Paris: The Novel

could studyher 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