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Rosières’ main street, towards Place St
Pierre and its massive 18th century
fontaine, the focal point of town. Rosières
is proud of its recognition as a village
fleuri, and flowers were everywhere: red
poppies jutted from tall green grasses;
lavender-colored wisteria blossoms clung
to archways, and bight colored geraniums
tumbled from window boxes. Most striking
were the town’s eponymous wild roses lin‐
ing the paths.
We entered the grounds of the Institut
français du cheval et de l’équitation,
Rosières’ world-renowned equine center.
The Haras National de Rosières-aux-
Salines, and its stables were founded by a
French nobleman in 1767 to welcomed
horse of all breeds.
“You should come back when our his‐
toric merry-go-round is up and running,”
said M. le maire with a note of pride. “In
summer, visitors crowd our streets!”
My own family’s history in Rosières
dates back to the early 1920s, with the ar‐
rival of Prosper’s daughter Anny, and her
husband Fernand Cerf, a notary public
whose home the mayor had promised to
show me later.
We proceeded at a snail’s pace, chat‐
ting, as we made our way to the house
where Prosper and Blanche had sought
shelter. On a back street, the mayor came
to a stop in front of an off-putting cement
enclosure. The house looked deserted.
“Voilà madame, this is the Gran‐
doeurys’,” declared the mayor as I stood
on tiptoe to look over the gate. Having
contemplated such a moment ever since I
had translated Prosper’s journal, I could
barely contain my emotion at being there
in person. The mayor rang the bell. No an‐
swer. He rang again. Again, the gate re‐
mained shut. M. le maire’s jovial demeanor
changed to concern until a male voice
yelled from across the street.
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