It's the Louvre of pawnshops

During different periods, Parisians went to auntie with different types of treasures. In the 19th century, people pawned their mattresses in the morning to buy potatoes -- and retrieved them before nightfall. The finest craftsmen forfeited their tools when they were unemployed, and writers such as Emile Zola, Paul Verlaine and Victor Hugo all at some point made desperate visits to auntie. Hugo's "Les Miserables" even includes a bride who gave up her trousseau for 60 francs from auntie.

In modern times, Credit Municipal and 18 other pawnbrokers run by city halls around France are viewed as barometers of uncertain times. Business in Paris, for example, has picked up by 35% over the last few years.

Candiard likens his waiting area to an emergency room -- without the blood. Fatiha Chakki was in the other day turning over several pieces of gold jewelry to raise money to pay a $925 power bill. "Coming here is the last solution," said Chakki, who is 35 and an unemployed bartender. "Nobody else would give me money."

J. Dancik, a teacher, was in renewing a contract on a contemporary painting and a piece of Art Nouveau furniture he had pawned a few years ago to pay his son's camp tuition. "I needed money quickly without being asked too many questions," he said. A few years ago, a woman showed up to reclaim two necklaces and a medallion that she'd dropped off -- 54 years, four months and 16 days earlier. She paid $185 to buy them back.

Although government-run pawnshops may seem strange to Americans who are used to private shops, these public operations exist around the world in countries such as Spain, Mexico and Indonesia. Like the others, Paris' auntie doesn't rely on taxpayer money, but operates on what is collected in fees, interest and other banking business and from regular auctions.

Recently, the mayor of Paris asked auntie to run an auction selling off 5,000 bottles of wine collected by a predecessor, former French President Jacques Chirac. It raised more than $1.5 million.

Leaving auntie's cool wine closet, where a 1982 Chateau Haut-Brion with a yellow plastic tag around the neck was waiting to be stored, it seemed a convenient place to leave a Bordeaux -- when you're in the red.

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geraldine.baum@latimes.com

Special correspondent Pauline Ranger contributed to this report.