The Rich Shall Inherit (52 page)

Eating a solitary meal in the hotel dining room that night, she glanced around at her fellow guests; there was an earnest-looking young man with his head buried in a guidebook; there was a pair of maiden ladies, eating silently and keeping their eyes firmly on their plates; there was an elderly couple obviously up from the provinces; and there was a scattering of spinsterish-looking ladies, dining alone, like herself. With a shock Poppy realized that, with her hair pinned firmly back, in her gray linen skirt and white blouse, she was exactly like them—except, of course, she was younger and she didn’t have a pince-nez.

Taking a look in her mirror later, she realized that she was out of style and provincial—and she certainly didn’t seem “grand.” And how could anyone who looked like a spinster schoolmarm from Marseilles ever hope to run the grandest house in Paris? She lacked all credibility and identity, and if she were to succeed she would need to establish both. Her customers would expect
style.

She had expected to see Franco again before she left for Paris, to discuss the details of her new venture, but there had been just
a quick note from him, confirming their business arrangement and informing her that a sum of money would be placed at her disposal at the Banque de Paris. “My only advice to you,” he’d written at the end, “is to let your creative and your business instincts merge. You did it in a small way in Marseilles, but remember this is Paris; if you are going to make any impact on that tough, jaded city, where they’ve seen and done it all before, you must think
‘grand.’”

Poppy lay awake all that night worrying about what to do, and the next morning, with circles under her eyes, she made a few discreet inquiries and then headed for the rue de la Paix and the haute-couture salons of Doucet and Lucille. Her spirits rising, she ordered day dresses and suits, and the lavish evening gowns for which Lucille was famous, all in her now “trademark” color of dove-gray.

Stopping at a famous coiffeuse, she had her long hair cut to a fashionable shorter length, so that it curled on top and fell in waves to her shoulders. One of the new “beauticians” showed her how to enhance her features with a little powder, a dusting of rouge, a hint of pearl-gray shadow on her eyelids, and a peach-color lip rouge. She shopped for fine kid gloves and shoes and purses, and for indecently luxurious underwear in gray silk trimmed with exquisite ecru lace. And then she went to the great furrier, Revillon, and asked them to design a special floor-length silver fox evening cape, and a soft gray squirrel jacket for daytime. Next she went to the expensive Ritz Hotel and checked into a suite, ordering her bags to be sent around from the rue des Saints-Pères.

Finally she sank, exhausted, into a huge, luxurious bathtub filled with hot water and perfumed oils. “Now I’m ready for Paris,” she exclaimed out loud. “Now I’m thinking ‘grand.’”

The next important step was the house. The gentleman she’d asked to show her the properties he dealt with in Paris’s most exclusive areas looked skeptical, until Poppy showed him her banker’s draft with the amount left blank for her to fill in, and the words
unlimited funds available
in the bank’s accompanying letter. “Of course, Madame Mallory,” he exclaimed, as though he knew of her already, and suddenly he was all smiles and deference. But when she finally chose the big old
hotel particulier
, a private mansion in the fashionable sixteenth arrondissement, and signed the bank draft for a small fortune with a trembling
hand, Poppy wished with all her heart that Franco or Netta were there to guide her.

An army of efficient workmen, recommended by the estate agent, swept through the old house, converting the rooms upstairs into lavish suites, and repaving the hall in marble. Biting her lip at the painful memories, Poppy ordered enormous crystal chandeliers from Venice; and she bought an entire library of carved oak paneling and shelves already filled with books, taken straight from an old English manor. She purchased carpets from Aubusson and silk rugs from China and Persia, so that when her “guests” stepped out of bed all they would feel on their bare toes would be softness and warmth. She ordered bathtubs made of onyx with graceful gold swan faucets with eyes of malachite and lapis; and she ordered brocade fabric for the curtains and the sofas to be specially woven in Lyons in a dozen cleverly “faded” shades of coral and peach, and mint and celadon, and the softest blues. She decided she wanted no vulgar matching suites of furniture; she wanted only the beautiful antique pieces that she saw in the grand shops and fell in love with. She felt like a crazy millionaire on a spending spree, but always at the back of her mind was the fact that Franco Malvasi expected a return on his investment.

Her own rooms on the ground floor were finally finished and, at last, she moved in. They were as simple and unfussy as her new couture dresses, and as elegant. Her bedroom walls were lined in pleated pale gray silk that matched the hangings on her big four-poster bed. The rugs were the palest blue-gray and the curtains were of ruched white taffeta. The paintings on her walls were her old favorites brought from her odd, inexperienced collection in Marseilles, and the few ornaments were her own. But thinking “grand,” she had her portrait painted by John Singer Sargent to hang in the library.

She had paid for everything in the apartment herself—not a cent of Franco Malvasi’s money was being spent on anything that wasn’t strictly business. But she knew she must also be a little bit outrageous, and remembering her promise to make Luchay a Prince of Parrots, she called the grand jeweler, Bulgari, in Rome, and asked him to design a beautiful new gold and jeweled stand. “It’ll be a long way from that old broomhandle and that cold little room of Netta’s in Marseilles,” she told Luchay fondly. And then, climbing into her big new bed with the parrot huddled into her shoulder for company, she cried herself to sleep, because she
really didn’t know what she was doing and she did miss Netta so.

Hiding her nerves beneath her new couture gowns, Poppy began to go out, always alone because she knew no men to escort her. She was aware of the ripple of interest as she sat in the stalls at the Folies-Bergère, dressed in a lavish gown and her sumptuous gray fur; watching the audience to see what it was about the performers they liked. She ignored the riffraff and concentrated on the obviously wealthy and aristocratic men who were there to see the girls in the show, not merely to solicit some little strumpet from the balcony. And she noticed that it wasn’t merely the girl with the most stupendous breasts or the most beautiful derriere or the longest legs that they admired—though these assets helped—it was also the girl’s personality and the touch of the unexpected. It was the comic little blonde with the face of a cherub who sang wicked songs with an innocent expression and the haughty milk-complexioned chanteuse clothed in a novice’s pure white habit, which she finally flung open to reveal a daring black lace leotard that barely restrained her exuberant breasts, that sent a tingle down every male spine. It was the red-haired dancer with a limber, versatile body who sparkled with sheer verve and vivacity, and the mysterious Oriental girl singer dressed in opulently embroidered Chinese silks, whose main attraction was her air of mystery and the unknown. “Mystery,” the unexpected, a touch of wickedness, the comic, the graceful energy … Poppy saw that these were all characteristics that men admired.

One night she made a sensational entrance at Maxim’s, fussed over by the maître d’ and obsequious waiters. She was wrapped in her sumptuous floor-length silver fox cape beneath which she wore Lucille’s slithering gray chiffon gown, tight at neck and wrist. Her red hair looked vibrant against the cool color and the wonderful five strands of the whore’s pearls glowed against her pale skin. Every man in the restaurant turned to stare and the women glared at her covertly, scenting some new rival in their fiercely competitive courtesans’ ranks. But Poppy refused demurely the little notes and the bottles of champagne sent over by intrigued admirers, shaking her head and smiling her secretive little smile. She was there to learn, not to take part. But she was desperately worried because although she now knew what she
wanted, she still had no idea how to go about recruiting her girls.”

Simone Lalage had been one of Paris’s top courtesans for fifteen years—a kept woman de luxe who, though no longer quite as young as she used to be, was still very beautiful. Simone was not a clever woman, but she’d inherited an innate peasant shrewdness from generations of farming forebears in Languedoc, and she had a body to rival that of any seventeen-year-old starlet at the music halls. After a rough start in life she had managed to amass a fortune in jewels and cash, but she’d never forgotten her debt of gratitude to Jacques Nobel, who had started her on her glittering career. And as she drove the three blocks from her house on the rue Le Sueur to number 16, rue des Arbres, she was repaying his favor.

Ever since Jacques had called her four months ago and told her that Franco Malvasi wanted her to help Poppy, but without letting Poppy know, Simone had been keeping an eye on things. It was she who’d called the real estate salesman and guided Poppy to the right house on the right street; she who’d made sure that the right workers were sent to the house and that they’d finished in double-quick time; it was she who’d called her old friend, the maître d’hôtel at Maxim’s, telling him about Poppy and asking him to seat her in a prominent position. Simone knew everyone in Paris who was anyone; she always had her inquisitive ear to the ground for the latest scandal and the newest trends, and she often seemed to know what was going to happen before it even happened. The word in Paris was that if you wanted to know
anything
, just ask Simone Lalage.

Her glossy maroon de Courmont limousine drew to a halt in front of number 16, rue des Arbres, and the chauffeur sprang to open her door before hurrying up the steps to ring the bell. A young maid in a demure black dress and frilled white organdy apron opened the door, bobbing respectfully as the chauffeur informed her that “Madame Lalage was here to see Madame Mallory.”

Simone glanced around her critically, taking in the beautiful Persian rugs, the exquisite antique furnishings, the soft pleasing colors of the drapes and the masses of flowers—and the empty silver tray on the console table where normally a dozen or so little white calling cards would have been displayed, its emptiness betraying the fact that no one at all had yet called on Poppy.

She inspected Paris’s soon-to-be “success” closely as Poppy walked down the blue-carpeted steps toward her. The girl was still breathtakingly young and as elegant as the best of couturiers could make her, and her choice of that clear dove-gray color was masterful. Her beautiful wild-looking red hair was swept up at the sides and fell in exuberant waves to her shoulders, and it had been cut by an artist. Her blue eyes had an arrogant tilt even though her glance was apprehensive. Poppy hadn’t yet learned to mask her feelings, Simone thought, but she knew that before too long, she would. Jacques Nobel had told her that she was a very clever woman. And judging by this house and those incredible pearls, she’d already made her first conquest!

“My dear,” she said, sweeping haughtily toward Poppy and offering her hand in an immaculate lilac kid glove that exactly matched her dress, “you simply can’t have a young girl like that opening your door; you must get a butler at once.”

“A butler?” Poppy repeated, astounded.

“Naturally.” Simone smiled her famous smile, showing two surprising dimples in her soft round cheeks. “In a house this size you must have the proper staff, otherwise what will people think? And in Paris, my dear, it’s what
people think
that matters. It’s just so easy to be out of style.” As Poppy stared at her, bemused, she added sharply, “Well, are we to stand in the hallway all day? Or are you going to ask me into the salon for some tea?”

“Tea? Oh, yes, of course.” Poppy beamed; after all these weeks alone she was so relieved to have company, she would have been happy to take tea with almost anyone. Besides, she knew who Simone Lalage was and right now she seemed like a gift from heaven. Simone would be bound to know what she needed.

“I’m here because I was curious,” Simone said, her sharp dark eyes taking in every detail of the luxurious room as she sipped jasmine tea from a beautiful Limoges cup. “And as I live around the corner, I didn’t have far to come to satisfy my curiosity. You must look upon me as a neighbor, my dear,” she said, leaning forward and patting Poppy’s knee kindly with her lilac-gloved hand. “Of course, I noticed you at Maxim’s—they tell me you’ve been there every night for a month now, and I’ve heard reports that you were seen at the Folies and the theaters and music halls. And always alone. Isn’t that rather surprising, for someone of your obvious wealth and good looks? I take it we are in the same business?” She knew perfectly well what Poppy’s business was, but from her innocent smile Poppy would never have guessed it.

“Not
quite
the same business, Madame Lalage,” Poppy said carefully, “as a matter of fact I’m not in any business at all, right now.”

“Call me Simone, my dear,” she said, “and pour me some more of that delicious jasmine tea while you explain yourself.”

Dare she ask her? Poppy wondered, inspecting her from beneath her lashes as she poured the tea. Simone was tall and statuesque, with an olive skin brightened cleverly with rouge, and masses of long dark hair that today she wore swept back into an elegant chignon. She was dressed beautifully and she was weighed down beneath what looked like several million francs’ worth of diamonds—there were ropes of them slung around her neck, starburst brooches pinned to her chest, enormous pear-shaped drops in her ears, and half a dozen rings on her fingers.

Simone’s eyes sparkled like her diamonds as she said merrily, “I’m a peasant at heart, my dear, I always carry some of my wealth on my person—I never feel one can totally trust
banks
, do you?”

Poppy laughed. “Simone,” she said, “I have a problem. This house is not meant for me alone, it’s meant to be the core of my new business venture.”