Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1963)

dancing. The Farandole — a wonderful dance. With all the young boys and girls in the village holding hands and twisting, like snakes, through the streets. And with traditional music, of course. The fifres and the tambourines. “ And ,” Marie went on, “there will be also the free run of the bulls for Mme. Kennedy. That is called here La Course Libre. That is very traditional here. Every week in the summer and the good weather. With ribbons attached to the horns of the hulls and everyone chasing after the animals to see if they can tear off a ribbon. A scene of true and gay hysteria. Something, I think, that will please Mme. Kennedy very much — and also the little Caroline, should she bring her along. “And, too, there will of course be a speech of welcome by Monsieur Leandri, our very fine mayor. “And, of course, our handsome French actor, Jean-Louis Trintignant, will be here from Paris for the occasion. This may come as a surprise to Mrs. Kennedy, but Trintignant is related to her — a distant cousin.” “Enough of this,” Aristide said, interrupting the girl. “We must be going. We have more to do than to listen to your transcendental suppositions.” “Poof — you,” said Marie, laughing again. Then she threw me a wink and she said: “Sometimes I wonder why I am marrying this boy.” And a moment later — Marie’s continued laughter behind us — he and I were off. The walk to the house of Jacqueline Kennedy’s cousins — from one end of the village to the other — would ordinarily have taken five minutes. But with Aristide as my guide, it lasted more than an hour. The village sights He took me first through the ancient quarter of the village, where the streets are no more than eight or nine feet wide, and the houses pasted one alongside the other — “because, you see, in the very old days, when the winds blew heavy from the north and the enemies came heavy from the south, it was important for people to be as close to one another as possible, for their protection, and comfort and peace of mind.” He took me next to the Monument aux Morts, the monument to the dead, located at the foot of the main thoroughfare of the village, called somewhat extravagantly the Boulevard Gambetta — “this monument was built to honor those who died in all of the wars in which France has fought. And to honor those men and women and children who died in the American air raid of August 22, 1944. The Americans were out to destroy our bridge. Instead, only one bomb landed on the bridge and more than a dozen houses were blown up. You see there, that name on the plaque? Antoine Bouvier? He was a cousin of Mme. Kennedy. He was in one of those houses at the time of the bombing.” He took me then to see the city’s ancient fortress, alongside the River Rhone — “this, too, was hit by the American bombs. And good thing, too. For the Nazis were quartered here then. The terrible Nazis.” We walked along the quai which borders the Rhone and stopped to look at the P magnificent and ancient bridge which spans the river. “Your Mrs. Kennedy,” said Aristide, “she might be interested in this little story, being a religious woman. The story is that when the bridge was being built, back in the Twelfth Century, there was one man who worked harder on its construction than any other. He was a stranger. No one knew who he was, nor from where he had come. No one could understand why, when the construction of the bridge was completed, he refused any wages and, instead, simply disappeared. Then one night one of the workers on the bridge had a dream. He dreamed he saw the mysterious man who had toiled so hard and left so quietly. He dreamed that the man had said to him, very simply, these five words: ‘I am the Holy Ghost.’ And thus the bridge was named, as was the village : ‘The Bridge of the Holy Ghost’ — Pont Saint Esprit.” We continued walking. And then, pointing ot a small house we had just reached, he said, “This is it, your destination. No. 6, Quai de Luynes. It is in this house that Jacqueline’s true cousin Mme. Paulette Bouvier-Souquet lives. With her husband, Raymond. And her children, Mireille and the baby Jacques. They are very friendly people. They are nice people. Their house, you can see, is most modest. But their hearts are large. Come, let us go meet them. And let us see what you can learn about them and their relative in the United States. . . .” They looked like Jackie I could see it immediately — the striking family resemblance to Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy in the faces of Mme. BouvierSouquet and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Mireille. Their eyes were the same as Jacqueline’s — hazel, rather widely separated. The smiles were Jacqueline’s — expansive, warm. The shape of the faces. The coloring of the hair. The general quiet beauty. All were the same, as with Jacqueline. I spoke a few sentences of greeting, with the woman and her daughter. But not for long. Because, as I was soon to learn, this was a typically French family where the husband and father did most of the talking. And Raymond Souquet was obviously a good-natured man who enjoyed to talk. “Here,” he began, “first I prepare you a pastis, a traditional drink.” Then : “Now, about our cousin, Jacqueline Kennedy. You must say to your readers that jve all love her very much, the entire Bouvier family. And that while we are disappointed that she has never come to visit us, we hope that she some day will. “So far, our relations with cousin Jacqueline have been most cordial. For instance, as you look around the room here, you can most certainly see that I am a painter. I am, too, a man of business. You might tell your readers if you would be so kind that I am beginning an involvement in the construction business and also in the travel business — and that if any of them would like a house built here in the South of France, or would perhaps like to travel here and have hotel accommodations arranged for them, that I — Raymond Souquet — would be very happy to make such arrangements for them. They will learn that I am industrious, and honest, and very eager to serve. “But, aside from my business affairs. basically, in my heart of hearts, I am a man who enjoys to paint. Look on the wall here — this is an ancient sea battle I have just completed. Very detailed work. Very difficult. And over here — this is a pride and joy of mine, a likeness of our cousin Jacqueline holding her new child, the baby John, in her arms. Does that painting not give the impression of a Madonna with child? You think so? Thank you. For that is what I tried very hard to capture in our cousin Jacqueline; since she does have, I think, the beauty of a Madonna. “But even more important, look here, at this painting. You will see that it is a painting of our bridge here at Pont Saint Esprit. You will notice, perhaps, that it is painted on a very special piece of wood. I say special wood because it comes from a bed in the old Bouvier farmhouse — or mas, as we call such houses here in the South of France. In fact, it is from the very bed on which cousin Jacqueline’s great-grandfather, Michel, was born. I have made two such paintings of our bridge. One is the one you now see. The other perhaps today hangs in your White House in the capitol of Washington, D.C. At any rate, I sent that painting to Mme. Kennedy just last year. And may I show you the very nice letter which she sent me in return. Here it is. I will read it for you. And he read: “The White House, Washington, 11 May, 1961. “Dear Monsieur, “Mme. Kennedy has instructed me to thank you for your pretty present. She was very touched by your kind attention, your painting of this charming landscape in the town of Pont Saint Esprit. With all our thanks, dear Monsieur, and our very best wishes.” “That is the letter, then. From Jacqueline Kennedy. Or I should say from Leticia Baldridge, the social secretary to Mme. Kennedy, since it was she herself who signed it. But she is herself a very important woman and very close to Cousin Jacqueline — is she not? And so, in a way, it is the same thing — is it not? “It is a shame that we did not get to meet cousin Jacqueline as we had all hoped to, last August, when she and her husband the President were in Paris visiting with General de Gaulle. But the awful tragedy prevented that. The awful tragedy of our poor young Danielle.” The cousin The story which we then heard was this: Danielle was the daughter of Mrs. Souquet’s brother, Marcel. She was eighteen years old. A most beautiful girl. And lively. Very lively. Who liked everything about America, and who was so thrilled when she learned that she was related by blood to the First Lady of all America. Danielle would say, over and over. “Oh, if only some day I could meet my cousin Jacqueline and she would say to me, ‘Why don’t you come to live in the United States for a while Danielle?’ Oh, how happy I would be then!” She loved the United States, Danielle did, this girl who had never travelled more than thirty kilometers from her home. She loved her cousin, too, the cousin whom she had never met — Jacqueline. She loved life, Danielle did. Everything she loved. Everything. When the townspeople of Pont Saint