When four parchments appeared in a British auction house two months ago, the city of Antibes was “in the room” – virtually speaking, anyway, amid this public health crisis.  The city’s bid was backed by the deep pockets of the Sovereign Prince of Monaco.  

The documents up for sale were presumed lost forever:  Their whereabouts had been unknown for seven centuries.  But on May 28, 2020, the day of the auction, the city of Antibes and its princely ally won the bid, and shortly afterward the parchments arrived – one could say – back home. 

The association of Antibes and Monaco royalty has indelible roots.  The House of Grimaldi, founded in the 12^th century, were pivotal players in the history of the Republic of Genoa, and in the Principality of Monaco, where the dynasty has reigned to this day with Albert II, Sovereign Prince of Monaco, as its current head.  One of the oldest feudal branches of the house, the Grimaldi d’Antibes, once ruled this city from its seaside castle, the prominent château that today houses the well-known Musée Picasso.  

Now settled on home ground, the old documents are the new toy at Antibes’ Archives Municipales, but no one is coming to play.  Literally no one.  When I arrived at my dutifully reserved créneau for a solo look at the prized parchments, I was, by design, the only visitor inside the archives.  But Emilie, my manager-friend at the agency, told me that, non, she and her colleagues were not swamped with bookings.  In fact, I was the first.

Which is shocking because the new toy is a collection to behold.  The calligraphic art of the documents’ Latin words, ink on vellum, is itself enchanting.  Each letter is a blossom, beautiful and delicate in its own right; the first line of calligraphy on one document blooms into a two-dimensional objet d’art.  The craftmanship becomes even more impressive after remembering that the ink was laid onto the vellum using the tip of a long, straight, goose feather.  Without the convenience of Wite-Out or a backspace key. 

To convey the allure in another way, this acquisition represents the only known parchments coming from the archives of the Grimaldi d’Antibes line.  They are worth seeing.

The oldest of the four document dates from 1381 and relates to an important inheritance (involving more than one castle) by Katherine, daughter of Marc de Grimaldi, from her maternal grandfather.  (Marc de Grimaldi – keep reading – was a key figure in the Antibes branch of the Grimaldi family.)  The lettering of this document is arguably the most beautiful among the four, with its initial word invoking a frenzy of flourishes and filigree.

It’s the next two parchments, though, that interest me most.  In the document dated 1384, Antipope Clément VII grants the brothers Luc (c. 1330 – 1409) and Marc (died after 1396) de Grimaldi rule over Antibes’ castle, once they take an official oath of office.  For context, it was a time of religious and political turmoil, and Antibes’ château itself had been hit by violence and plundering by impious rebels.  The Catholic Church recently had divided, with two (and later three) men simultaneously claiming to be the true Pope.  

Antipope Clément VII was the first in a line of antipopes.  Installed in Avignon (France), he relinquished Antibes’ castle and its rights in order to reduce his debts to the two Grimaldi brothers.  Clément VII was in constant need of funds, and the sale of this château had involved some fancy financial footwork.  Before arranging the disposition, the antipope had removed Antibes from the portfolio of the bishop of Grasse, thereby bringing the territory back under the jurisdiction of the Papal Treasury.  The move, we will see, ruffled more than a couple goose feathers.  

The third document, dated 1390, relates back to the sale of Antibes’ château.  Having settled other accounts, Antipope Clément VII still owed money to the two Grimaldi brothers.  Viewed with modern eyes, the financial mechanism is muddy, but this third parchment discloses that Clément VII raised a sum of 2200 golden florins (1.48 million euros) by mortgaging Antibes’ castle – which already belonged to the Grimaldi men to whom he owed the cash.  Emilie, my friend at the archives, believes that this 1390 document may serve to clarify the 1384 transaction.  Fourteenth-century administration, she quipped, didn’t happen at today’s lightning speeds.

The script of these first three vellums has a painstaking, ruler-straight uniformity and legibility, indicating that their business was official and public.  These documents were meant to be read by many.  The transactions involving Antibes’ castle and its mortgage also carry a papal seal still attached to each record.  Having read about the seals beforehand, I’d imagined them to be wax – but they are solid lead.  At one point during my visit to the archives, I held a mass of silk threads knotted to a third Clément VII medallion that also came with the auction lot, and I estimated it to weigh about a pound.  The seal pictured below remains fixed on the reverse side of the 1384 parchment, beside a more hastily scrawled note:

The last parchment, dated a youthful 1431, bears evidence of a continuing quarrel over who holds the keys to the castle.  Written in Rome, the decree by Pope Martin V settles a dispute between the Grimaldi family and the bishop of Grasse by declaring that the sons of Luc and Marc de Grimaldi – Nicolas, Georges, and Honnorat – and their heirs, own Antibes’ castle.  The writer of this document, likely a notary, took less care with his calligraphy, implying that the words were for administrative or professional (and not public) purposes, but this parchment creates a decisive and satisfying exclamation point to the collection.

Antibes’ won the British auction with a bid of 5,600 pounds (8,031 euros), but in another sense, the four parchments are priceless to the city’s heritage.  When they arrived home, the documents were folded into a small box.  Emilie, preserver of Antibes’ heritage, was stunned at the cramped packaging.  The team at the archives has since released the documents and slid them within clear plastic coverings, but the outstretched pages bear creases of a lengthy confinement.  The next task is to study the pages, possibly transcribing and translating their texts, but it’s a lofty goal.  The vellums are written in Renaissance Latin.

Being legalese, we cannot expect to discover philosophical awakenings or jaunty turns of phrase with the translations, but with Emilie’s help, I already could discern the flux of Antibes’ own name.  I’d come to the archives that day with a separate question.  The town had begun life under the Greeks as Antipolis (meaning “the city opposite” from (at that point) Nice or Corsica).  In the Middle Ages its name morphed to Antiboul, and sometime afterward – when? – Antibes gained its current name.  

Emilie pointed out a beautifully formed Antibuluef in the newly-acquired 1384 parchment, and an Antibul in the 1390 one.  The words could be proper nouns or adjectives or some other form entirely, but scholars now have another means to unravel the city’s past.

Time also has moved on for Antibes’ château.  In 1608, Henri IV (also known as Good King Henry) recuperated the castle for the French crown.  Since then, the space has served as a residence for royal governors, a town hall, and an army barracks, until the city of Antibes bought the castle at auction in 1925 for 50,000 francs (7,622 euros).  The storied building next housed a local archeological museum before serving as Picasso’s studio for several months after the war, and eventually becoming the art museum that bears his name.

“Will the archives try to figure out where the parchemins have spent the last centuries?” I asked Emilie. 

“C’est très difficile,” she said.  There’s nothing written.  The Grimaldis – assuming the parchments stayed within the family – are very spread out.  One thought is that the documents entered a private English collection through the inheritance of a French parent at the beginning of the 20^th century.

Will more visitors reserve their créneaux to glimpse the latest acquisitions?  The documents’ arrival has filled the back page of the Nice-Matin newspaper and has been publicized among local sociétés.  A royal visit also would heighten their profile.   Prince Albert II is apparently interested but his agenda is full.  

Hopefully, if a royal rendez-vous ever materializes, the Prince won’t be Visitor #2.

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Seventy-five years ago, in the later stages of World War II, the Côte d’Azur escaped the grip of Occupation. The wave that brought Libération into this far southeastern corner of France came from the west.  

The operation began on August 14 and 15, 1944, when tens of thousands of Allied troops flooded the coastal and mountainous regions around St Tropez.  The forces fanned out, some heading west, some inland, and some eastward. One group of Americans followed the Mediterranean coastline in the direction of Antibes, our summer hometown. They would release one town from the enemy’s grip and move to the next, creating a chain of events that foretold future moves. 

The Antibois followed the developments on national radio broadcasts transmitted out of La Brague, a district in northeastern Antibes beside the Brague River.  One night, when the Americans had pushed some 40 kilometers eastward into the well-defended town of La Napoule, the enemy pummeled Antibes’ main harbor.  Whole chunks of its stone barrier crumbled, and with it fell the lighthouse.  Debris littered Antibes’ docks, boats, beaches, and waters.  Days later, German aircraft bombed the century-old lighthouse at the top of Cap d’Antibes.  As the detonation resounded into the Salis Bay, local fishermen looked up from their rods and watched their city’s principal beacon tilt and collapse.

Town by town, the approaching Americans pushed back the Germans, but it was Antibes’ local Résistants who played the starring roles in this city’s Libération.  After years of Occupation, first by the Italians and then by the more meddlesome Germans, Antibes had lost a quarter of its population.  Among the remaining 18,000 residents, an important underground movement spread across about 20 branches of larger organisations.  The Résistants’ weapons were a slapped-together collection of machine guns, revolvers, rifles, and shotguns, with hardly enough ammunition to go around.  The 400 or so patriots knew they had to act with great caution – but they also faced an enemy with waning morale.  The Germans were still reeling over the D-Day landings up north in Normandy ten weeks earlier.  As American troops paused 12 kilometers away from Antibes in the city of Cannes, most German posts in Antibes remained occupied, but a couple hours before the fateful August 24 began, the enemy began to trickle out of Antibes.

It was with this background that Antibes gained its freedom.  To mark this 75^thanniversary of Libération, French Lessons shares details it has gleaned over the past decade from websites and books and the local archives municipales.  Except for The Riviera at War:  World War II on the Côte d’Azur, a passionate tome written by our former neighbour George G Kundahl, the material in this blog post stems from French accounts.  For the sake of general interest, the words are much distilled from the available detail.  We can’t promise dissertation-level accuracy (and please put us straight in the comments section), but we’ve sought to gather the story from the streets during August 24, 1944, a pivotal day in the history of Antibes.

Overnight: Le Capitaine Vérine, codenamed “Gustel,” judged the moment was right.  For years the Résistance had remained clandestine as it gathered intelligence, published underground newspapers, and facilitated Allied arrivals into the area.  Now its members would go public.  As head of the secret army and the local sector of the Forces Françaises Intérieures (the newly organized collaboration of Résistance fighters), Gustel defined the FFI’s imminent mission:  To rebel against attempts to destroy Antibes’ essential services (e.g., water, gas, and electricity) and its communications network (e.g., rail stations, bridges, and transmitters). 

6:00 a.m.: Dawn arrived.  Antibes had not burned in the night.  Mines at the electricity plant, the water company, and the central post office had been diffused before they could explode.  One casualty was the PTT [Postal, Telephone, and Telegraph] office in neighbouring Juan-les-Pins.  Also destroyed in the night were the bridge and communication lines crossing the Brague River.

The Résistants moved into the second phase of their mission:  To neutralize or destroy the enemy stationed within Antibes, and to officially take power by seizing public buildings.  

8:00 a.m.: The uprising began.  About 30 groups shared the responsibilities.  One team spread into the German’s nerve center at the Red Cross, in the inland Terriers district of Antibes.  Another group swept the Fontonne and Brague areas, while others pushed into Saramartel at the mouth of the Cap d’Antibes, where the enemy still manned its bunkers, ready for action.  One team took charge of the port and Fort Carré, while another went for Antibes’ train station and the electricity plant.  Other groups headed toward the docks and the so-called “Casa d’Italia” that once sheltered the Italian Gestapo.  Still other teams occupied Antibes’ post office, its mairie (the seat of the local government), and its barracks.  A final group oversaw the resupplying effort.

10:00 a.m.: As the purge continued, the Comité de Libération met at Brasserie Jules at the top of Rue de la République, the spine of Antibes’ old town.  The bar was once known for its Beaujolais soirées and the occasional strip-tease, but now it was the rendez-vous of the Résistance.  As the committee gathered at Brasserie Jules that momentous morning, crowds began to demand the seizure of Antibes’ mairie.

A long procession formed along Rue de la République and began to march into Antibes’ old town.  The people united their voices in “La Marseillaise,” France’s national anthem. Eventually they reached Place Nationale and then swerved left at the circular fountain having a granite sphere at its peak, at which point they attacked the gradual ascent of Rue Georges Clemenceau. The crowd amassed themselves outside Antibes’ stately mairie, a broad building with a circular clock and iron bell at is crown.

Gustel and other Résistance leaders entered the mairie and strode to the office of Jules Grec.  “M. Le Maire,” Gustel addressed Antibes’ mayor, “je suis le chef  – I am the chief of the Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur, designated by the responsible leaders of the Comité d’Alger [a provisional government of Free France under Charles de Gaulle].  In this position and according to received instructions, I ask you to hand in your resignation as mayor.”

The maire agreed.  The transfer of power had taken place, and the Comité de Libération was in charge of Antibes.  Gustel asked city employees to continue in their posts, and a pharmacist took on the responsibilities of mayor.

Noon: The Red Cross nerve center had been cleared of occupying troops, but the manned bunkers at Saramartel on the Cap d’Antibes brought a greater struggle.  As the August heat soared, several dozen German soldiers were taken prisoner.  The population, sensing its freedom, put out their flags.  The festivities began.

1:00 p.m.: “Ils reviennent! They’re coming back!”  The cry began as a rumour and grew more precise. The enemy had pushed into Cagnes-sur-Mer, a coastal town 10 kilometers north of Antibes, and approached Antibes from the opposite direction as the Allies.  The Germans now drove along the main road toward the train station at Biot, which stood just over the Brague River from Antibes.

The Antibois panicked and pulled in their victory flags.  Gustel hastened his best response, ordering the Résistants to erect barricades on the major roads leading into Antibes.  Meanwhile he sent couriers in the opposite direction, toward Cannes, to seek help from the Americans.

2:00 p.m.: A van packed with German militiamen barely escaped a minefield at Biot’s station and made an about-face. A half-hour later, a German patrol forced its way into the hills occupied by Antibes’ Résistants.  French revolvers met German machine guns in the only serious conflict of Antibes’ emancipation.

Some German fighters rushed into a bunker at Biot’s station.  The rest were repelled by the Résistants, who had been bolstered by local reinforcements.  An hour later the Germans tried again to break into Antibes.  A truck of enemy soldiers brought lively gunfire, but the menace retreated, zigzagging toward a small fort in Villeneuve Loubet, some kilometers away.  It would be the German’s last attempt.

6:00 p.m.: Feeling they’d eliminated the present dangers, the Résistance leaders drew up a plan for the night. Their conference was interrupted by a courier:  The first American soldiers were rolling along the road from Cannes toward Antibes.

Antibes’ flags appeared again, covering the city.  The population emerged from their homes and lined the streets to announce the Allies’ arrival.

7:00 p.m.: Joy surged through Antibes on the arrival of a column of American parachutists.  The detachment of 50 men and several tanks paraded through town, distributing a precious gift of chocolate.  The troops took up position at La Brague, on the edge Antibes where the enemy had returned only a few hours earlier – but the Allies seemed to push out of town as abruptly as they’d arrive.  Their eastward drive continued.

Antibes’ celebrations continued into the night.  Nine Antibois had lost their lives that day.  Some died defending their city, and other casualties were youth wielding grenades taken from German warehouses.  For most of the population, though, it was a moment to revel in new-found freedoms.  There would still be outbreaks of fighting after the close of August 24, 1944, but this date would remain the dividing line between Antibes’ Occupation and its Libération.  

Today we can spot this history in small doses.  At the edge of Antibes’ old town runs Avenue du 24 Août.  It leads nonchalantly past a movie theatre, a comic strip shop, and a bus station before ending at the top of Rue de la République, where Brasserie Jules has become Café Pimm’s. The bistro’s croque monsieurs, citrons pressés, and pichets of rosé are of the moment, but the flamboyant deco signage, and the faded tromp l’oeil façade portraying a French carousel, speak of yesteryear, and delightfully so.  Meanwhile, lying just beyond Café Pimm’s, spanning out from the Rue de la République, is an open plaza.  The Libération procession once crossed the same space singing “La Marseillaise,” but today the square has a new name:  Place des Martyrs de la Résistance.  

Every now and then, too, we’re reminded more dramatically that WWII crossed these shores.  Last month the authorities closed Antibes’ Salis beach.  Shortly, a couple military trucks arrived from Toulon, 135 kilometers from Antibes.  The vehicles’ exteriors announced their purpose: DÉMINAGE.  Bomb disposal.  Fortunately, divers only found a corroded gas canister. 

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