See the overprint "5 NOUVEAU FRANCS" on the original 500 Francs bill
I was last in Paris in June 1962, and everybody remembers that horrible summer: cold, windy, and raining almost every day, I rented rooms on a small street off Rue des Écoles, with cobblestones glistening wet—so much so that one day I slipped and hurt my ankle, most painfully but a kind neighbor called an ambulance, and we drove to Salpêtrière on Boulevard de l’Hôpital, assuring me it was the best hospital in Paris—probably in all of France, upon entering the emergency room, I saw Geneviève, the chief nurse, a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and light-blue eyes who examined me and said that nothing was broken, likely a sprain, and that Monsieur le Docteur would come soon—Dr. Planchette, as we continued a very pleasant conversation, alas often interrupted when she had to do head-nurse stuff, always smiling, saying all would be fine, she told me her family history: her husband, Jean-Jacques, a painter, was born in a house on Rue Malebranche in le cinquième, where they still lived with la grand-mère (82), maman (68), and their son Claude-Pierre (9), who studied violin and the house was big, pleasant with a beautiful wrought-iron gate and a large backyard with three old black walnut trees and where Jean-Jacques kept his studio in the shed and every year in late May, they picked green walnuts for the excellent jam that la grand-mère and maman made using only three ingredients: walnuts, calcium chloride, and sugar (a lot of sugar) and they boiled it down until it was thick and dark but the fruit still crunchy, they made 40–50 jars, carefully labeled with the year which they took, usually, in early July, to a stand they rented at Les Halles (still there then, until 1973) and the jam sold for 300 francs, upon seeing my face, Geneviève quickly added anciens francs—de Gaulle had stabilized the currency, introducing the franc nouveau, worth 100 old francs but people still spoke in anciens, so a jar went for three francs (about $1.35), just then, a tall, thin gentleman nearing sixty came to my gurney and introduced himself as Docteur Planchette and confirmed the sprain—entorse de la cheville, pas grave—then turned to the orderly holding a bucket with a chalky liquid from which he took soaked bandages to wrap my ankle, and sent the orderly for crutches, telling me to return in two weeks when he would remove the bandages.
Geneviève came by again and said I should come to their house for dinner as her husband picks her up with the car—proudly she added that it was a Citroën 2CV, she said that every Wednesday maman made cassoulet with haricots from Tarbes, l’Occitanie and she always made more than enough and Geneviève smiled as I accepted so I spent the next hour and a half reading day-old newspapers when, at seven, a tall, nice-looking guy—clearly Jean-Jacques—walked in, greeted everyone, kissed Geneviève who said something to him, so he came over smiling, shook my hand, and asked if I needed help to the car and when I asked if we could stop for flowers and a box of candy as a gift he said “Not a problem, I know just the spot” so, about half an hour later, we pushed open the heavy but splendid wrought-iron gate, once inside I met the two ladies and young boy, all very friendly, coming to kiss me on both cheeks (as it was the custom) and we were ushered into the dining room at the back of the house, with a view of the backyard through monumental French doors, the table was set, and light red wine was poured—even for young Claude-Pierre and maman, smiling proudly brought in, from the kitchen, a huge earthenware casserole (they also called it a toupin), which she set in the middle of the table and served us with a grand silver ladle: la grand-mère first, then me (as guest), then Jean-Jacques, Geneviève, Claude-Pierre, and finally herself, the cassoulet was superb—piping hot, dark brown, with chunks of shiny smoked duck, sausages, bacon, and white beans glistening like pearls and we dunked golden crusts of baguette in the thick sauce, a feast for all senses and for a long while the only sounds were the clinking spoons, the slurping, and satisfied chewing, when finally the meal was crowned by the celebrated green walnut confiture, served in beautiful porcelain dishes and we sat in deep contentment as the table was cleared and coffee appeared, so Claude-Pierre was sent for his violin to “entertain the guest”, he laid down a barely recognizable allegretto of a Mozart sonata, then beamed as we applauded and retired for bed—school tomorrow.
We continued conversing pleasantly while I looked at this handsomely painted landscape of a river bend with trees and houses and when Jean-Jacques saw me looking, he said it was the Seine, just outside Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and asked: “Are you interested in the piece?” and when I said that I was, he named his price, me blinking bewildered—then he laughed and said “anciens,” so I gave him the money and Geneviève brought brown packing paper and twine and made an elegant parcel upon which we moved to the complex choreography of taking leave—my praise for the meal, their appreciation, promises of future visits and they insisted I take a jar of jam—marked in blue ink, Mois de Mai 1961 and they phoned for a taxi, which arrived promptly with the meter already running—850 francs and the driver saying “anciens, tarif de nuit,” he proceeded maneuvering his Peugeot 403 through the empty past-midnight streets of Paris while smoking his pungent Gitanes Brune all the way to my place where I paid him and waved away the change—“c’est pour vous” so I huffed and puffed up the stairs on crutches to my room where I put the painting on the piano, leaning it against the wall and admired it and that's how I got the painting. Yes
