The Keeper — Le Chef-d'Œuvre Inconnu

I hadn’t planned to take over the last antiquarian and rare-book shop in Lille. Life, in its most unpredictable form, decided for me. Three years ago, I crossed the threshold of this place. Its founder saw in me what I didn’t yet dare name: his heir. Today, my customers call me « La Gardienne » — The Keeper. It’s a title I didn’t claim, but one I honour every day by saving paper treasures from oblivion.

A life under the watch of books

I’m a child of books. In my family, paper has always been the binding between generations. I grew up surrounded by disparate libraries: great classics and literature at my mother’s, French history at my father’s, mechanics at my grandfather’s, culinary arts at my grandmother’s.

I had the immense luck of never being restricted — at home, the belief was that if a text was too complex, the mind would protect itself on its own. So at twelve, I was discovering Rousseau’s Émile, or On Education.

Yet this freedom came with a loving watchfulness. My mother was my first “Lookout,” reading each volume before me to make sure it wouldn’t bruise the sensitivity of the moment. She held that role until I was thirty, even during my burnout, ensuring my readings would be refuges rather than aggressions. From that upbringing I kept one conviction: a book is a rampart, but you must know which wall to build for the season of your life.

From stone to page: taming eternity

My way of looking at antique books is fed by a singular field of study — the representation of death in sculpture between 1390 and 1550, between Paris, Avignon and London. Studying how humans chose to make their passage endure in stone gave me deep respect for whatever survives time.

I also took courses in modern palaeography to learn how to read manuscripts, but it’s that relationship with trace, monument and memory that defines my practice as a bookseller. Years spent in museums, in Lille and Saint-Omer, finished sculpting my museum-grade rigour and my love of the rare object.

The art of passing on without crushing

Before being a bookseller, I was a children’s governess. That experience is the secret thread of my career. It taught me adaptability and humility.

In my bookshop, I am “the one who knows” — but I am never the one who looks down. My knowledge is not a weapon to exclude; it’s an outstretched hand to accompany. My craft is to translate rarity into emotion, to make accessible what seems sacred, and to guide every visitor toward the text that will echo their own story.

A working mind outside the box

If my approach stands out, it’s because I refuse to smooth over conventions. My neurodivergence is my operating system: it lets me see invisible links and process information with an intensity that’s my own. By stating it openly, I set the tone for how I am: whole, direct, unfiltered.

I’m not here to play the role of a distant “specialist,” but to offer a space where singularity is welcomed with excellence. Here, “weirdness” doesn’t exist; there are only treasure-hunters who deserve to be heard, respected and served with absolute care.

Welcome, on my own terms

You’ll always be greeted with a « Bonjour, bienvenue », a sacred legacy from Jean-Claude, the founder of this place. For the rest, I leave you your space. You’ll likely find me cross-legged on my big leather armchair, like a tomcat on his territory.

And if I work without shoes — to Jean-Claude’s despair! — it’s because for a neurodivergent person, comfort is the condition of thought. The crochet octopuses on my desk are there to remind you that, surrounded by serious treasures, we don’t need to take ourselves seriously.