Memories from an Apartment in Paris's 7th Arrondissement

Last week, I got a call from a gentleman whose voice had that calm, authoritative tone that only comes with age and experience. He introduced himself as a retired businessman from the oil industry, now in his eighties, and he hailed from an old French family with roots as deep as the vineyards near his ancestral home in Burgundy. He was clear about his purpose—he needed an appraisal of some belongings, not to sell, but to prepare for his succession. He wanted to leave a detailed, unbiased description of his possessions for his two sons and daughter, making sure his legacy would be divided fairly.

He emphasized that he didn't want to involve auction houses or dealers, as he was cautious about the pressure to sell that often comes with that route. “No problem,” I reassured him, “that’s exactly what we specialize in.”

A few days later, I met him at the address he’d given me—a stately apartment in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, just a short walk from the Eiffel Tower. Though he was in his later years, the gentleman had a remarkable youthful presence; his posture was straight, and his eyes shone with a blend of curiosity and nostalgia.

“I don’t come here often,” he admitted as he unlocked the door, the ancient hinges creaking in the quiet hallway. “There aren't many valuables, I think, but I want to ensure I haven’t missed anything.”

The apartment, once belonging to his parents, served as his “pied-à-terre” during his visits to Paris. Stepping inside felt like stepping into a time capsule. The air was infused with the faint aroma of aged wood and forgotten memories. The decor was a fascinating mix of late 19th-century pieces, early 20th-century charm, and a distinct touch of Art Deco elegance.

“What do you think of this sideboard?” he asked, his hand lightly resting on a sturdy piece of Empire furniture from the early 1900s.

I took a look at the sideboard; its craftsmanship was solid, though it wasn’t particularly remarkable now. But then my eyes were drawn to the three vases sitting on top of it. Their lacquered finishes seemed to glow even in the dim light, each one a testament to exceptional artistry.

“The sideboard has modest value,” I explained carefully, “but these vases are something special.” I turned one slightly to reveal a signature. “Jean Dunand.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Dunand?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “The central vase alone could go for 40,000 euros or more.”

His astonishment only grew as I pointed to the painting hanging above the sideboard. The vibrant geometric shapes and bold colors were unmistakable.

“This is a Sonia Delaunay,” I said softly.

“My mother adored that painting,” he replied quietly, almost reflecting on the past. “The artist gifted it to her.”

We moved into the library, where the shelves were stacked with dusty books and family memorabilia. On a side table, I noticed a black-and-white photograph framed in delicate silver. It showed a stunning young woman in front of a grand manor near Dijon, her elegance only rivaled by the vintage Delage car beside her.

“That’s my grandmother, Hortence,” he said, a tender smile lighting up his face, his voice filled with reverence. “It was taken in the early 1930s.”

The photograph was more than just a snapshot; it offered a glimpse into an era defined by refinement and elegance. The woman, the manor, the car—they were threads woven into the rich tapestry of his family’s history.

When the appraisal was done, he walked me to the door. We shared a silent understanding—it wasn’t just about finding valuable items; we had uncovered bits of his family history.

“Thank you,” he said, giving my hand a solid shake. “Now I realize I’m passing on more to my children than just possessions. I’m giving them a part of their heritage.”

As I stepped back into the vibrant streets of Paris, I couldn’t help but think about how, hidden away in the forgotten nooks of old homes, the past waits patiently to be found, quietly sharing its stories with anyone willing to listen.