In the summer of 2013, when I was still working for Pernod Ricard, I had the chance to be part of a working group dedicated to On Trade strategy. It was an enriching experience that took me to many places, but one particular moment from Paris, on July 19th, stands out in my memory.
That day, when I returned to my hotel, I was surprised to find a message at the reception. A group of readers of this very blog had reached out — they wanted to take me out to celebrate the birthday of Santos=Dumont.
I was touched by the gesture and, of course, I accepted.
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| Le Mood na Champs Elysées - Restaurante localizado onde foi a residencia de Santos=Dumont em Paris |
They took me to a place called Mood, a stylish restaurant and dance venue. What made it extraordinary was the location — it stood right where Santos-Dumont had once lived, on the Champs-Élysées. The atmosphere was electric with music, conversation, and an unspoken reverence for the man who once floated over Paris in his airship.
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| The most exciting day of the trip was July 20, 2013, the day of Santos=Dumont's 140th birthday. On that day, some French fans of the blog 'A Vida Maravilhosa de Santos=Dumont' took me to dinner at Mood, an apartment that belonged to S=D. |
Over dinner and wine, this lovely group of Dumont enthusiasts shared with me a story I had never heard before — a touching tale they called "La Fille de Suresnes". They recited it in French, with passion and pride. It went like this:
San Moritz, 1928
In the quiet hall of a clinic, Santos-Dumont notices a young woman from afar. Her face, her manner of crossing her hands… something about her awakens old memories. He hesitates, breathes deeply, and with effort, approaches her.
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| Beautiful stained glass window in S=D's apartment in Paris |
— Mademoiselle… forgive my intrusion, but your face brings back beautiful memories.
— What an honor… but I’m afraid I don’t know which memories you speak of.
— Perhaps you don’t need to know. Some images remain in the heart without name or date.
The young woman brightens.
— Perhaps I can help. My aunt lived in Suresnes and was passionate about you. She collected your photos, newspaper clippings… she used to say you would fly by with your airship, spotlight on, like an angel lighting up the skies of Paris and her bedroom window.
Just then, an elderly lady with carefully arranged hair and bright eyes approaches. The young woman introduces her. The older woman smiles, surprised and deeply moved.
— Monsieur Dumont… you cannot imagine the joy of seeing you again. I used to blow kisses from my window when you flew by in the Balladeuse, and that little gesture made me believe in the impossible. I had your photos hidden in my notebooks, news clippings… even a signed handkerchief.
Dumont looks at her with care.
— Now I remember… you were the girl at the window. With each flight, I waited for your gesture as one waits for a sign from the heavens.
She grows emotional, trying to stifle a laugh. He, moved by a sincere joy, leans in with difficulty and offers a calm, respectful embrace. For a moment, the weight of the years seems lighter, the fog of troubled nerves gives way to the light and peace of an improbable encounter.
Back at the clinic, days later, the doctors noted a shift in Dumont’s mood — the result of a long-lost affection reignited, a true star of light among the thousands of darkened windows in the night of Paris. A healing gift to a brilliant mind and a tormented heart.
“They say it’s just an anecdote — but who knows?”
To this day, I carry this story with me. Whether it is fact or fiction, it holds the kind of poetry that history sometimes forgets.
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| AI Generated Image |
Original text in French:
San Moritz, 1928
Dans le hall silencieux de la clinique, M. Santos=Dumont observe une jeune femme au loin. Son visage, sa manière de croiser les mains… quelque chose en elle ravive de vieilles réminiscences. Il hésite, respire profondément et, avec effort, s’approche :
— Mademoiselle… pardonnez mon intrusion, mais votre visage m’évoque de beaux souvenirs.
La jeune femme, surprise, lui sourit avec douceur.
— Quel honneur… mais je crains de ne pas savoir à quels souvenirs vous faites allusion.
— Peut-être n’est-il pas nécessaire de savoir, répond-il, en s’éloignant légèrement. Certaines images restent dans le cœur sans nom ni date.
La jeune femme s’anime alors :
— Peut-être puis-je vous aider. Ma tante vivait à Suresnes, elle était passionnée par vous. Elle collectionnait vos photos, des coupures de journaux… Elle racontait que vous passiez en volant avec votre dirigeable, le projecteur allumé, comme un ange illuminant le ciel de Paris et la fenêtre de sa chambre.
À ce moment-là, une dame aux cheveux soigneusement relevés et aux yeux encore brillants s’approche. La jeune femme la présente, et la dame sourit, surprise, l’émotion retenue.
— Monsieur Dumont… vous ne pouvez imaginer la joie que c’est de vous revoir.
J’envoyais des baisers par la fenêtre quand vous passiez avec le Balladeuse, et ce geste un peu fou me faisait croire à l’impossible.
J’avais des photos de vous cachées entre mes cahiers, des articles de journaux… même un mouchoir signé.
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| I decided to illustrate "La Fille de suresnes" as I imagined her |
Dumont l’observe avec attention.
— Maintenant je me souviens… vous étiez la jeune fille à la fenêtre. À chaque vol, j’attendais ce geste comme on attend un signe du ciel.
Elle s’émeut, tente de retenir un rire discret. Lui, déjà emporté par une joie sincère, s’incline avec difficulté et lui offre une étreinte calme, respectueuse. Un instant, le poids des années semble plus léger, la brume des nerfs agités laisse place à la lumière et à la paix d’une rencontre improbable.
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De retour à la clinique, les médecins notèrent quelques jours plus tard un changement dans l’humeur de Dumont — la trace d’un ancien attachement retrouvé, une véritable étoile de lumière parmi les milliers de fenêtres éteintes dans la nuit parisienne. Une offrande de guérison à un esprit de génie et un cœur tourmenté.
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| Voo noturno de Santos=Dumont pelas ruas de Paris |
« On dit que c’est une simple anecdote, mais qui sait ? »
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As if it were a gift, at the end of the trip, we saw an incredible captive balloon flying over the sky of Paris - it was as if the spirit of Santos=Dumont himself sent us a message of 'good flight'. |
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