And so, here it is. The moment has come to say goodbye. To soften the blow, one adds « darling. » But there is nothing gentle about it. It tears at the heart! We don’t want to see her leave for New York, our daughter. We would love to keep having her with us, always, in Versailles, safe in our family cocoon. But that would be doing her no favors. Because we are proud of her, too. She can manage on her own, she speaks English, she is independent. Independent and proud. She doesn’t need us. Parents provide the initial fuel, and the motorcar drives on alone, refuels without warning, and travels far beyond anything we had ever imagined.

On the quayside at the port of Le Havre, amid the throng of farewells, intimate snapshots from my life with my daughter come rushing back. That very first night as a newborn, when my wife, exhausted from childbirth, asked me to get back up and hold her because she wouldn’t stop crying for no apparent reason. That fussy, squawking little creature. And my wife had added, as if to encourage me: “Go on. You know what? She takes after you.” A formal introduction between us. Welcome, Pauline. And she kept right on wailing, the little mite. Helpless, I stayed up with her for hours. Most of the night, holding her tight against my chest to calm her down. And now, that scene surfaces. Heaven knows why. To no purpose. If a tear slips out, it will only make me look ridiculous among all these well-to-do families, who know how to part ways with proper dignity.

Besides, Pauline has no patience for grand emotional displays. In her mind, she is already on the other side of the Atlantic: scanning the stars in American observatories, treating patients in medical faculties, and mixing with the Roosevelts to decode the great dynasties of the East Coast. So an overly sentimental father seeing her off is the last thing she needs. Pull yourself together, won’t you? “I’ll be back, Papa!”

So I become Olivier the Tiger once more. I calculate how my daughter might—when the time comes—help foster diplomatic ties between Washington and Paris; how Pauline, skillful and gifted, could hold the doors of American high society wide open, so that French interests might finally be better defended among the Anglo-Saxons. I picture her doing in New York and Washington a bit of what I spent thirty years building in Paris: rubbing shoulders with leaders, advancing momentous affairs from the quiet shadows of private offices, overcoming resistance to human progress through an unmatched mastery of the files, and identifying and rallying capable minds to defend the Republic. I am getting ahead of myself, daydreaming! At this stage, my daughter couldn’t care less. She just wants to live life to the fullest: enjoy the weather, meet wonderful people, and gather stories to share with her loyal friends.

There is one Olivier the Tiger; there will be no “Pauline the Tiger.” It would be absurd. The mold is broken. Something new will have to be invented. Or we must wait. Pauline is twenty-one. When I was her age, Clemenceau was a distant figure. Yet my daughter, in ten days’ time, will already be rubbing shoulders with the Roosevelts.

“All right, Papa, are you going to hand me that suitcase or what? What are you daydreaming about now?” One last embrace, one last kiss. Pauline says “smack, smack” like the other youngsters her age. It translates to: “Affectionate farewell.” She walks up the gangway with a resolute, almost military stride, barely turning back as she steps aboard the ocean liner La France.

“What time is our train back to Paris?” My wife brings me back down to earth a little more. It’s just the two of us now, without Pauline. A vast emptiness. The sudden urge to talk about our other two children: Nicolas, our aviator, and Alexis, who is finishing high school.

Yet there is happiness, too, in being together—just my wife, Nathalie, and me. Alone at last, without children on the return train. It has its charm, even—and precisely—with that touch of nostalgia for the family life we once knew…

The Historian’s Corner: Departures from Le Havre and the Great Transatlantic Leap in 1926

The Quayside at Le Havre and the Departure Ritual: In the 1920s, the ocean terminal of Le Havre (on the Quai Joannès-Couvert) was the indispensable gateway to the New World. Passengers arrived directly from Paris aboard the « boat trains » (trains transatlantiques) departing from the Gare Saint-Lazare, which pulled up right alongside the boarding gangways. The departure ritual was timeless: crowds packed onto the quays, three long blasts of the foghorn reverberating through the warehouses, thousands of paper streamers snapping as the ocean liner pulled away from the pier, and an ocean of white handkerchiefs waving one final goodbye.

Aboard the France, a Society in Miniature: While posters from the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique (the French Line) championed the opulence of the first-class lounges—frequented by diplomats, industrialists, Roaring Twenties celebrities, and wealthy American tourists taking advantage of the weak franc—the liner in truth carried a strictly stratified micro-society:

• Second Class (Pauline’s class): The rising class of the interwar years. It catered to scholarship students, professors, engineers, artists, and young professionals. Less ostentatious than first class, it provided comfortable staterooms and an ideal setting for young intellectuals seeking international training.
• Third Class (Steerage): Despite the quota laws passed by the U.S. Congress in 1921 and 1924 (the Johnson-Reed Act), which drastically curbed immigration, several hundred passengers still traveled in the converted lower decks. Among them were craftsmen, laborers, and refugees or migrants from Central and Mediterranean Europe, journeying to try their luck in America.

The Gravity of Farewells Before the Era of Instant Communication: In 1926, crossing the ocean was by no means a casual pleasure trip. Even though steam turbines had cut the crossing down to under six days, leaving for the United States marked a profound rupture in family life:

• The Silence of Communications: Commercial transatlantic telephone service did not yet exist for the general public (the first regular commercial radio-telephone link between London and New York would only launch in early 1927). Undersea telegraph cables, meanwhile, were strictly reserved for urgent matters, billed by the word and prohibitively expensive.
• The Pace of the Post: For loved ones left on shore, a letter sent to New York took at least six days to cross, and just as long for a reply to return. Getting news took two to three weeks at best.
• Bourgeois Restraint: Within the French bourgeoisie of the 1920s, emotion was expressed with strict decorum. In front of the crowds on the pier, tears and theatrical outbursts were shunned; one maintained a polished composure, veiling the anxiety of parting behind practical advice and polite, stiff-upper-lip smiles.

For anyone joining our story mid-stride, let me summarize the tempest: my twenty-one-year-old daughter, Pauline, has decided to slam the door on the French medical establishment to conquer New York, its universities, and its astronomical observatories. My old boss, Georges Clemenceau, thoroughly won over by the young lady’s audacity, has already provided her with a choice passport to high society: a personal letter addressed to Eleanor Roosevelt. As for me, having just been tasked by Raymond Poincaré with quietly negotiating behind the scenes with Margaret L. Hayes—a brilliant diplomat at the American Embassy and the granddaughter of a former president—to steady the franc on Wall Street, I was left with the task of turning this headstrong whim into a flawlessly orchestrated landing.

This morning, Pauline’s bedroom looks like an expeditionary army’s staging camp. In the center of the room sit two bulky, domed trunks of coated canvas, fortified—mercifully—with brass fittings. No milliner’s frivolities here: my daughter is outfitting her voyage like a merchant marine officer. I watch her systematically stack Testut’s hefty Treatise of Human Anatomy, her star-gazing logbooks crammed with equations, her stethoscope, and a small refracting telescope swaddled in three layers of woolen sweaters.

“Not a single evening gown for New York?” I ask, bemused, lifting a bundle of white lab coats.

“You don’t observe the Andromeda Nebula in a crinoline, Father,” she shoots back without looking up. “And at Columbia, I doubt the microscopes care much for lace.”

At two in the afternoon, I leave this cheerful chaos to meet Margaret L. Hayes in the hushed lounge of a grand hotel on the Place de la Concorde. The Second Secretary welcomes me with her leather-bound notebook and a black coffee. I swiftly cover the essentials on the political front: Poincaré’s ironclad resolve, the impending creation of the autonomous sinking fund to secure Treasury bonds, and the opening of our backchannel to reassure Washington.

Margaret jots down a few quick notes, gives an approving nod, and snaps her notebook shut:

“Splendid. The markets will welcome Monsieur Poincaré’s firmness. But if I read between the lines correctly, Olivier, you didn’t request this meeting merely to hold forth on war debts.”

“Indeed. Now that the franc is well on its way to recovery, let us settle a far more delicate matter: my daughter arrives on your shores at the end of the month.”

For a fraction of a second, Miss Hayes’s mask of diplomatic composure cracks, giving way to a knowing smile. She draws two typewritten official documents from a folder:

“I anticipated your request. Pauline will travel second class aboard the French Line’s ocean liner Paris. That will spare her the ordeal of Ellis Island: customs clearance will be conducted directly on board before docking at the Manhattan pier. As for accommodation, I have secured her a room at International House on Riverside Drive, just steps from the Columbia campus. It is modern, well-supervised, and cosmopolitan. And finally, here is her consular letter of introduction.”

I gaze at the papers stamped with the American eagle. Between the handwritten note from “The Tiger” to Mrs. Roosevelt and the embassy’s backing, Pauline is about to cross the Atlantic flanked by an invisible yet formidable escort.

“Well, Miss Hayes… you certainly don’t do things by halves.”

Margaret straightens her tailored jacket, her eyes twinkling:

“Rest assured, Olivier: with patrons like these, your daughter won’t merely set foot in New York… she is going to take full possession of it.”

The Historian’s Corner: America and France in the Summer of 1926

The Art of Trunks and Transatlantic Logistics: Packing for a six-day ocean crossing was an exacting science, strictly regulated by shipping lines:

• The Cabin Trunk (steamer trunk): Bearing the regulatory “Wanted on voyage” label, it was restricted in height (roughly 14 inches) to slide beneath the berth, or took the form of a vertical wardrobe trunk fitted with hangers and lockable drawers. It contained undergarments, daytime attire, toiletries, and reading material needed for life on board.
• The Hold Trunk (“Not wanted on voyage”): Substantially heavier and more voluminous, reinforced with beechwood slats and brass corner brackets, it held surplus clothing, linens, instruments, and heavy volumes like the Testut treatise. Once loaded into the hold, it remained entirely inaccessible until disembarkation.
• Protection from Sea Air: The North Atlantic’s salty dampness and condensation in the cargo holds required rigorous precautions: watertight trunks lined with zinc or vulcanized fiber, sheets of tissue paper placed between fabrics to preserve delicate textiles, and camphor balls to protect wool and leather bindings from mildew.
• Rail Transit: In Paris, travelers checked their baggage at the Gare Saint-Lazare using color-coded tags from the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique (indicating the vessel, class, and stateroom number). Trunks were transported via dedicated baggage vans directly to the Le Havre departure pier and hoisted aboard by dockside cranes.

Bypassing Ellis Island for Cabin Passengers: In the 1920s, first- and second-class passengers were spared the ordeal of the Ellis Island immigration depot. Administrative processing, visa inspections, and routine health checks were conducted directly on board by American officials before the ship docked at the Hudson River piers in Manhattan. Only steerage (third-class) passengers were transferred by ferry to the island for comprehensive medical examinations and rigorous questioning.

New York’s International House: Opened in September 1924 at 500 Riverside Drive, across from Riverside Church and right next to Columbia University, this grand student residence was established through the philanthropy of John D. Rockefeller Jr. and the Dodge family. Designed to foster intellectual exchange among students from across the globe, it provided foreign scholars with a modern, secure, and cosmopolitan environment.

Léo Testut’s Treatise of Human Anatomy: A monumental four-volume work lavishly illustrated by Gaston Devy (and later revised with André Latarjet), the “Testut” formed the undisputed cornerstone of French medical education. For a student like Pauline, taking her own set to New York was both a heavy physical undertaking and a badge of pride, representing the rigorous standard of the Parisian clinical method.

Poincaré’s Financial Plan and the Autonomous Sinking Fund: Confronted with an acute currency crisis in July 1926, Raymond Poincaré assumed both the Premiership and the Finance portfolio. To halt speculation against the franc without bowing to the aggressive demands of Anglo-American creditors, he secured parliamentary approval for 11 billion francs in new taxes and established the Autonomous Fund for the Management of National Defense Bonds (Caisse autonome de gestion des bons de la Défense nationale), which was permanently enshrined in the French Constitution by the Parliament convened in Congress at Versailles on August 10, 1926.

Since Pauline’s departure for New York is now inevitable, I refuse to let her cross the Atlantic without solid footholds! To open the doors of American academia to her and secure the goodwill of influential allies on the ground, one obvious course of action presents itself: calling upon the man who knows America better than anyone else in the Republic—my former patron, Georges Clemenceau. And so, this morning, I take her to 8, rue Benjamin-Franklin.

The old chief receives us in his study, wearing his skullcap, his gaze as piercing as ever beneath thick white eyebrows. After the customary greetings, he fixes Pauline with a mock-stern glare:

“So, mademoiselle, I hear you want to go running off to the New World to dissect corpses and count comets among the oil barons? Does France no longer produce enough stars to keep you here?”

Far from being intimidated by “Père la Victoire,” Pauline holds his gaze with a faint, wry smile:

“It produces admirable ones, Monsieur le Président, but our university mandarins clearly prefer to observe them from a great height… especially when they wear a skirt! And if your own memoirs are anything to go by, you hardly asked anyone’s permission when you set off for America at twenty-four.”

A suspended silence falls over the room. I hold my breath. Then, a hearty roar of laughter lifts the old man’s bushy moustache. He slaps the table with the palm of his hand:

“By God! Olivier, your daughter has even sharper claws than you! At last, someone who doesn’t bother with bowing and scraping.”

Delighted by this feisty spirit, Clemenceau immediately takes up his pen. Rather than settling for a formal letter of introduction to Franklin Roosevelt, he chooses to write directly to his wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, knowing full well how dedicated she is to women’s emancipation in New York.

In a few brisk, warm lines, he introduces Pauline as a compatriot who is “tenacious, fearless, and worthy of the highest regard.” Pauline leaves Rue Franklin with the prized open-sesame in her pocket and a triumphant smile.

As for me, I breathe a little easier.

The Historian’s Corner

1. 8, Rue Benjamin-Franklin: The Tiger’s Lair

Having stepped back from active politics following his defeat in the 1920 presidential election, Georges Clemenceau divided his time between his modest home in Saint-Vincent-sur-Jard (Vendée) and his Parisian apartment at 8, rue Benjamin-Franklin (in the 16th arrondissement, now a museum).

In this ground-floor flat opening onto a private garden, the “Père la Victoire” received close friends, former collaborators, and prominent international figures amidst thousands of books and his Asian art collection. Despite being 84 years old in 1926, he maintained a relentless work schedule, wearing his iconic skullcap and silk fingerless gloves to protect his skin, which had been sensitized by eczema.

2. Clemenceau the Physician: A Scientific Youth

Before becoming a journalist and statesman, Clemenceau was first a medical doctor. He defended his doctoral thesis in Paris in May 1865 (De la génération des éléments anatomiques / On the Generation of Anatomical Elements), deeply influenced by the positivism and scientific materialism of Auguste Comte and Charles Robin.

Although he practiced only briefly in the Montmartre district, he retained a lifelong fondness for medical practitioners and an enduring fascination with the natural and medical sciences.

3. The Formative Exile in the United States (1865–1869)

Freshly graduated and seeking to escape the authoritarian regime of Napoleon III, the 24-year-old Clemenceau sailed for the United States. He spent nearly four decisive years there:

• Journalist: He served as a regular correspondent for the Parisian newspaper Le Temps, covering post-Civil War Reconstruction and offering incisive analyses of nascent American democratic institutions.
• Teacher: He taught French and horseback riding at the Catharine Aiken School, a young women’s academy in Stamford, Connecticut.
• Personal Life: There he met one of his students, Mary Plummer, whom he married in 1869 before returning to France.

This immersive stay allowed him to achieve fluent English and cultivate an extensive network of transatlantic friendships that lasted throughout his lifetime.

4. Why Eleanor Roosevelt in 1926?

Choosing to address a letter of recommendation to Eleanor Roosevelt rather than her husband Franklin was especially shrewd in 1926:

• FDR’s relative withdrawal: After contracting polio in 1921, Franklin D. Roosevelt spent much of 1926 undergoing rehabilitation in Warm Springs, Georgia. He had not yet been elected Governor of New York (an office he would assume in 1928).
• A woman of influence in Manhattan: During this period, Eleanor Roosevelt became the true political and civic driving force of the family in New York. A tireless activist, she was deeply involved with the Women’s Trade Union League (WTUL) and the League of Women Voters, and was preparing to buy a stake in the Todhunter School for girls, where she also taught.
• A supportive female network: Passionately committed to women’s intellectual and professional emancipation, Eleanor Roosevelt was the ideal ally to help guide a young Frenchwoman navigating the American metropolis.

5. The Clemenceau–Roosevelt Connection

Clemenceau shared a mutual admiration with the Roosevelt family, particularly with former Republican President Theodore Roosevelt (Eleanor’s uncle), whom he had met during his travels and with whom he shared a pugnacious temperament and legendary outspokenness.

During his final, triumphant speaking tour across the United States in late 1922, Clemenceau had rekindled his political and social contacts along the East Coast—making his intercession with the Roosevelt circle both entirely natural and highly effective.