Hotelles (22 page)

But both men grinned and bore it.

“And what's it about?”

“Considering your delay, don't tell me it bothers you that I found some material?”

For my part, I wondered what he had on my new friend that could have led her to commit such a faux pas. She seemed so fiercely independent. Had he slept with her? Did her self-confidence come from these kinds of secret dealings?

Louie's cane banged against the floor as he walked toward the translucent door.

“No, obviously it's a big help,” Luc grumbled. “But allow me at least to ask about this . . . unexpected editorial line?”

“Knowing you, I think you'll like it. It's a completely contemporary topic . . .”

His sardonic smile hinted at something venomous. The two other men pretended not to notice, but Luc Doré challenged him, his tone bitter.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Did you know that in Japan more than a third of high school girls and college students are forced to sell their charms in order to pay for their frivolous desires: clothing, outings, mobile phones, et cetera?”

“That's your topic?” Philippe choked.

“No, I'm interested in France. There are less of them here, but there does exist a small community of pretty young women who make ends meet . . . horizontally.”

Me, lying on the sofa in the Marie Napoleon room. He wouldn't dare!

Like the night before, I thought I might collapse into one exhausted heap, powerless, completely dominated by his virility, by his sex.

“That's not very novel . . . ,” Luc gnashed. “There's already a book on it, and even a made-for-TV movie, if I'm not mistaken.”

“You're right. But these days we're not just talking about desperate young girls getting screwed in dingy attic rooms out in the projects. Today the offerings also include high-end women. They're educated, and they circulate in posh environments . . . Some even have careers, high-powered positions.”

“Escorts, you mean!” exclaimed the producer.

“Better. They don't just accompany men, but neither are they simply luxury whores. They're like geishas, to get back to Japan. Women who are capable of titillating their clients' bodies and minds.”

“And what are these dream creatures called?”

Philippe's lusty laugh betrayed a personal interest in the topic, suggesting he had probably already rented girls by the hour or the night.

“Hotelles.”

“Hotels?”

The mention of the neologism made me dizzy: Rebecca and Louie were surely in collusion.

He spelled the word. And with each letter, his lashes blinked at me. The gesture was less emphatic than a wink, more subtle, more intimate. I could feel him touching me from a distance. In my head, my chest, my middle, my sex.

Had I been capable of making the slightest movement, I would have strangled him. But there I was, panting, torn between shame, anger, and an invisible force compressing my vagina, just before pleasure, just after pain, somewhere deep inside me, where my most visceral fears reside. I felt like coming and fighting at the same time, and was incapable of wresting the hate from my being without also losing every shred of fascination and brute desire. It was becoming impossible to sustain, and if Luc hadn't taken it upon himself to put an end to the meeting, saving me from this strange volcanic torpor, I think I would have broken down in tears in front of them all.

Robotically, I left the room, several long seconds after Louie had disappeared into the hall. I made my way blindly back to my office like a zombie, guided by a sense of direction that surprised even me. I collapsed into my leather office chair like a rag doll, with my back to the city and its madness. I gazed unseeing at the empty surface of my desk. “Your computer will be installed tomorrow,” Chloe had promised.

“Chloe?”

One major quality of David's assistant was that she always answered on the first ring, or, at worst, the second, but never more.

“Yes, Elle . . . what can I do for you?”

“You didn't tell me if I had any other meetings after the visual design meeting . . .”

The “strip Elle naked” meeting would have been more apt.

“You don't have anything else scheduled. That was already a lot for a first day, though, wasn't it?”

Her tone was smiling, conspiratorial. She sounded more relaxed than the other times we had spoken. Since I hadn't shown myself to be hostile, she had no doubt decided it was time to cozy up to the boss's future wife.

“I guess . . . ,” I murmured absently.

“By the way, David asked me to tell you to go home after Luc let you out.”

“Oh, okay.”

Attentive. Considerate. Giving me special treatment. In a word: David. But he probably did not know about his brother's presence at my meeting, and how much his excusing me from work for the rest of the day was a big relief.

How was I going to be able to manage more than a day in the same office as Louie?

“Also, did you find your package?”

Package, package . . . I scanned the room, looking for a . . .

“Yes . . . ,” I stuttered.

She had not left it on my desk but on a chair, which was hidden from anyone entering the room.

Silver paper. A new cousin in my Ten-Times-a-Day's family.

“Perfect. I'll leave you, then. See you tomorrow, Elle.”

I hung up without responding. I was already on my feet.

The package was bigger and heavier than the others. In addition to an envelope, whose contents I already knew—the room key; a card (with a commandment); an invitation—it contained a large night-blue jewelry box. It was considerably more sizable than the one David had given me with Hortensia's ring.

I waited to open it and instead began with the card. Magnetic key, nameless and without number, from the Hôtel des Charmes. I knew it. A note in that same round and soft, beguiling script.

      
Ten o'clock,

in your finest.

 

He had never been so enigmatic. As for the new commandment, its message was clear, and it was easy for me to guess what would be expected of me in a couple hours.

3—Thou shalt abandon thyself to their unflinching gaze.

The only thing that was really surprising was the jewelry box. I choked when I finally saw what it contained. Atop a silk cushion sat the most extraordinary necklace I had ever seen. Even the rarest of pieces displayed at Antiquités Nativelle did not compare. Three rows of extravagant emeralds—more than three dozen, of varying sizes—linked together with pink gold and accentuated with an infinite number of diamonds that hung in chains or small clusters around the necklace's perimeter. You did not have to be an expert to guess that such a piece contained a fabulous legacy and was of inestimable worth. One would have to be mad to offer such a gift and, what's more, to send it in a simple box, entrusting it to the careless hands of postal workers and secretaries.

Speechless, I gazed at every aspect of the piece, a patrimonial gem that by some miracle had arrived in my hands. Suddenly my phone rang: cruel, banal, modern.

“Hey, kiddo, it's me.”

Sophia, obviously.

“Hey. How are you today?”

“Umm . . . Didn't we just have lunch together three hours ago?”

“Right, yes . . . Sorry. I'm kind of out of it.”

“I can tell. And you're not the only one.”

“What's up?”

“With me? Nothing . . . nothing directly. But I ended up walking by Rue du Roi-de-Sicile again after lunch.”

The street where Belles de Nuit was located.

“And?”

“So you know how the last time I went, she didn't answer? Well, this time, I ran into the concierge. I sweet-talked her and told her I'd left some things upstairs . . .”

“And she let you in?”

“Yep . . . And in retrospect I wish she hadn't.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because something is really fishy, chica: the place was totally empty. No Rebecca, no filing cabinets. Not even a trash can with old papers. A total desert. The Gobi Desert in Paris.”

As I listened, I typed BDN's URL into the address bar on my smartphone and got “404 Server not found.”

When I told her the news, she moaned, sounding more distressed than I'd ever heard her.

“We don't exist anymore. Do you realize? Hotelles don't exist anymore.”

Louie certainly would not share her opinion.

19

I
t may have been a disaster for Sophia, but it was the best news I'd heard in days. Belles de Nuit was out of business. The website and all its files, gone. All that was left of my illicit activities were some stolen pictures, which could easily be explained as the photoshopped products of some mudslinger. These days everyone was capable of pasting a face on a body, in a photograph or movie. Secondarily, the sudden disappearance of BDN also erased my debt to Rebecca.

In short, nothing, or almost nothing from my past, could lead to problems with David anymore. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I left Barlet Tower. Feeling like fate was finally on my side, I clung to the good news like a buoy.

 

THE JEWELRY BOX ZIPPED IN
my bag, I decided to take a detour before going home. I thought of the riding crop Louie had given me—it was still buried in the pile of clothing where I had hidden it—and the flattering things he had said about the appraisers at Drouot. Churlish, but according to him the best in the capital. My intuition had not led me astray, I realized as I entered their office, an austere boutique across from the modern building where the auction house is located.

My treasure worked its spell on the appraisers, making them forget my gender, age, and naive appearance. One of them was particularly attentive . . . and forthcoming:

“Hmm, I recognize it. It is one of the most famous necklaces belonging to the Empress Eugenie, Napoleon III's wife.”

I had been right about its ancient provenance and worth. But the old, bald man dampened my enthusiasm as he readjusted his spectacles over his ruddy nose:

“Actually, the one you have here is a replica from the period. A very nice piece, don't mistake me . . . Jewelers often made less valuable duplicates for their clients to wear. The more precious version would remain in a safe.”

“How can you distinguish it from the real necklace?”

“Oh, that's easy, look: the stones are cut less finely, they are slightly smaller, and sometimes the setting is of a less precious metal, which makes them more prone to coming undone . . . There are a number of tells, believe me.”

“And the original?”

“It hasn't been in France for a long time, little lady. It belonged for a while to the royal family in Iran, before falling into the hands, thirty years ago, of an Asian collector I know quite well in Seoul.”

As interesting as this was, it didn't tell me much about what I wanted to know.

“Are you absolutely sure it belonged to the Empress Eugenie?”

To my knowledge, no room at the Hôtel des Charmes went by that name. And with good reason: Eugenie de Montijo, Marquise of Ardales, Marquise of Moya, Countess of Teba, Empress of the French, and wife of Napoleon III had never been a courtesan.

Was it a mistake? A red herring?

“I am certain. Our organization has identified and catalogued every detail of Eugenie's jewelry collection, one of the richest of her time. In terms of this particular necklace, though, she was not the only famous woman to wear it.”

Now we were getting somewhere. I expected he would name some Hollywood star.

“La Païva was without contest the most famous.”

“La Païva . . . ,” I repeated, racking my brains.

“Her real name was Esther Lachmann. She was a society lady who hosted one of the most popular salons of the Second Empire. She purchased the original of your necklace directly from Eugenie. Six hundred thousand francs: at the time, it was a colossal sum!”

“And where did this Païva live?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Today, a lot of people visit her home on the Champs-Élysées, a present from one of her lovers, Guido von Donnersmarck, Bismarck's cousin. But she spent more time in her house on Place Saint-Georges.”

The same square through which Louie and I had strolled.

 

BACK AT DUCHESNOIS HOUSE, I
spent the rest of the afternoon mulling everything over. At Armand's request, I gave him my engagement ring so he could get it engraved:
Annabelle and David, 18 June 2009.

In exchange, he handed me a checkered sheet of perforated paper, which I recognized immediately. I almost dropped the ring I was handing to him.

“When did you find it?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“After lunch. I'd say between two and three o'clock.”

Or when we'd just started our meeting, the one Louie had attended. He hadn't been the one to put the note in the mailbox, then. Did he send a factotum for such minor tasks? Ysiam, perhaps, whose work at the Hôtel des Charmes put him in proximity to the Rue de la Tour-des-Dames. A quick jaunt during one of his breaks and the job was done. Who would notice a humble Indo-Pakistani making a delivery in a neighborhood where so many members of his community lived?

I carefully unfolded the paper like a bomb expert with my own emotions. After two days without, two days of epistolary silence, I had no idea what the note would contain, much less how I would react. Would I be indifferent? Or, on the contrary, would I get all hot and bothered, as I had a few hours earlier with Louie? Would he speak of the way in which I had given myself to him the night before, on the sofa?

A ball of fur threw itself across the room, distracting me from the page between my hands: Felicity. Since she had moved here, she alternated between depressive periods spent inside a cupboard, curled up on my sweaters, or taking refuge in sleep, and rare bouts of euphoria. Now, she had chosen our bedroom as her playing field. The cat suddenly jumped through the half-open window. I went to close it behind her when I noticed the feline climbing the wall that separated our garden from that of Mademoiselle Mars. Felicity's piercing meows told me that she had taken an unfamiliar path and didn't know how to get back.

A minute later, I rang the modern interphone at 1 Rue de la Tour-des-Dames. Above the blue door was an old enamel plaque in the shape of an oval:

Youth Travel Office

After I had pressed the bell several times, a man wearing work clothes opened the door. He made no effort to be polite. I was clearly bothering him. Robust, shaved head, jaw as big as his forehead, he reminded me of a wrestler from the sixties. He looked me up and down, without lingering on my chest, which was heaving with distress.

“Yes?”

“Hello,” I whispered. “I live next door, number three. I think my cat ran into your garden.”

“Hmm . . . And so?”

“I think she's trapped on the other side of the wall. She can't make it back.”

I don't know why, but I couldn't get the word “pussy” out of my head. I can never bring myself to say the word out loud in public, even in completely asexual situations like this one.
My pussycat is trapped.
I blushed, and I was fairly certain he noticed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I saw her jump.”

“Okay,” he grumbled. “I'll have a look.”

I started to follow him, but he quickly shut the door.

I could hear the sounds of construction from behind the wall. I waited there, listening, for what seemed like a long time. At last he reappeared, holding the guilty animal by the scruff of the neck, just like mama cats do with their babies.

“Is this the one?” he asked curtly.

“Yes . . . thank you.”

As soon as Felicity was in my arms, he slammed the blue door without so much as a good-bye. Curiouser and curiouser, as Sophia would have said.

 

THE PERFORATED PAGE WAS EXACTLY
where my three hellions had thrown it. At last I could have a look at what it said.

A bad joke? Or maybe an oversight? How was I supposed to understand this blank page?

I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking out at the garden. It didn't take me long to understand what the blank note meant. It was my turn to write something. All the messages, all the forceful intrusions into the meanders of my libido, had been leading to this precise moment, to when I would hold the pen, when I could no longer contain the need to write my desires.

My phone beeped, interrupting my thoughts. While I had been next door, Mom had left a message. A long message:

“Hi, honey, it's Mom. I hope your first day of work went well, my Elle. No, I don't hope it did: I know it did.”

My mother and her unwavering confidence in me.

“I'm not doing so well. I'm beginning to wonder if this trip to the States is such a good idea. And, you know, Madame Chappuis says the Max Fourestier Hospital is one of the top five of the Hauts-de-Seine. She read that in her magazine . . . The top five. Not bad, right? What would they do that's really so much better over there?”

My mother, her insufferable neighbor, and her propensity not to see the forest for the trees. She wasn't ignorant or hardheaded, just humble. She didn't think she deserved better.

“Oh, there was one nice thing that happened today: your David spoiled me again. Calissons from Aix-en-Provence and gorgeous peonies. It's sweet, but you have to tell him to stop, honey! I don't know what to do with all these things . . .”

Maude, my mother, always ready to believe a fairy tale, so long as I was its heroine.

“Okay, I love you. Don't call back. I'm sure you have more important things to do tonight.”

I hardly felt up to it, but I forced myself anyway. Her line was busy, and I had to try several times before she picked up. Not a day went by that I didn't call her. It had been part of our routine since before she got sick. Now it seemed even more vital. I always called around the same time, toward the end of the afternoon. I listened to her complain about Laure Chappuis; I even laughed at her expense. We usually talked about simple, shallow things, but it felt good.

 

AN HOUR LATER, AS THE
light streaming through the windows grew orange, I heard a noise in the entry that could not have come from a four-legged creature. Armand usually did his chores with the utmost discretion, to the point of absolute silence; others would have found it suspicious. So the source of the racket could be none other than  . . .

“Elle, darling! It's me!”

David arrived back at our home at six o'clock
—one word didn't belong. And it wasn't the possessive pronoun. With every passing day, I felt more and more at home in this haven of calm and sophistication.

“Will you join me downstairs?”

“Armand?” he called in a singsong voice. “Would you, sir, please meet us in the living room?”

I was the first to arrive in the neo-Pompeian main hall. Unlike our bedroom or the kitchen and bathrooms, the living room had been restored to its original specifications. Everything fit with that earlier era, from the Empire furnishings, to the floral friezes depicting fluttering clouds of birds of paradise, to the baby grand piano in a corner facing the garden.

The kiss David planted on my forehead also seemed to come from another era. Yet it was not lacking in tenderness.

“You know, everyone was really impressed by you!”

“Really?” I asked, honestly surprised.

He smiled knowingly, as though it were a given, as though the day had simply confirmed his predictions about me.

“Yes! Luc and Albane loved you. And even Louie, who, to be frank, had some reservations about you, was impressed by your poise in the meeting with Chris and Philippe. I don't think you could have had a better first day!”

A day in which Louie had made me his thing. A day in which he'd once again demonstrated that I was at his mercy. If there hadn't been the news about Belles de Nuit, I think it would have been one of the worst days of my young life.

“Armand! Come in, sir!”

Armand hurried from the vast entryway. His round face, the red nose and cheeks of which formed a stark contrast to his white hair and eyebrows, appeared at once. Summer or winter, he invariably wore brown corduroy pants, a white shirt, a buttoned waistcoat, and leather moccasins.

“I wanted us both to get home early because,” David said to me, “Armand is going to brief us on the wedding preparations.”

“Thank heavens, everything is shaping up nicely,” said the domestic in his deep, warm voice. “What should I start with?”

I was surprised to note his casual tone with David, who, for his part, tended to be very formal with him. It reminded me of fathers and sons in old aristocratic families. In fact, Armand had probably played a paternal role to the Barlet brothers after Andre and Hortensia had died.

“You, sir, know best.”

Armand withdrew a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles from his cardigan and affixed them to his red nose. He gazed at a set of notes between his hands, holding the paper close to his chest, as though he were afraid we'd sneak a peek.

“So . . . please thank your friend Mademoiselle Petrilli for me. I have received a copy of her identity papers as well as her signed form.”

“Perfect!”

For once, Sophia had taken care of something serious  . . .

“Your papers, Mademoiselle, are at city hall. It took some doing, but I convinced them to add your wedding to the docket on the requested day. In the middle of June and with only ten days' notice, it wasn't easy. But, luckily, this year June eighteenth falls on a Thursday and not a Saturday. Otherwise, we would have been in a real bind!”

“What time is the ceremony?”

“One p.m. I know it's not ideal, but let me suggest we offer your guests a glass of champagne here, before going to city hall. An amuse-bouche can tide them over until lunch.”

“Very good,” David approved, delighted.

As for me, I took the ease with which Armand handled each obstacle as a good sign. Thanks to him, the sky above seemed to grow clearer and the ground below flatter. With the exception of my mother's worsening condition, our union was unfolding under auspicious conditions. Or better even  . . .