Free The Curse of the Grand Guignol by Anna Lord Page B

marquise
bid them a bientôt and disappeared into the theatrical
charivari. There was now no need to search for Kiki. They would
meet the actress later at the salonniere. Dr Watson waited until he
and the Countess were back on the pavement of rue Ballu.
    “I was loath to look like an
ignorant Englishman but what on earth is a salonniere?” he said as
they clambered into their landau.
    “A salonniere is another name
for a literary salon.”
    His face fell. “You mean like a
gathering of bluestockings?”
    “More like a gathering that
pleases or educates,” she corrected, paraphrasing Horace. “ Aut
delectare aut prodesse est . The French do things in style.
There may be a brief poetry recital, a reading from a novel, a
political discussion, some music, but generally it is a meeting of
creative minds.”
    “By the way,” he said, “where
are we going? We’re not due at the salonniere for another
hour.”
    “We’re going home to change, of
course.”
    “I distinctly remember the
marquise saying ‘come as you are’ and ‘nothing grand’.
    “ Ca c’est Paris, mon
ami …not London.”

Chapter 5 - The
Salonniere
     
    In less than one hour our two
sleuths were rumbling through the gas-lit rues toward the Marais on
their way to clos de Millefleurs and the Hotel de Merimont where
they discovered their renowned hostess had also swapped her
tailored costume for an evening gown that might have out-shone the
Countess’s but for the fact Madame Coquelicot had dispatched a
season’s worth of the most fashionable haute couture to rue
Bonaparte in their absence and periwinkle blue satin with an
overlay of pale blue silk chiffon lavishly banded with river pearls
nicely complimented the stupendous sea pearls in the Countess’s
superlative collection.
    At the top of the marble stairs,
they collected flutes of champagne from a perambulating footman
decked out in seventeenth century livery, including powdered wig,
presumably so that the guests could tell the servants from the
bohemian crowd who never bothered to swap their costumes for
anything a la mode .
    The candle-scented enfilade of
salons situated on the piano nobile was a fête galante study
in pastels straight out of a picturesque Watteau and several of the
guests looked quite bucolic, perhaps even pastorale . There
was a charming shepherdess singing an aria and a handsome young
goatherd posing as a poet, or perhaps the other way around. He was
reciting Petrarchan sonnets in Italian to a small clique of ardent
female admirers, fans aflutter.
    In an adjoining ante-chamber
lined with rococo boiserie a couple of Dreyfusards had gravitated
towards a group of Dreyfusists and Dreyfusiens and a heated
three-way exchange was coming rapidly to the boil. Most of the
guests were giving the heat a wide berth.
    “That short dumpy cleric in the
black robe standing by the window looks like the one who scuttled
out of the booth and almost knocked you over,” said the Countess,
pretending to be interested in the Fragonard hanging above a Boulle
commode.
    “Yes, you’re right,” agreed her
companion, endeavouring not to sound too tightly wound-up. “I’m
sure it’s the same man.”
    “I’ll introduce myself. You
mingle.”
    Mingle! He hated mingling! He
was no good at mingling! “Why don’t I introduce myself to the dumpy
cleric,” he said peevishly, “and you mingle?”
    “Very well,” she acquiesced
before gliding gracefully in the opposite direction.
    Dammit! Now he was stuck. Too
late to close the gate after the horse had bolted. He never felt
comfortable in these sorts of social situations and it showed. As
he crossed the room his legs felt as wobbly as those of a lamb to
the slaughter.
    “Bon soir,” he bleated
awkwardly to the rotund cleric. “ Je m’appelle Dr John
Watson.”
    “I speak fluent English, Dr
Watson. My name is Monsignor Jorges Delgardo. I am Colombian but I
have lived many years in France. You are the author of the
chronicles of Sherlock