#10 Bibliothèque Nationale de France Richelieu site
- Shelley Dark
- Apr 19
- 4 min read
Coucou mes amis,
Yesterday I visited the Richelieu Bibliothèque. Actually the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Richelieu site—in Rue Vivienne. We sailed through free entry and security chatting away, and I hardly noticed the pretty ordinary building. Then we stepped into the foyer, turned a corner into the Salle Ovale, and wham, mind officially blown.
It was once the library of the kings of France until the Revolution gave access to all.
Tthe scale of this room. What a masterpiece of construction!
Carola captured the photographer. She‘s a great producer!
These curious pillars are airconditioning vents, stationed all around the raised walkway surrounding the lower oval study area.
The\is last photo is of another room la Sale d'Brouste, open only to research ticket holders. Pretty cool too huh?
We had just eaten lunch—Monique, Freddy, Carola, Olivia and Valentine—my son-in-law’s fabulous family, who steal my heart every time I see them. I adore them. Freddy is deliciously dry and funny; he runs a radio station.
Carola, bless her, is one of the warmest, most darling and efficient humans alive. She has just launched a luxe Paris conciergerie called Panamour Paris—follow her on Instagram or visit https://panamourconciergerie.com/. If you’re coming to Paris and want someone to conjure a properly magical itinerary or smooth your way with impossible entrées, she’s your woman. Their two daughters are so ridiculously lovely I could spoon them up like dessert. And Monique—the quiet, funny, chic, pivotal rock at the centre of the family. Simply magnificent.
We ate at Daroco, an Italian restaurant inside Jean-Paul Gaultier’s old couture workshop. It sounds grand because it is—the mirrored ceiling makes the already towering space feel a mile high.
I had pasta with pesto of ail des ours—wild garlic—and parmesan. Crazy good.
Afterwards we wandered on to Pedone for ice cream. Carola took a great video of them cooking and shaping the cornets on the spot, but I can't figure how to insert it here. I ordered a hazelnut cornet that was so generous I had to duck back inside and flip it upside down into a tub to avoid wearing most of it home. It’s an Italian brand from Puglia, and this is their first shop outside Italy. There was a queue. You know how I feel about queues. Freddy feels the same. Yet we both lined up, one of us more patient than the other, but I must admit mine was worth it—the best hazelnut ice cream I’ve ever tasted in my life.
I'd walked all the way from Montmartre to the first arrondissement, and I would have walked all the way back, but I had a glamorous date: the American Library of Paris Spring Garden Party 2026 at the Musée de Montmartre. Woohoo! Francesca Wade spoke about Gertrude Stein and her merry Montmartre gang. Her book Gertrude Stein: An Afterlife made The Washington Post’s Best Ten Books of 2025 and got shortlisted for the American Library in Paris Book Award.
Dress code: Seasonal brights and whimsical florals—hats welcome.
The evening started at 6.30pm with champagne—we all had far too much. This is Francesca Wade. I loved that Gertrude Stein said that she lived in America but Paris was her home town.
I met so many interesting people. The most darling young woman/human rights lawyer in a gorgeous flowery dress, who was in magnificent form. I met a professor of behavioural science who lives just outside Paris, an American television presenter now living here, and a Californian marketer whose job is to persuade people to join the American Library—and he does it very well.
There was also a Californian prosecutor who has retired to Paris and is living his dream—French lessons, café breakfasts, gym, rinse and repeat. I admired the clarity of his vision. And a civil engineer, out for the night with his wife while their children were safely with a babysitter—absolutely delightful, and clearly enjoying every minute of it. Such a pity I can't share the photos because of course I didn‘t ask their permission. Too busy having fun!
Conversation flowed, the laughter was easy, and the evening tipped from civilised to something much more fun. But like Cinderella, when the hour struck 9.23pm, I raced home.
Thankfully, before I left home this morning, I had tidied the apartment so leaving won’t be too hectic. That means dragging all the cushions back out—because I always hide them in cupboards like a squirrel—and sadly I binned my flowers. Sob.
Oh, a few more random photos. Did you notice, ‘Be realistic—ask for the impossible.‘? And couple of dogs in windows. One real, one stuffed.
On the way into town I drifted through the Palais Royal gardens and popped into Galignani on Rue de Rivoli hunting for the book Heather Stimmler recommended: Mary Duncan’s Henry Miller is Under My Bed. No luck. The second-hand shops might have one. Or last resort, Kindle.
More soon.
Toujours je t’attends.
