Paris: The Novel (121 page)

When Louise received the note from Jacob, one morning early in September, she decided to go to his gallery that very afternoon. Every so often, when he had something that he thought she might like, Jacob would send her a little note. His judgment was usually excellent, and
down the years she’d bought a number of paintings from him, including one by Marc Blanchard—a small landscape of the very street in which her establishment was situated.

She’d often thought about the portrait of the girl who might have been her mother. But she’d never bought it. She’d developed an aversion to false hopes, and disappointments. Had she discovered for certain that the girl in the painting was her mother, she’d have wanted it. But she preferred to ignore the picture altogether rather than invest her emotion in a possible delusion.

She liked Jacob. It was clear that he loved the work he was selling, and once he got to know her, he would give her frank advice. His prices were always sensible. She looked forward to seeing what he had to show her.

First, however, there was the daily business of the establishment to be attended to.

Every morning the house was cleaned. Though they were always kept shuttered on the street side, all the windows were opened, the bedclothes were completely changed. Every tile and bathroom was washed, scrubbed and disinfected. By noon, the house smelled as if it had just been fumigated, and Louise inspected it with the thoroughness of a strict hospital matron. Not until teatime would little sprays be used to perfume the rooms again.

At one o’clock, a potential new girl arrived for an interview, and Louise saw her in the little office on the upper floor where she had her own apartment.

The girl was the cousin of Bernadette, one of the most reliable of the twenty girls who already worked for her. During the last couple of years, most of the new girls had come to her in a similar way. Indeed, the two that Luc had found had proved to be unsatisfactory, and she had been obliged to send them away.

At first sight, the girl looked promising. She was fair-haired, slim, elegant. Her manners were excellent, she was well-spoken, but her face had a cool distance that was intriguing.

The interview was thorough. Beyond the official medical tests, Louise explained, she would insist on the girl visiting the doctor that she used for an even more thorough screening. She also asked in detail exactly what her experience was, and what she was not prepared to do. But this was by no means all. She made the girl walk about, so that she could study
her deportment, she made her read aloud, she asked her questions about clothes and fashion and she wanted to know if she had ever acted.

By the end of the interview, she had decided that the girl was certainly a prospect. Well worth a trial.

“Come with me now,” she instructed, “and you can see some of the rooms.”

At this, the young woman’s calm face lit up.

“I’ve heard about the rooms, madame,” she said. “I’m quite excited.”

There is nothing new under the sun. Certainly not in a brothel. But it could truly be said that, of its kind, L’Invitation au Voyage was exceptional. And if it was, Louise knew, the inspiration for her work hadn’t come from a house of pleasure.

It had come from the Joséphine department store.

She’d gone in there so many times. Her only concern had been that she might encounter Marc Blanchard. It was possible of course that he might not recognize her, but she preferred not to take the chance. And having learned from the shop assistants that he almost never went into the store in the morning, she went then, and had never seen him.

But she had seen his work. And it was spectacular.

She was fascinated by the way that the store was like a changing stage set. There was always something new, to dazzle or surprise. Even the mannequins in the windows or the floor displays seemed to be engaged in some action in which, perhaps mysteriously, they had been suddenly frozen.

Though she avoided Marc, she had on one occasion talked to Marie, who had come up while she was engaged with one of the assistants. Louise had complimented her on the way the store was run.

“That’s very kind of you,” Marie replied. She seemed genuinely pleased. “We do our best. Sadly, however, my daughter, who married a charming American last year, is going with him to America shortly. She’s the one who scouts for talent and keeps us up to date. It won’t be easy to replace her.”

“I wish I could help you,” Louise said on impulse, “but I don’t know enough.”

She realized her folly as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but saw a light of interest in Marie’s eyes.

“What do you do?” the older woman asked.

“I study art, and model for Chanel.”

“Really?” Marie looked quite thoughtful. Louise knew the impression she made on people. Her clothes, her manners, and her elegant French always impressed them. “I wonder if you should talk to my daughter and my brother,” Marie mused. “You’re the right sort of age …”

“It’s a charming idea,” Louise said quickly, “but not possible, I’m afraid. I wish you luck, though, madame.”

Marie was still looking at her curiously as she beat a hasty retreat.

Whatever her exact relationship to Marie might be, Louise liked and admired her. And she was quite taken aback when, a year later, the Joséphine store suddenly announced that it was closing.

The statement to the press was remarkably frank. The owners felt that, after years of brilliant success, they were in danger of getting stale. Rather than see the business descend toward mediocrity, they were going to close it. They hoped that Joséphine would be remembered as a work of art. After her initial shock, Louise decided that the choice was rather admirable. How many stores and restaurants lived on the reputation of their past, when they would have done much better to close?

The space was soon rented to another enterprise. Two months later, Louise saw a small notice in the newspaper that Marie had married the Vicomte de Cygne.

So when she opened L’Invitation au Voyage, Louise tried to follow a parallel course with her own business. Several of the best Paris brothels had exotic rooms and some staged erotic entertainments, but in Louise’s house, every room had a theme. Some, she realized, should not change, because customers asked for them again and again. But seven of her rooms were changed at regular intervals. She not only had an English room, a Scottish room, even a Wild West room, but she would decorate the rooms to evoke particular moments in history. She began to deal in fantasies of every kind, and it amused her to think of fresh ones with which to surprise the men who came there. I should ask Marc Blanchard to help me, she thought wryly. He’d be good at it.

But she didn’t really need any help. She was discovering a rich imaginative vein in herself that she’d never knew she had.

She spent considerable sums on every redecoration, but she kept a sharp eye on the profits and the cash, and found that she could charge more for
the quality of service she was providing. As for the girls, they loved dressing up to suit the part, whether Egyptian princess, Roman slave or any of the many roles that fantasy, light or dark, might demand.

There was always something new at Louise’s brothel, and it was done with style. She hoped that her Blanchard family, if they had known, would have been pleased.

After the prospective girl had gone, telling her staff that she would not be back for several hours, Louise left for Jacob’s gallery. It was less than a mile and she decided to walk. She walked west to the Place des Victoires, crossed behind the Palais-Royal, and up through the district near the Bourse that she knew so well. She was in a good mood as she entered the rue Taitbout.

Monsieur Jacob was delighted to see her. His wife was visiting the gallery. Her plain dress and pale skin suggested that, as Louise had always supposed, the Jacob family were strictly observant. She had a baby girl with her, of whom Jacob was obviously very proud.

“Your first?” she asked with a smile.

“Oui, madame.”
He beamed.

“Her name?”

“Laïla.”

“A beautiful name.”

She suspected that Jacob himself knew what she did. He might have told his wife, or he might not. The younger woman seemed a little reserved, but that might just be her manner. She did not touch the baby, but she congratulated both parents on having such a pretty child. Then mother and daughter left.

“So what have you for me?” she asked Jacob.

“Something different, madame. Drawings.” He went to a plan chest and returned with a portfolio containing a number of charcoal and pencil sketches on thick paper, which he placed on a table. “I remembered that you had taken an interest in the work of Marc Blanchard,” he continued, “and I was at his place the other day.”

“Ah. He is well?” She was careful not to sound too interested.

“He is getting old, madame. But I asked him if he had any other work for me—for I have sold a number of his paintings, you know. And he told
me that the only thing he had was a portfolio of drawings that he hadn’t looked at in years, and that I was free to take it away and see if there was anything of interest.”

He showed her three. One was a rough sketch of Paris seen from the hill of Montmartre, not especially interesting. Two others were very incomplete life drawings, one of a man, the other of a middle-aged lady in a hat.

“They’re all right …,” said Louise, without much enthusiasm.

“I agree,” said Jacob. “I don’t find them interesting. But then I came upon something else.” His small face gazed at her seriously. “Do you remember that you once made an inquiry about a portrait of a girl? Quite good, we both thought. You asked the identity of the sitter, and I did inquire, but the artist did not tell me.” He produced another sketch. This was a pencil drawing, quite detailed, and he laid it in front of her. Louise recognized it at once.

“It looks like a sketch for that portrait.”

“Exactly, madame. I still have the portrait and I placed them together. There is no question. As a collector, you will well understand that to possess both the portrait and the artist’s sketch is highly desirable. I should certainly wish to sell the two together.”

“Naturally. Though we still don’t know the sitter’s identity.”

“No, madame. At least, not quite.” He reached into the portfolio. “But there is a third item, madame, a charcoal sketch, unquestionably for the same picture, and on this there is a name—as you see.” And he placed the charcoal sketch on the table. At the bottom, quite clearly, the artist had written a single name.

Corinne Petit.

Louise stared. And then, quite suddenly, she felt her throat contract, and before she could do anything about it, tears came into her eyes. There could be no further doubt. The coincidences were too many. Marc was her father. And she was looking at her mother.

She kept very still, hoping the little dealer had not noticed.

He stood up.

“I will bring the portrait in, madame, if I may,” he said, moving to the door at the back. “It’s interesting to see all three pieces together.”

He was gone several minutes. By the time he returned, she had fully recovered herself. But she felt sure that he had noticed, and that his absence was tactful kindness.

“You see, madame.” He hung the portrait on a blank wall, and adjusted the lighting. Then he held up the two sketches, one in each hand, beside the portrait.

“A set of three,” she said. “They look wonderful together.”

“I hoped you might say that. I think so too.”

“The painting was for someone else originally,” she lied. “But I might take them for myself. I remember you quoted me a price for the painting. But that was some years ago. What would it be now, with the drawings as well?”

“The same, madame. You are an excellent client.”

“You are kind, Monsieur Jacob.”

“If you will permit me, madame, I should like to get the drawings framed, and then we can arrange delivery.”

“Excellent, monsieur. Meanwhile, I shall choose a suitable place to hang them.”

When the transaction was complete, she prepared to leave.