in the saddle, she surveyed the avenue, now congested with pedestrians with dogs, nursing mothers, and spring-time sweethearts strolling arm-in-arm. “Josephine loves to canter, don’t you ma chérie? Which is hardly possible here, now, is it? Still…” She smiled contentedly, stroking the horse’s neck but fixing her eyes on M. Grand.
“Better than nothing?” he suggested.
“Exactly! A good deal better!”
For a moment he feared this might put an end to their encounter – that the young lady would simply take up the reigns and resume her ride back along the avenue. But he needn’t have worried.
“You are a writer?” she asked. His eyes joined hers in considering the evidence – his pencil and notebook.
“I am, yes,” he replied. “A poet, in fact.”
At this the young lady’s eyes widened in what he dared hope was approval.
“Do you… care for poetry at all, Mademoiselle Baudin?” he ventured.
“Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!” Her girlish enthusiasm was unabashed and, before M. Grand had time to regret the question, she pressed him for further evidence of his vocation: “Will you read to me, Monsieur Grand? Say that you will.”
“Read?”
“One of your poems, yes?”
“Oh… why yes. Yes, of course.”
Clearly, he had not expected to be called upon in his capacity as a poet quite so early on. He had certainly imagined reading to the young lady from the pages of his copious notebooks – or possibly his first published volume. But that had seemed an occasion for some time in the future, and for some place far more private. Perhaps the joyous moment of this, their first, exchange would in time have given rise to the requisite verse. But now here she sat, earnestly awaiting a recital.
He opened his notebook at random and pretended to consider the contents as though hard-pressed to make a choice. In truth, he felt there wasn’t a single entry within its pages likely to make a desirable impression. The notebook was a ledger of false starts – unfinished lines, disembodied couplets, a botched villanelle and several sentimental ditties, most of them addressed to the elegant rider of the sorrel mare herself. Those would never do. On some pages, however, he’d copied out lines of verse penned by other, as yet more successful, poets – perhaps there was something there he could commend to her for the time being.
“Don’t be shy, Monsieur Grand,” the young woman coaxed from the saddle. “Just a few lines will do… something romantic!”
Finally, his eyes alighted upon a suitable entry – a poem at once romantic yet not likely to have made its way into the curriculum of whatever school for young ladies Mlle Baudin must surely have attended. He cleared his throat, straightened his stance and, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, began:
The curve of your eyes goes around my heart…
He paused to check her face for any sign of recognition. Mercifully, there was none.
“Don’t be shy,” she said again, almost at a whisper. “Keep reading.”
He repeated the first line before continuing:
A round of dance and sweetness,
Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle,
And if I don’t know any more all that I’ve lived through
It’s because I haven’t always been seen by you.
He closed the notebook shyly, hardly daring to look up. When he did, it was to find the young woman clutching the reins to her breast, her spotless brow creased as though on the verge of tears.
“That is so… very sad,” she said at length. “And yet… quite beautiful.”
The poet’s face relaxed into a smile. “Do you believe so?” he asked.
“I know so,” she said emphatically. “And in poetry I am of the opinion that beauty counts for everything.”
M. Grand could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I couldn’t agree more,” he enthused. “Beauty is truth, and truth beauty.”
“The poet Keats!” the young woman exclaimed, instantly noting the reference, and together they basked in the surprise discovery of a shared faith.
The bond between them now seemed so firmly set that when, at length, they parted company, M. Grand felt no disappointment whatsoever. Indeed, he took the young lady’s parting words – May we meet again! – as a solemn vow of her deep desire and firm intent to do just that.
The journey home to his apartment took the form of one enormous detour, motivated by a longing to announce to all – and to find reflected in all – the joy of his new-found love. So effusive were his feelings at having been confirmed in his calling, and having met his life’s soulmate in such an auspicious manner, the entire city of Paris seemed too modest an audience with whom to share the discovery. Even so, it was with utter sincerity that he heralded each passer-by with a Bonjour, Madame! Bonjour, Monsieur! or Joie pour le monde, mes enfants! And every beggar in Paris made good that afternoon, who happened to cross paths with the poet Joseph Grand.
That evening he attended Mass for the first time since his mother had died, six years earlier. Seated beneath the immense vaulted ceiling of the Church of Saint-Eustache, there seemed almost space enough into which he might empty sufficient praise – though his mind rarely fixed on the liturgy, and the homily delivered by the priest that evening would forever escape his memory. In M. Grand’s mind, the refracted glory of the magnificent stained glass and the angelic antiphony of the choristers registered solely as testimony of his unwavering devotion to his own dear saint – Brigitte. Even the many statues and icons of the Holy Mother positioned about the church served only to put him in mind of the classical features of his one true love. When it came time to kneel before the alter rail to receive the Holy Eucharist, the pale wafer indeed seemed to him as true flesh – though not that of his Risen Lord. And when it dawned in his mind as he returned down the aisle to his pew that this was the place where he and Mlle Baudin would one day soon be married, he felt compelled to keep walking back out into the street, to share the revelation with anyone who was willing to listen.
Finally, he returned to his room and immediately set to work on some of the better incomplete poems from his notebook, before deciding it would likely take a novel to do justice to the day’s events. He penned a poor first line for such a book – a faltering attempt to capture the beauty of his darling Brigitte riding along the avenue in the May sunshine – which he gave up trying to improve when a ravishing hunger overtook him. That night, he ate like a man reprieved, singing boisterous ballads and lusty anthems as he fried liver and onions in a giant pan, filling and refilling his glass to the brim from a bottle of expensive wine. And although his mind was bursting with the memories of today, not to mention his many vivid plans for tomorrow, he woke the next morning surprised at how easily he’d fallen asleep.
For her part, the elegant rider of the sorrel mare returned the way she’d come, back along the avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, amid the flowers, through the ornate iron gateway and beyond, via the quiet backstreets to her family home in Les Fontenelles. She arrived to find the stable hands in a state of mild agitation, bickering over their relative duties. The mood among the house staff, too, had changed noticeably since her mid-morning departure, as if everyone but herself were privy to some disturbing bit of news. When she enquired what was the matter, she was informed by the maid that she had better ask her father, which she promptly sought to do.
Dr Francois Baudin, eminent physician and noted nerve specialist, was midway through his luncheon, seated alone, when his daughter appeared at the dining room door. He waved her in, mid-mouthful, gesturing for her to be seated in the neighbouring chair.
“Papa, what on earth is the matter? And where is Maman?”
“Shush-shush-shush…” the good doctor sought to calm her… “nothing’s the matter, my little dove. Come, sit. Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry. Where is Maman?”
“Upstairs, I expect. Sorting through her wardrobe with Marie.”
“Sorting her wardrobe? What for? What has happened, Papa?”
Setting down his knife and fork, the doctor turned to face his daughter. “Do you recall Monsieur Viollette, the Mayor of Dreux, whose wife I treated for palsy the year before last?”
“No.”
“No? Well, no matter…” The doctor paused to reconsider his explanation, observing the look of dread in his daughter’s face – her forehead severely creased as though she fully expected to be informed of some calamitous event that had befallen the entire family.
“My petal, please,” he went on, “calm yourself. The fact of the matter is simply this: the other day Monsieur Viollette – he is the Governor-General in Algeria now – wrote to me requesting my professional advice regarding a dear friend of his, the incumbent mayor of Oran, in Algeria. It seems the poor man is most terribly unwell with what sounds like a complicated array of nervous disorders. He will not remain mayor for much longer and needs urgent medical attention. I’ve since spoken with the poor fellow and, well… the upshot is, my dear, that we are to travel as a family to Oran so I can give him the treatment he needs.”
“What do you mean? To live?” Her father’s account of the matter had done nothing to alleviate her look of dread.
“Yes, for a while. Though you needn’t worry—”
“For how long?”
“Months, possibly longer. Years. I don’t know. It all depends.”
The young woman’s shoulders suddenly dropped, and her eyes fixed on her father’s plate as she silently considered the implications of his announcement. After a while, the creases in her forehead began to soften slightly. Noticing this, Dr Baudin continued warmly:
“The mayor is really the most generous man, my sweet. Everything is to be taken care of – travel expenses, the cost of relocation, a home on his estate.”
“When are we to leave?”
“By the end of the week we shall be on the train to Marseille, and then a steamship to Oran.”
Although she had clearly softened, the doctor couldn’t quite read his daughter’s face; she was most like her mother in that respect. Still, it was his business to gauge the temper of the mind and it seemed to him she still harboured some deep anxiety at the prospect of leaving Paris.
“Ah…” he sighed. “Your mother thought you might not take kindly to the idea. I hoped she was wrong. But we both agree it’s for the best – a chance for me to trial some ground-breaking techniques. Also that it’s better we remain together as a family. There’s no telling how long—”
“What about the horses?” The young lady suddenly became animated again, the question thrust at her father like a test of his sincerity.
“The horses?”
“Yes. Mother will die if she has to give up riding. As will I.”
The good doctor chuckled and lent back in his chair. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem, my sweet. The mayor is truly the most generous of men. He has arranged for us to bring whatever we need. If you like, I will ask him when I speak to him again this afternoon. But I am sure there will be no problem.”
“But where will I ride? Are there even any parks or gardens for riding in Oran?”
“I’m sure there are many fine gardens, my petal. Not to mention the mayor’s own estate – one-hundred acres in the hill country behind the city.”
“Oh, Papa!” A glimmer of joy had suddenly returned to his daughter’s face. “Do you think I’ll be able to ride there, in the open country?”
“I’m quite certain you will, ma chérie. I’ll make sure of it.” The doctor smiled warmly from within his greying beard, pleased with himself as much as for her at having been able to win her around without too much fuss.

“Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you!” Transformed, the young woman stood and kissed the top of her father’s immaculately oiled head. Then, pinching a boiled potato from his plate, she waltzed across the room and out the door before heading straightaway back down to the stables, to share the happy news with her darling Josephine.