We’re all silent as we take in the spectacle before us. It’s like a time capsule going back to another era. I move to the shelves and run a finger along the spines of the leatherbound books. What would these be worth? While they’re in disorderly dusty piles, they’re in immaculate condition. I breathe them in, the scent of bygone times. Do I really want to share these special tomes with others? Part of me can’t imagine disturbing one single thing in this room. It feels special, somehow. Like the occupant just stepped out for a moment…
Noah goes to the old-fashioned rolltop desk that’s been left open and says, ‘Do you mind if I—’ He points to a drawer.
I don’t want to miss a thing, so I step around spilled piles of books and join him. ‘Go for it.’
The drawer is full of notebooks. He takes one and flips it open to find neat cursive writing, so curly that it’s hard to decipher. ‘Any idea who wrote it?’ I ask, reading over his shoulder. I can’t tell if it’s a journal or a manuscript.
‘Non, I’m not sure.’ We each take a notebook and read, looking for some clue as to who stayed in this suite. The only sound is the rustling of paper as we turn the pages.
‘Found something,’ Noah says. ‘She writes that she’s escaped her husband and is relieved she won’t ever need to write under the pseudonym any more. She doesn’t go into much more detail, only that she hopes that he doesn’t find her.’
I gasp. ‘So the rumour is true? A mysterious writer from the twenties lived here, at L’Hotel du Parc!’
‘It could be. She was clearly a “woman of letters”, as they were so dubbed back then.’
I remember that day back in La Closerie des Lilas when Noah told us what he knew about the writer. ‘Didn’t you say she assumed another name when she moved to the hotel?’
‘Oui, that’s what the previous hotelier told me. But does that mean she took another pseudonym, or a whole new identity?’
‘And why? To escape her husband, as she mentions?’
‘Must be.’
‘The plot thickens.’
Noah gently flicks the pages, looking for more details.
I take stock of the novels on the desk, wondering if our mystery guest penned any of them. I find an edition ofGigiby Colette, and under a stack of typed papers, there’s a copy ofChérieby the same mononymously known author. My heart stops for a moment. ‘It couldn’t be Colette, could it? A French icon famous for writing about love and sensuality who was well ahead of her time and lived what was considered a scandalous life back then…’
‘Let me check.’ Manon takes her phone and types. ‘Non. It says Colette was living at number 9 Rue de Beaujolais in an apartment at the Palais Royal at the time of her death in 1954.’ She pockets her phone.
‘What a place to live.’ Very rarely apartments at the Palais Royal are offered for sale, but when they are there’s a hefty price tag attached for such a prestigious address.
Noah nods. ‘Colette’s life was well documented. She wrote semi-autobiographical books, and didn’t shy away from society. Plus, she didn’t write under a pseudonym.’
‘Oui.’ I’m surprised at Noah’s knowledge about our infamous French author. ‘Have you read Colette’s work?’
‘Most of them.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m a fan of literature of that era.’
Manon sidles up to him. ‘So you wouldn’t read an Anais De la Croix novel then? Too modern for your tastes?’
‘Never say never. I’ll read anything.’
I bristle at his use of the word ‘anything’, as if in desperate times a book written by me would suffice. ‘How sweet,’ I say with a wooden smile. ‘As much as I’d love to explore every inch of this time capsule, I think it’s best we press on with our hotel work, so if you can find your way out?—?’
Noah’s face falls. ‘Of course. Thank you for sharing this room with me.’ He puts a hand on his heart and gazes around once more as if taking it all in to consider later. ‘I’d really like to help you investigate further.’
‘Merci, but that won’t be necessary. However, if you don’t mind keeping your knowledge of this private, I’d be grateful. I’m not sure I’m ready to share this with the world yet.’ This room is special, not only because of the beautiful disorderly books but because there’s a real sense of a secret being kept inside these walls. A secret that I also feel is not mine to tell.
‘My lips are sealed.’
After he goes, Manon confronts me, eyes ablaze, arms akimbo. ‘Anais! That was rude. Why are you so prim and proper around him? You remind me of mymaman, the way you’re acting. Pursed lips, huffy faced.’
‘Why did you bully him to come over here?’
Her eyebrows pull together. ‘Without Noah, we wouldn’t have the key for this suite, and he’s a word nerd, it’s practically tattooed across his forehead. Why wouldn’t you two literature lovers want to share in this musty, dusty find? While this space is intriguing, it’s also a little drab and boring for my tastes, so I figured he’d be the man for you. The person you could run to when you want to obsess over every little detail. Details, I mightadmit, that I would personally find excruciatingly boring to hear on repeat for the next lot of forever.’
I blow a lock of hair from my face. ‘You didn’t know what we’d find here, Manon, so how can any of that be true?’
