Paris: The Novel

salver.
    This done, she ushered him into the salon, saying that her mistress would be with him shortly. Then she disappeared with the salver.
    The salon was furnished with rococo gilt furniture. He noticed a beautiful little writing table with a marquetry top and polished curves. Sèvres porcelain graced the chimney mantel. On the walls were charming paintings by artists like Boucher and Watteau of gods and goddesses, or frivolous ladies and gentlemen of the court, in pastoral landscapes, enjoying themselves in various states of dress or undress. On one wall, however, was a large painting belonging to the present century, of a handsome lady, as clearly drawn as a portrait by Ingres, wearing a wonderful pink silk dress, and walking in a garden that contained a sumptuous peacock.
    Everywhere he saw pinks and soft blues, delicacy and charm: it was the most feminine house he’d ever been in. He’d been waiting there only a minute or two when the lady appeared.
    La Belle Hélène was wearing a long, light silk gown, cut low over her lovely breasts—a little simpler than she would have worn if she were dining out—which darted to a fashionably narrow waist and laced, or unlaced, at the back.
    She looked radiant.
    She was in her early thirties, he supposed. Like his, her hair was fair and wavy, and her eyes were blue. But beyond these superficialities, they might have come from different planets. For though the aristocrat was perfectly tailored, shaved and barbered, it was the lady who was sophisticated, in ways of which he was only dimly aware.
    Her hair, her skin, her teeth were flawless, and kept that way at great expense. She was waxed and powdered, manicured and scented, until she was a work of art. Her eyes were wide apart and took in everything without seeming to do so. Her face was turned slightly upward, her mouth smiling pleasantly. She was available to him—that was already established—yet she remained perfectly poised.
    “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, monsieur,” she said, “which I hope you noticed in the hall. It seems you know exactly what I like.” She smiled. “I see that you understand that flowers are to be smelled as well as looked at.” She paused just an instant. “I collect pollen like a bee. But just a little. Never too much.”
    He bowed and smiled, though he had still not comprehended that when Luc had delivered the flowers, neatly tied to the stem of one of the roses was a little packet of cocaine. Not that he need have been shocked if he had known; for cordials containing cocaine were even then being enjoyed, and publicly recommended, by such worthy persons as Thomas Edison in America and Queen Victoria in Britain.
    The maid appeared with two glasses of champagne. The glasses were the broad coupes then in fashion. La Belle Hélène used a golden swizzle stick, with a tiny flail at the end to reduce the bubbles in her glass.
    “I prefer less bubbles,” she remarked, “though my friends tell me I should not.” Then, as they sipped their champagne, they began to talk.
    La Belle Hélène was a beautiful woman. But the reasons she was a great courtesan began with her conversation.
    It took her only moments to put him at his ease. Within five minutes, he was having the most delightful conversation he had ever had in his life. She told him a little about herself or, like as not, made reference to something some friend of hers had experienced or told her about, but she seemed chiefly interested in learning about him. And soon she knew far more about him than he guessed.
    For her success, her mansion, the works of art on the wall and her friendships, which were genuine, all derived from this one fact: that she studied men. She discovered their strengths and weaknesses, what theyfelt and what they wanted, and then she set her entire intelligence and imagination to making them happier than they had ever been in their lives. She fulfilled their every desire, and even desires they did not know they had. And they showed their gratitude as only very rich men can. The house and much of the art came from an elderly industrialist, who would have married her if he could have.
    In the course of this career, she had amassed not only a little fortune, but a large stock of knowledge about many subjects, from finance and art to wines and the racetrack.
    By the time they moved into the little room which she used for intimate dining, she already knew about his regiment, his family and the fact