She wipes her brow. ‘I’ve never felt so powerful. So in control.’
‘So lost to the dark side, even. Could we perhaps investigate now?’
‘Oui, oui. Sorry.’
The parquetry floor is the same on the other side but pristine, not as dull and bowed as our side is from years of foot traffic.
Manon and I exchange a glance. ‘Let’s hope there’s a very good reason these rooms have been hidden for so long.’
The doors to the suites are painted the same creamy colour as the others in the hotel, but are in much better condition. The brass number plates are also the same, but the door handles are different, more traditional perhaps from the Belle Époque era.
A hush falls between us. I hold my breath and grab the cool of the brass handle of suite nineteen and push, but the door is firmly locked.
‘La vache. I wasn’t expecting that.’ Disappointment flutters through me but it makes sense the rooms would be inaccessible since a former owner went to the trouble to build a wall to hide them from view.
Manon sighs. ‘I can pick the locks.’
‘With what?’
‘A bobby pin, a pen? A coat hanger!’ It’s probably the only time Manonwoulduse a coat hanger.
‘I don’t want to risk damaging anything. The realtor gave me a huge bunch of master keys that I stashed behind the reception desk without any thought because none of the suites were locked when we arrived. Why don’t we check those first?’
‘I doubt we’ll find an antique master key to fit but we can try.’
I put my ear to the door of room nineteen. ‘What could be inside?’
‘A mystery. Try suite twenty, just in case.’
I turn and try the handle of suite twenty and it swings open. ‘Voilà!’
We squish together in the doorway and survey the contents of the musty room. Under the window is a neatly made bed with a white lace coverlet. The pillows bear an imprint still. Who slept here?
There is a pile of vintage Christmas decorations, including a ‘creche’, which is what the French call a nativity scene, except they go one step further and make an entire village. Just before midnight on Christmas Eve, children get the honour of putting baby Jesus to bed before the family traditionally go to midnight mass.
‘Who are those by?’ Manon asks, her voice awed. ‘Anyone famous?’
I take a tentative step inside the suite and lift one of the many paintings leaning in a neat pile against a wall. ‘Impressionist style?’ I muse. ‘Signed by an L. L. Toussaint.’
Manon whips out her phone and investigates. ‘I don’t think L. L. Toussaint is the next Monet. No record of any notable paintings by that name.’
I gently place it down and go through the others. They’re all by the same painter. ‘Aren’t they lovely, though, Manon? No matter whether the artist is famous or not. This one particularly so.’ It’s of a woman lying on a bed, similar to the one in this room, a sheet strategically placed to protect her modesty. Shehas long wavy hair and sharp-angled cheekbones, but it’s her eyes that are mesmerising; they sparkle, even through the dulled colours of the canvas, like there’s untold secrets within. Her cheeks are blushed pink – from the heat of the day, or something else? I have the strangest sensation, like I know this woman. Maybe this woman is all of us, with her vulnerability on display, yet it’s obvious she feels safe, comfortable. ‘We should hang these around the hotel. That would save us buying new artwork.’
We spend the next few hours digging through the treasure trove of belongings in suite twenty. ‘Why does this room feel different?’ I ask Manon. ‘We’ve found suites full of all sorts of odds and ends, but this one…’
Manon rocks back on her heels, as she squats in front of a Louis Vuitton travelling trunk that’s full of petticoats and linens. ‘These are someone’s cherished possessions,’ she says. ‘This room houses a whole life, and luckily for us it’s been sealed up and preserved.’
We find the most beautiful collection of nostalgic items. A jewel box. Delicate music books with tissue-thin paper, ravaged by time. Vintage perfume bottles that still carry a lingering scent even though the liquid is long gone. Opera gloves. Hat boxes with intricately styled head pieces. A velvet pouch with smelling salts! Embroidery hoops with colourful stitching and balls of wool. ‘Whoever owned these things seems well off, don’t you think? So why would they be here in the hotel? Abandoned like this?’
Manon considers it. ‘Once upon a time, L’Hotel du Parc would have been the height of sophistication. A prestigious place to stay. The grandeur is evident by the baroque elements that have survived. Perhaps these are the belongings of a former owner?’
‘Could be.’ It makes sense that whoever owned the hotel would store their things neatly away if they lived at the hotelrather than at another location. In the wardrobe are gowns and dresses of varying sizes. Some are more formal and some very plain, as if the wearer didn’t care much for fashion. Or perhaps they were her day-to-day clothes and she only frocked up in the fancier attire on occasion.
‘But then why is suite nineteen locked?’ Manon asks. ‘And why was there a wall to hide them both? That’s a large undertaking to hide a room full of seemingly innocuous belongings.’
A trail of goosebumps breaks out along my arms. ‘Suite nineteen is locked because there’s something special inside.’ I feel it in my bones as I sit in the middle of a room full of beautiful objects whose owner remains a mystery. For now.
‘One thing is certain: a person went to a lot of trouble to disguise the fact these rooms ever existed… and I’d really like to find out why.’
