It was particularly thrilling to me that M. Chevalier chose to include my all-time favorite, “Ah! Si Vous Connaissiez Ma Poule” in his program. Not as well known as “Valentine” or “Mimi,” the song was so familiar to me I couldn’t wait for him to come to my favorite part where he injected his very French laugh into the notes of the title: “Ha ha ha… ah si vous connaissiez ma pou ou ou ou ou ou ou ou le.” If I had known how to say, “stage door” in French, I would have gladly stood in line to get his autograph—unfortunately, I left empty-handed.

Flash forward—Back in the States, ten years and two children after that first Parisian encounter, when I read that M. Chevalier was coming to this country to do a one man show at The Ziegfeld Theater in New York. I immediately wrote for tickets. My husband, who had always tolerated this rival and even brought him into the house (musically speaking) on several occasions, agreed to accompany me to the theater.

It was a blustery winter night in February 1963, but the house was full, and neither the audience nor Maurice was daunted by the weather outside. If his bio had not revealed his age as being 75, nothing in his performance would have given it away.

I sat enthralled as he went through his repertoire from “Mimi” and “Louise” in English to “Valentine,” “Place Pigalle,” Quai de Bercy,” and many of my other favorites in French. Mind you, I scarcely knew a word of French—I took Spanish in high school—but his gestures, his bearing and the tilt of his straw hat made the meaning of each song as clear as if he had been born on 42nd Street.

The audience that night was made up of equally enthusiastic fans who joined me in applauding wildly and shouting “Bravo” at the end. His curtain calls sent the audience into a tizzy of excitement. “Toujours Maurice,” we shouted. But many of us forwent the last of the bows to be first in line at the stage door where we could see our idol emerge and perhaps, just perhaps, get his autograph. I left my husband, still seated, with strict instructions to shout all my “Bravos” and Encores” and to meet me outside when the final curtain went down.

Almost tripping on my spike heels, I was still not the closest to the door. Others, savvier than I in the ways of autograph seeking, crowded in, but when a representative of M. Chevalier’s appeared in the doorway and said Monsieur would see a few people at a time in his dressing room, I took an uncharacteristic action that surprised even me. I elbowed my way to the front and boldly included myself in the very first (and for all I know the only) group to be ushered into the presence of The Star.

We were escorted past the guard at the entrance, who in an old movie would have been called “Pop,” and then we were there. And there he was, a tall, unsmiling, even dour man in a dressing gown and the obligatory ascot. Without his straw hat, he did not seem as jaunty as he had on stage until I heard him speak. Then I thought I would faint. It took me a moment or two to realize he was asking for the Playbill hanging limply from my hand so that he could write his name on it. That lilt, that accent, that voice.

And that was all there was to it. I walked out onto the street where my husband was waiting for me. In my hand was the autograph on my Playbill. Over the years, my 78’s became 45’s became tapes and now “Ah! Si Vous Connaissiez Ma Poule” is one band on a CD, “Le Roi Du Music-Hall.”

I never saw Chevalier in person after that. I have only my memories, my recordings and a precious piece of paper signed in his own hand. But if you walked into my office on any given day, you would see a large poster of that gentleman in the straw hat hanging over my desk, and in the background hear the unmistakable voice of my all-time favorite chanteur: Maurice Chevalier.

© 2022, Lyla Blake Ward

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… her streets were cold and gray. It was March 1952. My husband had been recalled for the Korean War and sent to France as part of a bomber wing Eisenhower promised NATO in the early days of the Cold War.

Twenty-four years old at the time, married almost a year, I arrived in the city of my dreams ready to be seduced by her warmth and historic charm. Expecting beauty and light in a city with echoes of Victor Hugo, Degas and Maurice Chevalier, we got somber darkness and bone chilling weather. We drove through grim streets, rundown houses on either side, to our hotel, a turn-of-the-century hostelry with a shabby lobby and a cage elevator. My husband had selected the one-star Napoleon Bonaparte, partly for its price, 3500 francs (about $10) for a double room, and partly for its view. The 1952 Michelin indicated that it overlooked the Arc de Triomphe. Obviously, M. Michelin had made his notes on a clear day. On this day, fog and drizzle prevented us from seeing more than an outline of that venerable monument or anything else. Looking out the hotel window, my only thought was: what was all the fuss about? I had traveled thousands of miles on the North Atlantic in February, retching all the way, to celebrate our first anniversary in this renowned citadel of love. For this? In 1952, my feminism had yet fully to emerge. Tired and disappointed, I had only one recourse. I burst into tears.

Luckily, my husband, who was also let down at his first view of Paris, had been trained for bravery in World War II. In his if-we-have-to-be-in-Paris-for-our-first-anniversary-let’s-make-the-best-of-it voice, he said, ”Let’s go out to dinner.”

We did, and even before we had our first sip of French champagne and realized it wasn’t imported, the joy of being together, wherever, prevailed. In the remaining three or four days of that first stay, although the dreary weather didn’t lift, our spirits did, and despite the gloom we started to feel some of the magnetism Ernest Hemingway or Gertrude Stein must have felt.

Notwithstanding the gloomy weather, it was heartbreakingly apparent France had still not gotten her act together. In 1952, six and a half years after the end of World War II, the grime of war coated even the most beautiful buildings, causing them to appear proud but worn. The Louvre, Notre Dame and Sacré Coeur were like elderly actors who hadn’t worked for a long time. The Champs-Elysées was only beginning to wake up with a few fashionable shops occupying some of the large storefronts that had been shuttered for many years during and after the war.

Even if I had not been wearing a bright yellow topcoat (from my trousseaux) when all the Parisian women were still in black, we would have been very conspicuous driving our 1950 Pontiac. Few Frenchmen had cars at the time, and we had ours only because the Air Force, which wouldn’t pay my way over to join my husband, was willing to pay his car’s way over. So much for family values in 1952.

Because there were so few automobiles in Paris and so little traffic, diagonal parking was allowed on the sidewalks along the Champs. Wherever we parked, we would come out to find our car surrounded with curious onlookers. The French were fascinated with American cars. People would touch the doors, the hood or the windows as if to share ownership for a moment. These observers who had no idea how our car had gotten there must have seen us as a rich American couple. Little did they know that the car was owned mostly by the bank, and the exchange rate was so advantageous that a Second Lieutenant’s salary allowed us to, if not quite live it up, indulge in a few more ooh-la-lahs than we might have at the same time in the U.S..

We could afford to eat in restaurants then we could only dream of today: Lapérouse, La Tour D’Argent, Lasserre. We could walk right into any museum or the Eiffel Tower, no waiting. We bought fine leather gloves for $5 a pair and with the purchase got a handful of samples of the leading French perfumes: Chanel #5, Arpège, Shalimar.

On that first visit, VE Day was still a living memory, and we were the symbols of liberation. We were treated with respect and admiration; the general thinking of the day seemed to be: if we were American, we had to be good. Not too hard to take for a young soldier and his bride. Rain and all, Paris had begun to claim our hearts.

The next time I saw Paris was in May of that same year. We drove up from Bordeaux, where my husband was stationed, with a windshield that had been shattered by May Day demonstrators. The Communists were expressing their opposition to the American military presence in France. Spare parts for our car were only available in Paris. Tough assignment. We had to go back.

The sun shone for the four or five days we were there. The trees were in leaf, the flowers were in bloom, the Boulevards looked Grand: the buildings that had appeared grim and sad only two months before, although no cleaner, now seemed resplendent with their softly rounded corners, balconies and mansard roofs. Lovers walked along the Seine, kissing in public. We held hands. Book stalls dotted the quays, and the Bateau Mouche had begun regular trips back and forth on the river. We were smitten. We hated to leave.

Once my husband had been transferred to Laon and we lived in nearby Soissons, 62 miles northeast of Paris, we were only an hour by train or car to the capital. Weekends, we would pack a bag, toss it in the car, and drive into “town.” Since our living costs in the small hotel where we were staying in Soissons equaled my husband’s salary (married couples without children were not given living quarters by the Air Force, just an allowance for housing) we depended on the small commission checks forwarded by my husband’s previous employer, and the favorable rate of exchange, to finance our weekend excursions. Mindful of our limited resources, we would find a small hotel, nothing as grand as the Napoleon Bonaparte, ask to see a room, check it out for fleas by shaking the curtains and bedspread, and if it proved to be insect free, check in. From here we would get dressed in our stateside finery and go out on the town to the Follies Bergère, the Lido or a small club with walls draped in dark red velvet where Edith Piaf, the Little Sparrow, sang in her sad waifish voice. Very often we would end up at Les Halles for onion soup at two o’clock in the morning before returning to our creepy but flea-less room.

By the time we were shipped back to the States, or rather my husband and his car were—I went on my own—Paris had become a part of us. Never mind the tourists who had come before. Forget those who would come after us. It was our town; our love.

The last time I saw Paris, her streets were cold and gray. It was April 2001. My husband and I had celebrated our fiftieth anniversary in March and decided to go back to the scene of our first anniversary. Remembering the weather on our first trip, we decided to wait until April. But the day we arrived was misty and overcast, and that was the best day of the week. On the drive in from De Gaulle Airport, we saw industrial plants, hotels, ordinary buildings. Except for the signs in French, we could have been entering any American city, until, all at once, in the distance the Eiffel Tower came into view, and then the street names became familiar: We were crossing the Rue St. Honoré, the Rue de Rivoli. We were at the Place de la Concorde, and suddenly we were driving over the Seine to the Left Bank. Our taxi driver took us to the Boulevard St. Germain where he turned onto a narrow street, Rue de Jacob. This is where our small Hôtel des Marronniers stood. This time I didn’t cry, but a few tears did gather as we entered the lobby and the tiny garden restaurant beyond. Because we were not alone. Having an early breakfast was our whole family: our two daughters and their husbands, and their children, our grandchildren. They had come to help us celebrate our fiftieth anniversary.

It rained off and on all week, even sleeted one day. The temperature hovered at 50; the lines were blocks long at the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay and the Eiffel Tower. Our umbrellas dripped as we entered the Café de Flore for an aperitif. The view from the top of Notre Dame was mostly of other tourists. The banks of the Seine were flooded because of the “unusual” rain. It didn’t matter. We were here surrounded by our family. Paris never looked lovelier.

© 2021, Lyla Blake Ward, for first publication on France Revisited, francerevisited.com.

The post 1952: The First Time I Saw Paris… appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.