The Rich Shall Inherit (53 page)

“Is that so,” Simone said interestedly, as though she was hearing it for the first time. “Then why don’t you tell me all about it? Maybe I can help with the problem. After all, my dear,” she added, with a charming grin, “they say there’s nothing I don’t know about in Paris, or how to do it, or how to get it!”

For the second time Poppy knew she had to put her trust in a stranger, and again she felt she wasn’t wrong. She began by telling her about Poppy’s in Marseilles, and, without mentioning Franco’s name, about how she had the backing of a rich man to open her own house, and that it was to be the grandest house in Paris—with her own particular style. “It’s not a bordello,” she told Simone firmly, “it’s more of a gentleman’s club, a civilized place where a man can come and relax, maybe he’ll have dinner, or a drink with his friends, or conduct a little business. And if he also wishes the company of an attractive, intelligent young woman at dinner, for an hour or so—or for the night—he shall have it.” She sighed heavily. “The only trouble is, I don’t know where to find the girls.”

“It’s simple, my dear,” Simone told her briskly, “once the girls know,
they’ll
find you. And I shall personally make sure that the right sort of girl gets to know.”

“It’s important,” Poppy said urgently. “She can’t be the same sort of girl you would find in just any house. She must be intelligent as well as attractive—but of course beauty will be an added bonus. And, of course, she must be clever in bed, but she should also know how to entertain a man, how to make him feel happy so that he’ll be glad to be here in our house, in our company. She must be able to learn; she’ll need to read books and newspapers so she can talk on the arts and current affairs.” She stared earnestly at Simone. “I want my girls to be able to sit down to dine with politicians and businessmen, or with artists, actors, or writers, and to be able to talk to them intelligently about their own world. I want my customers to feel
at home
here, the way a man does in his club.”

“I see,” Simone said thoughtfully, “so you’re a
clever
woman, Poppy, as well as a beautiful one. Oh, yes, you are beautiful, you know,” she said as Poppy blushed, “especially when you are intense like that … all that energy and flashing blue eyes and wild red hair. And where is the man in your life? Could it be this mysterious financial backer?”

Poppy shook her head, blushing even deeper. “No, no, of course not …” she murmured, “I’m too busy for that sort of thing.”

Simone put down her teacup and straightened her expensive little lilac straw hat. “‘That sort of thing,’ as you call it, Poppy, is what makes the world go round,” she said, laughing. Her grin was mischievous, and for a moment Poppy caught a flash of the young girl she had once been. “And besides, it’s what keeps me young. Sex once or twice a day is still my recipe for physical fitness—and for putting a sparkle back into the eye and a blush of color into the complexion. And sex is also something that’s going to make you a very rich and successful woman,” she added shrewdly. “I shall put the word out, my dear, so you’d best employ that butler before the little maid is run off her feet answering the door. Of course, for an
understanding
butler, you must go to Smith’s, the English agency. The English are always so tolerant of these things, aren’t they?

“You must come to my next dinner,” she told her as she stepped into her beautiful maroon car, “I give one every month, you know. They are quite famous. It’s a coup to be invited to Simone Lalage’s dinners—your first coup in Paris, but not your last,” she added as she waved good-bye.

*  *  *

Poppy went to Smith’s Agency the next day and interviewed butlers, choosing a dignified white-haired man whose noncommittal expression never changed throughout the interview. His name was Watkins and he was a polite Englishman, tall and discreet in his butler’s black tails and striped gray trousers, and he came highly recommended by a duchess who was down on her luck and could no longer afford him. Poppy explained her “household” delicately, but he merely nodded and said gravely, “I understand, madame. The Duchess’s household, too, was a little eccentric.”

Over the next few weeks Watkins was kept very busy answering the door to a stream of young women, some of them beautiful but all of them attractive and dressed in their best, and all wanting to become one of Poppy’s “girls.”

Sitting behind the big leather-topped desk in her study, which she’d chosen because it looked impressive, Poppy questioned them all closely, and if they were too young or obviously inexperienced, she told them bluntly that she wasn’t about to set young girls like them on the wrong path because they thought they could earn some easy money. “Believe me,” she said, “it’s never easy—you are better off going back to the little town or village in the provinces you came from, marrying that nice young farmer or salesman and having a houseful of children. That’s where happiness lies—not here.”

And she didn’t choose only the prettiest girls; she wanted clever ones who could learn, she wanted girls who enjoyed sex, and she wanted girls who were different, who sparkled with personality, or wit, or humor. When she had chosen them, she told them they must attend lessons in manners and deportment and learn how to dress.

“The way you look is important,” she lectured them, “as is your voice, and your demeanor.
You
may not have been born to the role, but you are about to become young ladies. In the salon, that is. Of course, upstairs is another matter. You know the old story, ‘a lady in the drawing room and a whore in bed’—well, that should be you—if that’s what the man wants. But always remember, you are in control of the situation—if you don’t like the man or what he asks you to do, then just say so and we will ask him to leave. I’m not laying down any rules,” she told them simply; “after all, we aim to please, and as you know, a gentleman’s pleasures can vary.”

They looked at her expectantly as she got to the subject of sex,
and Poppy struggled to remember what Netta and Simone had told her. Keeping the nervous tremor from her voice with an effort—because she was aware they knew more about it than she did, she skated lightly over it. “If a man wants more than one partner, and you enjoy that, then it’s perfectly all right,” she said quickly. “Some men enjoy dressing in women’s clothes, or being treated like a naughty boy, and some just like to watch. Some will want nothing at all except the pleasure of your charming company,” she went on, remembering Netta’s words, “and maybe an affectionate kiss good night. Many men are
starved
for love and affection and while they can’t expect to buy love, we can certainly offer the affection. And always remember,” she told them firmly, “if you behave like a lady, you will be treated like one ….”

Thinking “grand,” Poppy sent them to the top couturiers, telling them that she expected them to be well dressed and groomed at all times, even when they weren’t working, because as “Poppy’s girls” they would have to maintain a reputation for being the smartest in Paris. She found a diction teacher to rid them of their provincial accents and their harsh tones, until they spoke as softly and mellifluously as any of the great actresses; she hired tutors to teach them about the arts, and she sent them all to the latest plays; she plied them with the latest novels and biographies and books on philosophy, and she gave them tests to see where their natural interests lay. She paid for lessons in deportment and manners, etiquette, wines and food. In two months she’d covered everything and, at the end of her crash course in the social arts, she sent them out to the grandest restaurants—alone—to test their savoir faire. All of her girls passed the test with flying colors, returning elated with stories of obsequious maître d’s and attentive waiters, and the interested attention of other diners.

Poppy was satisfied, her girls could go anywhere. Of course, she could give them no lessons for their work “upstairs,” as she called it to herself; she would just have to trust Simone Lalage, who had promised her everything would be all right.

The house was ready at last. Sargent’s full-length portrait of her in a cascading pale gray satin gown, her red hair upswept and dotted with diamond stars, dominated the library; and Luchay, on his wonderful bejeweled gold stand, waited in the hall to dazzle her guests.

With Simone’s help, she organized an opening party, sending
out engraved white cards from the very best stationery shop, stating that
Madame Poppy
would be
at home at numéro seize, rue des Arbres, on the evening of December 10th, between 9:30 and midnight.

Two new chefs had been hired, one specializing in traditional French haute-cuisine, and the other in exotic foreign dishes from China and India. On the night of the party Poppy surveyed the groaning sideboards loaded with silver dishes, remembering herself as a child on Russian Hill, trailing her finger in the chocolate mousse and taking a bite out of a turkey leg while her Papa played poker and the showgirls danced. Now
she
was giving the party. I’ve come full circle, she thought sadly. They were right after all, like father, like daughter …

The girls were lined up in the salon awaiting her inspection and she walked down the line, removing a too ostentatious pair of earrings here and straightening a bow there, finally standing back and looking at them approvingly. The couturiers had done a good job and each girl looked true to her personality—the flamboyant dressed flamboyantly, the demure, demurely, and the more eccentric, differently—but they all looked, sounded, and conducted themselves like “ladies.” “I’m proud of you,” she told them simply. “Be proud of yourselves and you won’t regret your decision to work for me.”

Wearing trailing gray velvet and her pearls, with a scented white gardenia in her hair, she paced the beautiful Aubusson rug in the hall, throwing anxious glances at Luchay, skittering excitedly up and down on his stand, and at Watkins waiting impassively by the door. She wondered if Franco Malvasi would come. She’d sent an invitation to his villa in Naples but had received no reply. In fact she hadn’t heard a word from him in the four months it had taken to put the house together, and she wondered worriedly whether he’d already lost interst in his new “business venture.” But the money was still there in the Banque de Paris, as much as she cared to spend, though of course she made sure that every cent was entered into the immaculate ledgers kept by the very reputable accountants recommended by the bank.

She needn’t have worried about her guests. Simone had let it be known that she would be attending the smartest party in Paris, and by now everyone was burning with curiosity. They came in droves, the rich, the aristocratic, the stars of the theaters and the music halls, the courtesans and a few curious—and daring—ladies. But Franco Malvasi wasn’t among them. They marveled
at Luchay, the proud guardian of the hall on his Bulgari stand with jeweled finials the size of tennis balls; they admired Poppy’s portrait hanging in the library, and paid her extravagant compliments. They drank her champagne and ate her food. And they met her lovely girls, who were proving they had learned their lessons well and were mingling discreetly with the guests. Simone told her afterward that she was certain every man who’d been to the party wanted to come back. “Numero seize, rue des Arbres, is on the map,” she said gleefully, “you’re
made
, Poppy.”

Still, as she closed the door wearily on her last guest, Poppy wondered wistfully why Franco hadn’t been there to witness her triumph.

1904, FRANCE

The discreet and very expensive “club” at numéro seize, rue des Arbres, became a password among those who knew in fashionable Paris. They said the food at Numéro Seize was out of this world, and that the fabulous library had books to satisfy anyone’s curiosity—from a priceless collection of erotica to books on philosophy and science as well as all the latest novels. They said a man could read the newspaper in peace in the library at Numéro Seize, and that he could eat a delicious leisurely meal—alone, if he so wished, or in the company of a delightful girl who understood what he was talking about when he boasted of his business successes. They said a man felt at home at Numéro Seize, he could relax and be himself—or anyone he wished. And if he wanted more, they said that beneath its elegant country house clubbiness, a man could almost
scent
the lust in the air at Numéro Seize. It was all there for the taking—at a price, of course, because the membership fee at Numéro Seize was outrageous.

Each girl’s room was decorated to suit her personality: an exotic Chinese wallpaper and red lacquer for Han-Su, the half Javanese, half-French odalisque, who was said to drive men wild with her long, shiny black hair, fine as spun silk, that fell to her knees, veiling her voluptuous body in the most tantalizing way. Han-Su entangled a man in that hair, they said, teasing him with its softness, tying her hair around his neck as she straddled him, and raking her long red lacquered nails along his flesh until he quivered with desire. Han-Su knew Oriental secrets of muscle control that could draw a man to new heights of passion, not
once or even twice, but many times; and afterward she would play the obedient Oriental maiden, washing his body and tending him, bringing him jasmine tea as well as champagne.

Then there was Belinda, the small English blonde with the milkmaid skin in the fresh blue-and-white toile de jouy room, with her wide, appealingly innocent blue eyes, her carefully tumbled blond curls, her breathy little-girl voice and her charmingly fractured French. Belinda’s waist was so tiny, a man could span it easily with his hands, and her breasts were so generous, she could tuck a man’s organ between them and squeeze him until he almost fainted from pleasure.

There was yellow Regency-striped wallpaper for the elegant amber-haired Solange, who never wore any underwear and let every man know it. Solange had long legs and a curving bottom and as her exquisite Lucille chiffon evening dress flowed and clung to her every curve they would watch her speculatively, comparing her cool, ladylike image with their own private knowledge of what lay beneath—and it was said that Solange more than any of the others really enjoyed her work. Solange loved sex; she wore no underwear because she enjoyed the
frisson
of pleasure of her own naked body under the expensive dress; she was haughty and choosy, but when a man pleased her, she would make him feel like a king.