Paris: The Novel

of his companions now cried out, “I haven’t introduced my friend to you. This is Charlie de Cygne.”
    She bowed her head politely. If this was the case, she thought, then he must be the stepson of Marie. But her face betrayed nothing.
    “Allow me to welcome you then, monsieur. I am Madame Louise, the owner. Most of the girls are quite amusing to talk to. You are free to enjoy their company in the salon.”
    Then she left him.
    Even in an exclusive establishment like L’Invitation au Voyage, people would appear without any introduction to spend an hour or two; but the majority of the men who came there were regulars, or soon became so. And before any new patron of her establishment sampled the goods, it was Louise’s custom to invite him to her office for a discreet conversation. This would not only ensure that all financial matters were taken care of, but she would also do her best to ensure that her girls wouldn’t pick up any infections. “I run my house rather like an English gentleman’s club,” she would explain. “The other members are your friends. And of course, if you break the rules, your membership will be revoked, permanently.”
    She waited twenty minutes before she sent a servant to ask him to come upstairs.
    She observed him carefully as he entered. She liked the way he moved. He was elegant, but strong. As he reached the chair, he had to turn slightly, so that she could see his body in profile. She noted everything about that too. Perfectly formed, she thought. As he sat down, he smiled. Good smile. He seemed quite relaxed. Confident in himself. His eyes looked slightly amused.
    She stared at him for a moment or two.
    “You haven’t come here for the girls at all, have you?” she remarked pleasantly.
    “Why do you say that, madame?”
    “I don’t mean that you won’t sample the goods. But I think you came out of curiosity. Because of the rooms.”
    “It’s the total experience, perhaps.”
    “You don’t want it said, when history is written, that in the Paris of his day, Monsieur Charles de Cygne missed out on L’Invitation au Voyage.”
    He laughed.
    “I confess.”
    “Well, monsieur, I am very flattered that my house should qualify as such an attraction.”
    “It is becoming a legend, madame.”
    She inclined her head. Then she stood up.
    “One moment, monsieur.” She walked past him to a small filing cabinet,opened a drawer, closed it and returned past him to her seat. As she passed him, her keen sense of smell picked out the faint lemony smell of the pomade he used for his hair, receding a little, and the lavender balm he applied after shaving. Behind that, she could just discern the natural smell of his body with which these scents interacted, flesh and follicle, in a way that was pleasing.
    She made up her mind.
    “Very well.” She smiled apologetically. “The truth is, monsieur, that your arriving without an appointment this evening has placed me in a small difficulty. I don’t think I have a girl for you. But I should like to offer you something in recompense. On Sundays we are closed. That is my rule. If you care to come by on Sunday afternoon, I will show you all the rooms. Then,” she smiled, “you will be able to say that you have seen something that very few men have ever seen.”
    He stared at her in amazement.
    “You would really do that?”
    “I would.”
    “Then I accept, madame, with pleasure.”
    “You are to come alone, monsieur. I am not turning my house into a public gallery.”
    “Of course, madame,” he said. “I understand.”
    She wondered if he really did.

    He arrived promptly at four o’clock the following Sunday afternoon. Apart from herself and a couple of servants still cleaning the house, the place was empty.
    It took her some time to show him all the rooms. He was quite curious. Two of the rooms were Belle Époque and very plush. Another might have come from the eighteenth century, shortly before the Revolution. She had a Napoleonic room. “At least three of our regulars,” she told him, “I am certain, imagine they were the emperor Napoléon in another life.”
    The English Tudor room with its heavy oak four-poster bed also contained two Elizabethan portraits that caught his attention at once.
    “They look genuine,” he remarked.
    “They’re seventeenth-century copies, and heavily restored,” she told him. “But I got them through an English dealer I trust. They look well, don’t they?”
    This caused him to ask