Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  Naturally—and appropriately—he had been chastised by the director of the hotel and warned to be more discreet in the future.

  Discretion! Yes, it was handy for a Frenchman, especially for those who had come through the war unscathed. Claude’s life had been saved by the luck of an urgent bladder, a small detail he did not like to repeat. He’d left his guard post to relieve himself and while he was in the bushes, the hut took a direct hit from an artillery shell. For that, he had been decorated—such was the randomness of life! And so, unlike many of his childhood friends, he lived to enjoy a Paris that seemed to have five beautiful women to every one able-bodied young man. “Claude,” his father had told him after their first weepy embrace upon his demobilization, “Claude, my son. France is yours for the taking, a nation grateful. Do not waste this chance!”

  He had not, cher papa. He had not.

  “May I ask what names your reservations are under?” Claude asked, smoothly.

  “Pearl White,” the older of the two American women declared.

  “My name is Blanche. Er—Ross, Blanche Ross,” the younger said with a shy smile and a slight hesitation, as if she were trying out her name for the first time.

  They followed him to the front desk, where they handed him their passports. He checked the passports, then, after a slight pause, returned them.

  “Ah. All is in order,” Claude told the charming Mademoiselle Ross with a smile. He had them sign the ledger—Mademoiselle Ross’s signature was quite vivacious, taking up two entire lines—and produced two keys. As he gave one of them to her, he made sure that his fingers touched the vibrant tips of her gloves, allowing them to linger for a moment before—he simply could not help himself!—kissing the top of her hand, and enjoying her surprised gasp.

  “This is how we greet beautiful women in France.” Claude fingered his neat little mustache, a practical accessory, for his face had not quite matured at the same pace as his personality.

  “Well, aren’t you fresh?” Mademoiselle Ross smiled at him, her cheeks deliciously tinged with pink. She had on the usual American makeup: lips painted like a ribbon, a fake beauty mark penciled on one cheek. Her golden hair was bobbed and she wore the new flat-chested, long-waisted dress—this was, apparently, known as the “flapper style”—although in Mademoiselle Ross’s case, her ample chest strained against the bodice in a most beguiling way.

  “Fresh?” It was Claude’s turn to be surprised, for he was proud of his command of the English language. But the word was unfamiliar in this context. “Like a peach?”

  “Like a masher.”

  Claude shook his head, befuddled; his face burned at the young woman’s teasing amusement.

  “A rake?”

  “A garden implement?”

  “Like Valentino—you’ve heard of him?”

  Ah—Claude’s face cleared. Yes, of course, he had seen Rudolph Valentino in several films. Monsieur Valentino was a funny man with a great many teeth and rolling eyes, yet he was apparently irresistible to beautiful women. So this was a compliment!

  “Rudy’s no masher,” the other woman—Pearl—said dismissively. “He’s a queer. Everyone in Hollywood knows that.”

  Claude stiffened: such language.

  “Listen to Pearl,” Blanche assured him, placing a warm hand upon his biceps—Claude made sure to flex it beneath his gray pinstriped cutaway jacket. “Pearl’s a film star, too. You’ve seen her, right? The Perils of Pauline? This is Pauline! In the flesh!”

  He had not heard of Pearl White—Pauline—but naturally, he pretended that he had. But how could this coarse woman—she was actually reaching into her bodice to adjust one of her bosoms, right here in the lobby of the Hôtel Claridge—be a film star? Claude Auzello was dubious.

  “Naturally,” he addressed the charming Mademoiselle Ross. “I see many American films, they are very popular in France. Mademoiselle Gloria Swanson has stayed here at the Hôtel Claridge many times.” And he straightened up with pride; that had been a grand experience, as Mademoiselle Swanson was quite glamorous, and there had been many newspaper photos of her in the Claridge lobby.

  “Gloria?” Pearl snorted. “That little shrimp. Nothing but a clotheshorse, if you ask me.”

  “I’m going to be a film star, too,” Blanche confided, lowering her head modestly; her cheeks burned pink, almost as if she were unable to believe it herself. “That’s why we’re here in Paris. To make films!”

  “Ah.” Claude could not help it; he tasted dismay. A film star? No, that would never do; while it was a feather in the Claridge’s cap to have a film star grace its lobby, film stars—particularly aspiring ones—were, in a purely practical sense, beneath the assistant manager of the Hôtel Claridge, who had higher aspirations. Film stars courted publicity and tended to do all manner of wild things—such as bathe in fountains and remove their clothes in nightclubs—that Claude felt were rather vulgar and common.

  But Mademoiselle Ross’s breasts heaved most enticingly as her breath quickened; her silky eyelashes grazed her cheeks, they were that long.

  “I don’t have to start right away. I was supposed to meet someone, but my—my friend—has been delayed a week.” Mademoiselle Ross held up a crumpled, tearstained telegram, then shoved it into her coat pocket as if she were ashamed of it.

  “A week?” Now that was good news. A week was perfect—finite. No ambiguity, no last-minute sighs and flutters and hesitant wonderings of “Perhaps I could extend my stay….” “Allow me to show you Paris,” Claude once again suggested, overcoming his antipathy for the film industry, or at least this particular member of it. “This is your first visit, and there is nothing I would like better to do.”

  “Well, I’m not sure….”

  “Oh, go ahead, Blanche. Enjoy yourself until he comes!”

  Ah! There was a “he.” Who was away for a week.

  Claude smiled again.

  “Well, gee, that would be swell, then.” Mademoiselle nodded with another radiant smile. “I’m dying to see Paris.”

  “Let us begin.” Snapping his fingers—a bit of theatricality he did not usually employ, but he could not help himself—Claude summoned bellboys to corral the mass of trunks and hand luggage the women had brought with them. He could never understand why Americans brought so much baggage; their clothes were abominable, anyway, and they could purchase much more exquisite creations, very cheaply, here in Paris.

  Claude straightened his tie, beckoned for the women to follow, and led them through the lobby of the Hôtel Claridge, proud of the fact that all the chandeliers had been washed just this morning; that the trash cans were emptied every hour; that the brass light switches were polished every two hours. He showed them where the ladies’ salon was; he stopped briefly at the American bar, full of noisy patrons listening to a woman singer croon a silly song, something about saying farewell to a person of indeterminate gender named “Tootsie.” He pressed the bell for the gilded elevator lift and told the boy to take them to the top floor.

  Once there, he ushered the women down the carpeted hall—vacuumed twice daily; he was pleased to see the fresh tracks, still undisturbed—until he reached their suite; opening the door with his gold master key, he stood back and allowed the mademoiselles to enter first.

  “Holy moley, Pearl!” Blanche clapped her hands and jumped up and down, so charming and joyful that Claude wanted to take her in his arms right then and there; he desired to hold such exuberance, press it close to his own just as exuberant flesh. Swallowing hard, he switched on the lights in order to show the suite in all its glory. With professional detachment, he opened the door to the bathroom and explained how to use the taps—avoiding the bidet, which, after all, was not proper for a gentleman to point out. Claude also showed the two—Pearl White was more blasé than her friend, who oohed and aahed most adorably—all the lighted buttons next to each bed tha
t would summon the proper help: chambermaids, shoeshine, laundry, room service.

  “And—voilà!” With a flourish, he pulled open the ornate draperies to reveal the wide Champs-Élysées below.

  It was its usual noisy, chaotic self; cars honking, masses of tourists screaming, laughing, taking photographs with their bulky box cameras. Sidewalk cafés full of people jammed into tiny tables and chairs, souvenir stands with miniature Eiffel Towers and tiny red, white, and blue French flags and cheap berets, dogs barking, restaurateurs waving menus at passing tourists. Claude was not fond of the Champs for all of these reasons and would have apologized for its seedier aspects had Blanche Ross not started squealing in delight.

  “Oh! Oh, how grand! It’s like Times Square, isn’t it, Pearl? Only so much better! Look—is that the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle, it is.”

  “And that over there—what’s that?”

  “The Arc de Triomphe, built to celebrate Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz.”

  “And that?” The charming American flapper had opened the window and was leaning dangerously out of it. Claude rushed to grab her, holding her by the waist—out of concern for her safety, he told himself as he encircled that slender torso, felt the firm, ripe flesh straining against his arms, absorbing the heat from her young body, fueled by such innocent enthusiasm that it made his heart do a remarkable thing.

  Claude Auzello’s heart—that sturdy engine, heretofore reliable and hence unremarkable—made an odd little sound, almost like the pop of a champagne cork. It was a sound audible to his ears only, yet he felt the tips of those ears burn with embarrassment. More roughly than he should have, Claude drew Mademoiselle Ross back inside the room and released her without ceremony. Inhaling—rather shakily; he almost removed his handkerchief to mop his suddenly glistening forehead, but reminded himself that he was on duty—he straightened his tie. Unnecessarily, for it was, of course, undisturbed. His tie, it turned out, was much more dependable than his heart.

  “That was the Place de la Concorde, Mademoiselle Ross.”

  “Oh, call me Blanche. If you’re going to be spending this week with me, we ought to be on first name terms, don’t you think?”

  “If you wish.” He nodded, knowing that he sounded far more stern and formal than he intended, but at the moment he did not quite trust his voice. “My name is Claude, Madem—Blanche.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll call for you at seven, if you like? There is a charming restaurant in Montmartre I think you would enjoy. We could walk there, as it’s such a warm day.”

  “Terrific, Claude, just terrific!”

  “And what am I supposed to do?” Pearl White pouted—a silly pout for such a weathered-looking woman.

  “Oh, Christ, Pearl. I forgot!” Blanche turned to Claude with an appealing gaze in her wide brown eyes.

  “Aw, never mind.” Pearl began to laugh heartily. “I’m just teasin’ ya, Blanche. I have a date already lined up.”

  Claude did not think he imagined the look of relief on Blanche’s face, and so he could not quite suppress a grin as he bid them adieu—kissing Mademoiselle Ross’s hand once more—and closed the door, returning to his duties. Despite the charming miss whose supple waist he could still feel in his arms, there were other guests to be welcomed. Then, the night manager to be briefed on the dozens of small problems that had popped up, like clockwork, during the course of the day. The laundry reported that one of the wringers was broken. Some sheets had arrived from the supplier, even though none had been ordered. The chef found out there was no Dover sole for this evening and was threatening to quit—the third time he’d done so this week. Two of the waiters in the dining room had not shown up, so two busboys must be elevated. Mrs. Carter, in the Presidential Suite, had complained of loud footsteps overhead, despite the fact—pointed out to her again and again—that she was on the top floor.

  Claude plunged right into these tasks with his usual efficiency, the same efficiency he had brought to his duties in the war. Despite his embarrassment over the circumstances of his survival, he had served admirably. Claude was not one to indulge in false modesty; he knew that he was born to lead, not follow. He had been a captain in charge of a battalion of men and he saw some of those men die around him; he held them while they shuddered out of this life; he had put his hands—he surveyed them now, marveling at the whiteness, the manicure he’d gotten only yesterday. He had put those same unblemished hands in blood and shit and intestines. He had felt the sharp shards of bones protruding from flesh.

  And for surviving—such a mindless thing, really, you simply keep breathing while those around you do not—he had been awarded the Légion d’honneur.

  For merely doing his job, he expected no such honor.

  To have his own hotel was his ambition but he was still young—only twenty-five—and patient. So for the present—the assistant manager at the Hôtel Claridge, a decent hotel, yes; many an American movie star stayed here, as well as minor royalty. It was, perhaps, a bit too busy and common for his taste—right on the Champs, so too much foot traffic, and it backed out onto a narrow street lined with jazz clubs, which he abhorred: all that jangling, nervous music. But the Claridge was a fine place for now. Later, however…But he must work his way up, learn the job inside and out before he could even think of owning his own place. And to do that, Claude had his sights set on a different hotel.

  A hotel in a class all of its own: the Ritz—oh, even to say its name induced in him a little shiver of excitement. Not unlike the excitement that a beautiful blonde named Blanche Ross had also induced.

  Glancing at the employee schedule hanging in his office, Claude was very glad indeed that the owner of the Claridge, Monsieur Marquet, was away on business for two weeks. He could easily arrange his schedule to accommodate hers. A whirlwind romance—dinner in Montmartre, the usual stroll along the Seine, lunch in the garden at the Palais-Royal, picnics in the Bois—he’d buy her a small painting from one of the stalls near Notre Dame; that never failed to impress.

  Flowers every day in her room, fresh from the flower market on the Île de la Cité where Claude had an account. And a reputation.

  And at the end of the week: Au revoir, Mademoiselle Ross.

  Once again, his heart made that odd little exclamation—what was it? Claude put his fingers to his wrist and breathed slowly, feeling his pulse. Should he take an antacid? Had he eaten something unforgiving at lunch?

  Shrugging, he picked up the phone to call the charming little restaurant in Montmartre.

  A restaurant known to all in the hospitality industry for its discretion.

  Blanche turns away from the mirror, repulsed by the dirt creased into her face, the grit in her hair (as well as the inch-long dark roots at the scalp), the red in her eyes from the cinders of the train, the stains on her clothes, the run in her stocking, the broken heel of her shoe. As thirsty as she is, she draws herself a bath first and while the water is running, she removes a Schiaparelli day dress from her bag, hanging it next to the steaming water so that it might lose some of its wrinkles. She knows she could ring for someone to press it (hell, here at the Ritz, she could ring for someone to go out and buy her a new one) but she’s desperate to shed her filthy refugee skin and return to herself, to the Ritz.

  She removes all the makeup from her vanity case, lining up the various jars and pots, nearly empty after the months away. She should go down to see if any of her (real) jewels remain locked in the small safe in Claude’s office, and then she remembers that it’s no longer his office. And so her jewels are probably no longer there.

  C’est la vie.

  After her bath—not as long as she’d like, but enough to dissolve the first couple of layers of filth—she dresses, sprays the last of her perfume behind her ears, and pulls out a pair of shoes.

  A pair of custom satin court sho
es from Hellstern & Sons; they are pristine, unworn in all her time at Nîmes. (Christ, what was she thinking, packing like she was going on the Grand Tour instead of accompanying her soldier husband to a small garrison in the middle of nowhere?) They’re a lovely shade of apple-green, and she slips her tired, swollen feet inside them and sighs. She remembers the first time Claude took her to have her feet measured at the shop, how excited she was to see her wooden shoe form, when it was finished, with her name on it—Madame Auzello.

  It was the first thing she’d ever seen with her new, married—French—name. It was the first purchase she made where she said, so proudly, “Put it on Monsieur Auzello’s account.” She’d felt so continental; so sophisticated, emancipated, even. When the reality, as she would discover, was so very different. Still, at the time, the act of having a custom-made shoe charged to her Parisian husband’s account seemed the very act of defiance, of rebellion. Back home, as her parents’ youngest, unmarried daughter, she’d had to make do with a yearly trip to Lord & Taylor to purchase her chaste wardrobe. Until, anyway, her film career took off—

  Which it never really had. But still, the pursuit of it had led her to Paris, and to Claude, and a charge account at Hellstern & Sons, and the first time she’d slipped her foot into a custom shoe, she’d made Claude take her out dancing in Montmartre—something he did only reluctantly—and she’d felt so utterly Parisian, so utterly reborn. So utterly Madame Auzello.

  Back when being Madame Auzello was a dream come true.