Forgive Me Not
A family memoir of regrets and second chances
by
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This day I knew would stay with me forever. When I woke up and looked out the window, I was shocked to see it had snowed overnight! This was very unusual in my home town of Golfe-Juan, a small Mediterranean village in the heart of the French Riviera where I had lived most of my life. The only other time it had snowed was in 1929 when I was nine years old.
I had planned out this day for months and yet I was dreading what lay ahead of me. When I finally got on the road in a borrowed car, I passed all the familiar shops—from our boulangerie (baker), to our boucher (butcher), and finally our épicier (grocer). I wondered if I would ever see these merchants again. Within minutes, I was traveling very slowly up the familiar hill. I parked in front of the house and thought: this is probably the last time I will ever go into this house. As I got out of the car, the cold air made me gasp. I was careful to avoid slipping on the snow.
I walked up to the gate of Juliette-Antoinette, the house named after my mother. Her grandparents had built it, and I had been born there. It was not a large, majestic house like Sainte Marie-à-Py, the former family home where I had lived most of my youth, but it was a beauty in its own way. Surrounded by a tall metal fence mostly covered by a variety of vines, the several-story stone house had the familiar quarry tile roof. There were three levels of gardens, including an orchard in the lower back where I had grown grapes for homemade wine. Best of all, when you stood on one of the bedroom balconies, you had a clear view of the Mediterranean below. I loved this house.
Suddenly, I felt such despair I could hardly breathe. So many people had depended on me, and I had let them down. I had been fiercely proud of my success, but now I had nothing left—and all of it was my fault.
I opened the house gate, and its familiar creaking sound made me smile but also made me sad. Walking slowly on the snow-covered stone walk, I made my way toward the house. As I looked around at the landscaped garden that held many shrubs and exotic plants, I shook my head in disbelief at the snow that covered the grounds. I walked up the stone steps onto the terrace, and for a moment I was transported to happier times when family and friends gathered for delicious French dinners. I could almost hear the lively conversation among the opinionated French men and women and taste the delicious food the maid Madeleine would have prepared. Today the patio furniture was gone and the snow hid much of the stone surface. I stepped carefully around to the left side of the house and unlocked the door.
Juliette-Antoinette was much more than a beautiful home that held so many wonderful memories. It meant everything that was important to me—family, tradition, and especially success. I knew the house well since my family had moved back in when I was in my twenties. My father, a gentle man with little business sense, had lost a great deal of money in the stock market. Eventually the family was forced to sell various parcels of prime French Riviera land in order to support themselves. When all the land was gone, they sold Sainte Marie-à-Pie, the big house on the hill, and moved into Juliette-Antoinette, the smaller one.
On this snowy February day, I had come to Juliette-Antoinette to collect several pieces of luggage containing clothes and other personal belongings my wife Claudine and I were taking to America. A third generation French perfumer, I was now without a job; soon I would be without a country to call home.
Before going any further into the house, I sat on the bench in the foyer next to the kitchen. This was going to be much harder than I imagined. I was not prepared for the emotions that took hold of me. I had not planned this into the day.
“Growing up in a wealthy family can be a curse,” I often told friends in my latter years. “You adopt an exaggerated sense of entitlement and you assume nothing can ever be taken from you.”
I was wrong about that, and as I sat in the foyer of my beloved family home that fact was made clear. I got up from the bench and went into the living room. Even today this room took my breath away. I had christened it the Napoleon room—and it was most appropriately named. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with a rich, hunter-green silk cloth imported from China, and the detailed woodwork was left natural.
The period Empire furniture included a massive wood and glass bookcase containing a priceless collection of miniature tin soldiers representing Napoleon’s army. The Emperor was my idol, and as I had done many times before, I opened the bookcase, picked up some of my favorite soldiers, and moved them around. I had read every book I could find about Napoleon and had selected each tin soldier based on that research. I could even tell you the town or shop where I had purchased each piece.
I was also the proud owner of an extremely rare picture book about Napoleon. Only five copies of the book existed, and the other four were in museums. Ironically, Napoleon had landed in Golfe-Juan in March 1815 with 600 men when he escaped from exile on the island of Elba. From there he returned to Paris during a 100-day campaign that ultimately led to his defeat at Waterloo.
“This room says success,” I used to say with arrogance. “It’s a room fit for an emperor and perfect for us.”
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About the Book
In his early years, Gabe Raphel, a third-generation French perfumer, was young, arrogant, and only cared about making money and having fun. The future was something he rarely thought about because he assumed it was secure. His family was wealthy, but because of arrogance and poor decisions he found himself without a job—and soon without a country to call home. He and his wife, Claudine, sailed to New York in 1956 with $600 to find work and rebuild their lives.
Forgive Me Not, a fictionalized memoir, chronicles the life of this well-to-do French family, starting with their unusual backgrounds and storybook lifestyle on the French Riviera. It begins in 1956 when author Catherine Raphel Stewart’s father visits his home for the last time, and it ends with a family celebration in the California Bay area in 2002.
In between those years, Forgive Me Not shares the Raphel family’s story as they experience the highs and lows of unintended consequences. Claudine—who had staff in France—becomes a nanny. Gabe ultimately finds work as a perfumer and begins to rebuild his reputation and lifestyle. The focus then switches to Stewart who, much like her father, placed self-gratification ahead of common sense and ends up on a path that threatened her future.
About the Author
In addition to four decades in public relations and marketing communications Catherine Raphel Stewart has written short stories and a novella—Summer in the Life—partially included in this book.
After her childhood in France, Catherine lived in six states. She is now retired and resides in Beaufort, South Carolina, with her husband David and their two dogs.