The Perfume Collector

Hôtel Hermitage, Monte Carlo, 1932

‘Good morning, sir.’ The doorman bowed his head. ‘Welcome to the Hôtel Hermitage.’

‘Thank you.’ Valmont walked into the enormous golden lobby, bustling with the early morning activity of Monte Carlo society. Guests were checking in and out, flowers were being delivered, and valets were scurrying to procure tickets for luggage and dinner reservations while exquisite women lounged on the rose silk settees, pulling lazily at the fingers of their white gloves and smoking gold-tipped Russian cigarettes behind the veils of their hats.

Standing back, Valmont registered their particular mixture of indolence and petulance with dread. These were the women he’d come to conquer. The moneyed, idle, voracious wives and mistresses of the Paris elite. Monte Carlo was the place to gamble, gossip and sunbathe, exchange an old lover for a newer one, and acquire next season’s fashion statement a full three months before the rest of Paris. And now that he had arrived, it would also become the place to purchase yourself the rarest of fashionable distinctions, a personal perfume; one that set you apart from anyone else in the room.

At least, that was the plan.

Valmont took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his pockets, hoping his nerves didn’t show.

He loathed these sort of places, almost as much as he loathed the people who frequented them. Here was a club it was almost impossible to get into, even with wealth and breeding. But for someone like him, it was equivalent to jumping off a cliff in the blind hope that he might be able to sprout wings and fly.

It was only out of desperation that he’d come at all. But his new shop in Saint-Germain, as small as it was, was already floundering; he was unable to make any inroads into the clientele he needed to secure a lasting reputation. And he was in debt. If some dramatic steps weren’t taken quickly, he’d have failed before he’d even begun.

Coming to Monte Carlo was Madame Zed’s idea. Despite her financial backing and considerable connections in Paris, Valmont had failed to make the right impression. Worse, it was his own fault and he knew it.

‘Why must you be so rude?’ Madame Zed had fretted, to no avail. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot insult someone who is giving you money!’

She was right, of course.

But Valmont was quite unwilling to hide his annoyance for anyone who couldn’t immediately appreciate his talent. And if he were honest, his arrogance was nothing more than a defence against the inevitable rejection he felt certain was coming his way. It was easier, if considerably less profitable, to reject clients as being too stupid to comprehend his vision. But in truth, he was terrified. He couldn’t seem to find his place in this rarefied world of fashion, style and, most of all, money.

And now he was here, alone. In perhaps the most famous, shallowest pool in all the world.

The bellhop carried his bag over to the front desk and Valmont followed, overwhelmed and irritated by the noise of the cavernous marble lobby. He’d been up well into the early hours of the morning, debating whether to come or not. Although it was not a long journey, he was tired now and eager to get to his room.

He could feel the stares of the other hotel guests burning into his back as he made his way across the lobby. The cut of his suit was dated; the fabric had gone shiny in places from too much pressing and his suitcase was inexpensive and battered. Worse, he could smell the perfumes of his rivals wafting up from the pillow-strewn settees in a noxious cacophony of odours – the orange blossom of L’Heure Bleue battling next to the hesperidic top notes and deep jasmine heart of Coty’s Chypre; both of them drowning in a sickening mixture of Arpège’s twisted adelphic cocktail clashing against the lush overstated orientalism of Mitsouko. To him, it was as discordant as four orchestras sitting side by side, playing warring symphonies.

It never ceased to amaze him that anyone would be so pedestrian as to wear the same scent as someone else. They might as well be appearing in public in an identical dress. And yet women did it all the time. It also baffled him that they would happily wear the same perfume every day; it was like eating the same meal, day in and day out, for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.

These creatures were idiots! He should turn round, head back to the train station now.

‘May I help you?’ The receptionist regarded him coolly.

‘Yes. I’m Andre Valmont. I’ve booked with you for a fortnight.’

‘Really.’ He glanced at the register in front of him. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. One of the smaller rooms. Without a sea view.’

Valmont’s eyes narrowed. He was on the verge of saying something but just managed to hold his tongue.

‘I’ll be a moment while I see if your room is ready yet.’

The man left and Valmont sank into despondence, staring blankly into the middle distance. Already he was receding into the familiar, private world of his imagination.

Across the lobby, the lift doors opened and a young woman walked out. Without being entirely conscious of it, Valmont found himself staring at her. At the easy, languid way in which she crossed the floor; of the taut perfection of her figure, which, without being conspicuously on show beneath the soft folds of her white summer dress, was not entirely hidden by it either. It struck him as a calculated statement; both ambiguous and provocative without being obvious. This subtlety pleased him. Although finely boned and petite, she possessed bearing and composure; a certain reckless enjoyment of her own body. And her face was equally striking, with large feline eyes and full lips, poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were recalling a private joke. Her hair was black. It was brushed back from her face and arranged like a soft dusky halo round her head. A little straw handbag dangled from her wrist and she frowned slightly as she made her way up to the front desk.

The receptionist’s face lit up when he saw her. ‘Mademoiselle, how may I help?

‘Please tell me it’s going to rain today, François.’

‘Ah!’ he smiled. (This was obviously familiar territory.) ‘I regret to inform you that the forecast calls for nothing but sunshine.’

‘Relentless sunshine,’ she corrected him.

‘Yes, mademoiselle, relentless sunshine.’

She leaned forward and for the first time, Valmont caught a trace of her scent; a distinctive, unique formulation that blended with the natural earthiness of her skin to create an aura of musky, acrid warmth. There was a refinement to it that literally made his mouth water.

‘François, I’m longing for it to rain.’

‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

‘Well, who do I have to speak to about it?’

He thought a moment. ‘God, mademoiselle?’

‘Oh dear.’ She sighed. ‘God and I are not on speaking terms.’

‘Mademoiselle, every day you ask me the forecast. Every day you want it to rain. Why?’

‘Because all this sunshine is uncivilized, François. Great conversations cannot be had by a poolside. I long for the roll of thunder, the darkening sky, the sudden eruption of a cold refreshing shower!’

She sighed again.

‘You have a unique view,’ François pointed out.

‘Also,’ she added, ‘there is nothing more morbid than being unhappy while the sun shines down on you.’ She opened her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. ‘I require rain, François. Please see what you can do.’

And with that she turned and walked away.

Both Valmont and François watched as she strolled past the doorman and out of the main entrance.

‘Who is that young woman?’ Valmont asked.

‘Mademoiselle Dorsey.’ François leaned his chin in his palm. ‘She’s travelling with an Englishman named Lamb. From London. I believe they have a lot of rain in London.’

‘Yes. Yes, they do.’

The receptionist returned, handing a key to the porter. ‘Sir, Marcel will take you to your room.’

Valmont followed the porter to the lift.

There was something familiar about Mademoiselle Dorsey. Something in her voice, in her scent.

Valmont began to wonder if it was possible to make a perfume that smelled like a warm summer pavement after a sudden rain shower; both coolly damp and heat-soaked at the same time. It was an interesting proposition. He liked the idea of two opposing temperatures; two contrasting emotional states, rubbing up against one another, pulling in different directions.

They stepped inside the lift and the doors closed, sealing off the din of the lobby.

And suddenly Valmont didn’t feel quite as irritable or tired any more. His imagination was engaged, whirring on various combinations and possibilities. Without ever speaking to him directly, the girl in the lobby had posed an interesting question – one he was determined to answer.

It was three days later when he saw her again, after dinner.

Valmont stood a moment at the entrance to the ballroom, observing.

She was sitting at a table with half a dozen other people. The ballroom was crowded. A band was playing, couples were dancing, waiters scrambled to provide a constant supply of champagne and large platters of fresh iced oysters and caviar. She was wearing a simple silver sheath cut within an inch of indecency, curving round her slender shoulders and then falling away to expose the smooth white skin of her back and just a hint of the soft round curve of her breasts. She had on no jewellery, only a pale wash of lipstick, and again the black halo of hair was arranged so that it looked almost wind tossed. Yet her dark tresses shone, framing her face with a soft, unearthly light. Next to the other women at the table, with their diamonds, heavy strands of pearls, and meticulously groomed faces and hair, she seemed feral and bewitching. The impact of her beauty lay in her confidence and her utter lack of self-awareness. In contrast, others appeared to be trying too hard, careful and staid.

She was laughing, speaking in French and English at the same time; making party hats out of the dinner napkins for the French Secretary of the Interior and his wife. A few seats over, a handsome older gentleman watched as she launched into an impromptu rendition of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ which was soon echoed by the tables around them and then accompanied by the band. Valmont concluded it must be the French Secretary’s birthday – at least he hoped it was.

Then he stopped one of the waiters and had a word with him, pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

The waiter wove his way through the crowded room towards Mademoiselle Dorsey.

She looked up at him as he delivered the handkerchief and indicated whom it had come from.

Valmont took a cigarette case from his pocket, lit one and leaned against the portico.

He watched as she rose, walking slowly towards him, slipping easily through the crowds.

‘Sir,’ she stopped in front of him; her eyes were a curious shade of grey-green, ‘you have given me a hanky.’

He nodded. ‘Did you by any chance smell it, mademoiselle?’

She frowned a little, lifting it to her nose. Her face changed. ‘Rain!’

He took another drag. ‘Actually, summer rain on a warm pavement. But who’s arguing?’

She inhaled again. ‘You made it rain,’ she said softly, delighted.

‘Everyone needs a respite from the sun.’

‘Yes.’

She stood, looking at him quite boldly, a half-smile on her face. ‘Where are the rest of my storm clouds, monsieur?’

‘In a bottle upstairs.’

‘And what is the ransom for this bottle?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. All terms are negotiable, Eva.’

She tilted her head. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Am I so easy to forget?’

She took the cigarette gently from his fingers, inhaled, and gave it back to him. ‘I would like very much to see the bottle of rain, Monsieur Valmont.’

Valmont’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What about your companions?’

‘My friends can do very well without me.’

He held out his arm and she took it. And he felt his entire body flush with warmth at the proximity of her. Her delicious natural odour was intensified by the warm night; he could detect each layer, each nuance.

Valmont took her to his tiny room. The curtains had been left open; the blazing lights of Monte Carlo below illuminated the shadows, filling the room with a blue glow.

He reached for the light switch but she stopped him. ‘No, I prefer it this way.’ And without waiting for an invitation, she curled into a corner of the bed, propping the pillows around her.

He pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair and sat across from her, unsure of what to do next.

This wasn’t the same little girl he’d met in New York. And beautiful women didn’t frequent his bedroom in Paris. She possessed an ease and confidence he could only mimic.

Taking his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his evening jacket, he lit one with as much poise as he could muster. ‘I didn’t even recognize you at first. I thought, “I know that girl,” and yet for ages I couldn’t think how.’

She stretched out, smiling to herself. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And what have you been doing with yourself, besides creating storm clouds for me?’

‘I am a perfumer, of course.’ He took another drag. ‘Easily the best in Paris.’

‘Of course!’ She laughed. ‘How could I doubt it? It’s just, I wonder that I haven’t heard of you?’

She struck a nerve. He straightened. ‘I have my own shop now, in Saint-Germain.’

‘Bravo! Is that Madame’s idea?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘How is she? She really was the most incredible creature! And, more importantly, how is business for the best perfumer in Paris?’

‘It’s been a great success, actually.’

She looked round the tiny room. ‘And yet you have such a refreshingly unostentatious style!’

He felt his cheeks flush and was glad of the darkness.

‘Have you brought me here to seduce me?’ Her voice was low and smooth.

‘Of course not!’

‘Really?’ She sounded disappointed, leaning her cheek on her palm. ‘Don’t I interest you?’

‘Oh, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply…’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s just, I… I’m a man without much experience in these matters. I’ve had a business to attend to. A career to build.’

‘So why am I here?’

He pulled himself up, re-crossed his legs. ‘You… well, the truth is, I overheard your conversation a few days ago in the lobby and your request for rain inspired me.’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve made a perfume for me,’ she reminded him.

‘No, no, it isn’t.’

‘Are you hoping I’ll buy this from you?’

Her bluntness caught him off guard. He felt transparent, made of cellophane. ‘Well… that’s not quite what I meant…’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why not?’

She was so much more adept at this sort of thing than he was; so unabashed.

Instead, he reverted to what was familiar; he took the small vial of perfume from his travelling case of ingredients. ‘Would you like to know how I made it?’ He tried to assume an authoritative, professional tone.

‘Oh, Andre!’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not quite honest, are you? I understand that. You and I can’t afford to be, can we?’

‘I’m sorry?’ He stared at her, her face illuminated by the city lights like a ghostly apparition.

‘But you must tell me the truth. Look, I’ll make a deal with you – if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. And believe me, there aren’t many people in this world I would trust.’

He hesitated. But the temptation to confide in someone was too great.

‘My shop is failing,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know how to sell things – especially things that I haven’t even made yet.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘In truth, Eva, I loathe people. I always have.’

‘Go on.’

‘I loathe idle chit-chat. I despise idiots. I can’t bear to sit and talk to people.’

‘Imagine that!’

He smiled in spite of himself; she could always see right through him. Relaxing further, he took a deep drag. ‘To me the most irritating part of the business of making perfume is the client. The truth is, I can only really create my best work when I’m moved by someone, as I am by you. I own a shop but I hate customers. Isn’t that mad? And now I’m here, in Monte Carlo, to do little more than prostitute myself to the very people for whom I have the least respect. I am out of money. I am out of time. And now I loathe myself for coming here at all.’

‘Oh dear!’ She tipped her head back, laughing. ‘What a tragic tale!’

Her sarcasm popped his grandiosity like a bubble; he couldn’t help but laugh too.

She spread her arms wide. ‘Welcome to the brothel, my dear Andre! The difficulty is not that you must prostitute yourself but that you do it so badly. You need these people and whether they know it or not, they need you. But if you’re going to get paid to swallow, my dear, you’d better learn not to choke.’

Shocked, he coughed and spluttered on the smoke of his cigarette.

‘You need to learn the art of seduction,’ she continued. ‘After all, prostitutes aren’t paid for ambivalence. There is only one rule – you can sell me anything as long as you adore me.’

‘But I… I don’t know anything of these matters. I don’t even want to. I only know how to make perfume.’

‘Yes, but I do. And let me tell you something – your arrogance is justified – you are a genius. With the smallest effort and guidance you could easily be the best perfumer in Paris.’

‘Really?’ He’d doubted himself; her words were like a balm to his bruised and smarting ego.

‘I know all about these people. Their habits and secrets, how they think and feel, every single Achilles heel. And let me tell you, they’re not complicated. You must trust me, Andre.’

‘Why would you help me?’

‘Because,’ there was something both tender and melancholy in her tone, ‘you made it rain.’

He stared at her, enthralled. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? How did you come to be so, so exquisite?’

She stood up. And with a little shake of her shoulders, her dress slipped to the floor. She was naked except for her silver sandals, which she kicked off as she came closer, stopping in front of him. She was radiant, her skin like white marble in the balmy darkness.

Reaching out, he dared to run his fingers over the smooth arch of her back. ‘Eva…’

She held up a finger. ‘Shhhh!’

Leaning forward, she kissed him. Valmont felt his body warm with the heat of an unfamiliar desire.

Pulling her to him, he closed his eyes, burying his face against her. He breathed her in – each moist hollow, every sumptuous curve – inhaling hungrily the vast, varied landscape of her skin.

She sat in the alcove of the window seat, smoking by the open window.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ Valmont propped himself up on his elbow, jamming a pillow under his head. ‘Who are you travelling with? Please say it’s not your husband.’

‘No, it’s not my husband. It’s an associate.’

‘Associate?’ He pulled the sheet across his bare torso. ‘What does that mean?’

She exhaled. ‘He’s the man I work with, Lambert. Although he goes by Lamb here. The man who taught me my trade.’

Again, the word struck him as odd. ‘You have a trade?’ He’d assumed she was someone’s lover or mistress.

‘Do you doubt it?’ She looked across at him, challengingly. ‘You’re not the only one who’s come to Monte Carlo for business. This place is full of people on the make – gigolos, prostitutes, salesmen, schemers, social climbers, snobs.’

‘You make it sound like a cesspool!’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Just the normal entourage of the rich. As for me, I have a number of skills. But mostly I count cards.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m a professional gambler, Andre.’

‘A professional gambler!’ He wanted to laugh but was too stunned. ‘Do people really do that?’

‘People certainly gamble all the time. But no, not many have the ability to turn it into a profession.’

‘But you do?’

She nodded. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Well, yes, frankly.’

‘Good! That’s the way I like it. But with Lamb, the whole thing works.’

‘Really?’ Already he was beginning to dislike this Lamb fellow. ‘What’s so special about him?’

‘Well,’ she yawned, arching her back, ‘if I were to sit down at the tables, play all night and win, I’d probably end up dead or in jail. But with a partner, especially one like Lamb, we provide just the right amount of distraction and plausibility.’

‘You’re not plausible, then?’

She gave him a look. ‘A woman is always conspicuous at a casino, especially if she wins. No, my job is distraction. And I do stick out, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I had.’

‘Whereas Lamb looks as though he belongs at the tables. Knows how to talk to people.’

Valmont folded his arms across his chest. ‘So, how exactly does it work, this association with you and Lamb?’

‘It varies. We have systems, codes in place. We play them, improvising on the feeling in the room. But the basic principal is simple. Lamb sits at the tables and plays. And drinks. Far too much. By the time I arrive he’s always down a great deal of money and too intoxicated to walk let alone cheat. To anyone watching us, I seem as though I’m a pretty little fool and he’s a drunkard. No one ever suspects that I’m the one who’s in control. In two hands, I can recoup all his losses. In three, I can put us ahead. We rarely stay for four hands but in four…’ She smiled. ‘In four, I’d push us too far and we’d be rumbled. Win little and often, unless you want to spend every night on the road. They call me his good luck charm. No one ever thinks that a girl could be that clever.’

‘And is he, Lamb… is he also your lover?’

She snorted, laughing. ‘You make it sound so romantic!’

Valmont felt his irritation rise; already he felt unreasonably possessive. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s not like that. And don’t pretend to be jealous. It doesn’t suit you.’ Standing, she stretched her arms high above her head. ‘It’s a business arrangement. The truth is, he looked after me when I had nowhere to go. I owe him.’

‘How much?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How much? When is your debt paid?’ he demanded. She turned away from him and stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘That seems to be a matter of debate,’ she said quietly.

He watched as she crossed the room, stepping back into her evening dress and pulling it up over her hips. ‘I need to get back to the tables. He’ll be losing now quite heavily, which is no bad thing.’

‘When will I see you?’

‘I’ll be around. Trust me, you won’t be able to miss me.’ She slipped on her sandals and picked up her evening bag. ‘In the meantime, I don’t want you to talk to anyone. Do you understand? No introducing yourself, no idle conversations by the pool, nothing. Allow your natural sullenness to thrive.’

‘Sullenness!’ He frowned. ‘I’m not sullen.’

She smiled. ‘But that’s precisely what I want you to be.’ Sitting down on the end of the bed, she stroked his leg. ‘The first thing you need to understand about the wealthy and privileged is that they’re like children – they only want what they can’t have. If they knew you’d come to sell them something they’d demolish you before breakfast.’

‘Then what am I meant to do?’

‘Simple. Talk to no one. When someone comes towards you, walk the other way. These people are used to being fawned over – they not only expect it, they rely on it. If there’s one thing they can’t bear, it’s someone who isn’t paying them any attention. So, as far as they’re concerned, you want nothing more than to be left alone.’ She stood up. ‘Allow me to do the rest. And we will need to see a tailor. Immediately.’

‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t have the money for a new wardrobe.’

‘Andre, the second thing you need to understand is that you’re not selling perfume – you’re selling yourself. The idea of you as an eccentric genius. You can’t afford to blend in – you must look distinctive.’ Hands on her hips. ‘How can I help you if you don’t take my advice?’

Valmont stared at her. She was familiar and yet completely unknown to him. ‘You’re not the same girl at all.’

Crossing the room, she opened the door. Light from the hallway illuminated her from behind; her face was shadowy, yet her black hair shone as though it was on fire.

‘We are none of us the same girl, are we?’

The Grand Casino at Monte Carlo was a triumph of elaborate Belle Époque design, a golden canopy of gleaming gilt and elaborate flourishes. In the evening, under its vast domed ceiling, all of Monte Carlo society could be observed, including one delightful, wayward young woman and her tragically debauched English guardian.

Valmont watched from a remote seat at the bar as Eva worked her charms.

Her role at the tables was just as she had outlined. She seemed to pay little if any attention to Lamb, acting instead like a very sexy, tempestuous child. Occasionally she’d steal a sip from his drink or tap out an impatient little rhythm while he was glowering over his cards. More often she’d flirt, dance, tell rude jokes. Sometimes Lamb would beg her to be quiet or try to get her to leave. But she always ignored him. Only Valmont guessed that her well-timed interruptions were, in fact, carefully orchestrated signals.

Lamb’s reputation was crucial to the success of their venture. An alcoholic of heroic proportions, he regularly lost staggering amounts of money on sloppily played hands, ensuring that few devoted gamblers ever took him seriously. But then, after everyone had long written him off, and Eva was begging him to give up, he would place some magnificent bet and the tables would turn.

Shortly afterwards, she would haul him back to the hotel in a stupor.

That night he kept his distance. But Valmont couldn’t help but notice a seamless affinity between the two of them, an instinctual rhythm only he was aware of. Eva was so charming, outrageous, and seemingly oblivious of anything but herself. And Lamb so perfectly dismissive of her; it was almost impossible to imagine that together they were pulling off these nightly coups. And never once did Eva ever do anything that betrayed her level of true concentration and focus.

When next her saw her, he complimented her on her skill.

‘You’re the only one who knows, Andre,’ she sighed. ‘But I’m bored with playing the fool. I want a new conquest. Let’s make you famous, shall we?’

She was true to her word.

Over the next week, Eva found ways of taking very public notice of Valmont, planting an air of mystery around him. She whispered to her companions as soon as he appeared in the lobby or at dinner and since he was under orders to ignore everyone, he would register her with nothing more than disdain, retiring to a table in the far corner on his own.

She took him to a young tailor in the hills of Monte Carlo who made him a pair of very simply cut, clean-lined black gabardine trousers and two shirts of dark grey silk. ‘If you cannot fit into the mould, then you must step out of it,’ Eva smiled approvingly, running her fingers along the smooth fabric across his shoulders. The dark colours and simple silhouette made him seem taller, chicer and far more modern. ‘Anyone can wear a suit, but casual clothing is the great equalizer. What I adore is that you look as if you’re not taking anything too seriously. That makes everyone else appear overdressed.’

In return, he repaid her in the only way he could. ‘I want to take you somewhere; to show you something miraculous.’ He took her by train one day to the jasmine fields of Grasse. They travelled third class, slipping away in the early morning like two teenagers playing truant.

To Valmont, Grasse was like a sacred shrine.

‘I’m going to teach you how to smell,’ he told her, as soon as they got on the train. ‘Most people judge scents and they avoid looking into the heart of them.’ He found seats for them across from a couple of farm workers who were heading to market.

‘Inhale the sweat, the dirt, the oil from their unwashed hair,’ he whispered in her ear.

She shot him a look. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ she whispered back.

‘Because this is the root of all perfume creation. To change the way we smell. It could be argued that all perfume is born out of shame; a self-consciousness of our natural odour. We want to hide it.’

‘Or change it,’ she murmured.

‘That’s right. In that way, fragrance is an aspiration. A goal. Not just a tool of seduction but of power and status. Do you realize how much the ancients used to pay for francinsense or myrrh? Whole empires were built on the trade of these commodities. You see, even then, when life was short and cruel, people wanted to smell differently. To be transported. But these coarse natural odours – filthy hair, pungent skin, unwashed women – they’re the root of everything – of our disgrace and desire. That’s what I meant by people judge them.’

Eva rested her head on his shoulder. ‘And what are we meant to do with them, professor?’

‘Observe them. Appreciate them. They have a profound energy, a rich, sexual, animal vibration all their own.’

‘You make it sound like music.’

‘It is like music. An orchestration. And sweat is like silence; the reason why the composer reaches for his pen in the first place.’

When they got out, they walked behind a mule cart down a country road that cut through two fields. ‘The smell of the shit is so pure – so absolute! That animal eats nothing but rainwater, grass and hay. If it were a note, it would be played on a cello.’

Near the end of the road, the mule turned one way, they the other. ‘Here we are.’ Valmont took her hand. They were visiting Philippe Mul whose family had owned jasmine fields for centuries, pressing and distilling the precious flowers into the world’s costliest and rarest jasmine absolute. Monsieur Mul had known Madame Zed for years. He took them on a tour of his factory, and demonstrated how the plants were gathered in specially designed baskets, crafted from chestnut splits, that easily fitted around the harvester’s waist while allowing the blossoms to breathe without bruising. And then he showed them the fields.

The plants were just beginning to flower; soft, indescribably delicate white blooms, tinged with palest pink. It would be September before they would be ready to harvest but already the air was sweetly scented each time the wind rustled through them.

That day Eva and Valmont sat, for hours, with barely a word between them.

Philippe let them picnic in the groves. Afterwards, they rolled their jackets up under their heads and dozed, the sun warming their faces. The air was luxuriant with the combined fragrance of fresh sea-salt breezes, sun-baked earth and translucent, milky flowers.

‘There is nothing like it,’ Valmont said, turning over to look at Eva. ‘You see, don’t you? The world is defined by smells – not words or shapes or sounds. This is the language that makes sense, that everyone understands.’

She nodded, reluctant to fill the air with words or shapes or sounds.

In the silence of fragrance, Eva saw how ambiguous, complex stories could be told. Shifting and mutating, they blossomed, bloomed and faded; their very impermanence was incredibly moving to her. You could be laughing in public yet wear, right on the surface of your skin, a perfume ripe with longing, dripping with regret, shining with hope, all at the same time. It would fade as the day faded, vanishing into gossamer on your skin. And still it had the power to catch you unaware, piercing right through you, when you hung your dress up that night.

‘This is my religion,’ Valmont sighed, closing his eyes again, completely at ease for the first time in weeks.

And here is my salvation, Eva thought to herself. I will not go mad as long as there is beauty in the world and I can be near it.

They stayed until the light dimmed, and, as they stood in the shadows of the spreading twilight, the blooms exuded their richest, silkiest perfume.

Soon, whenever Valmont appeared, heads turned; people began to talk. A telltale hush followed in his wake. He fell into the role that Eva had assigned him with ease; chin in the air, a book tucked under his arm, he ignored everyone. And it was working. The concierge began to greet him enthusiastically each morning, the maître d’ to save a special table for him, off to one side but with an excellent view of the whole dining room; fresh flowers even appeared on his dressing table. Shortly afterwards, he was moved to a room with a sea view courtesy of the management and he extended his stay.

Then the invitations began to arrive.

‘“Madame Legrand requests the pleasure of your company at afternoon tea”!’ Eva read the invitation aloud, laughing as she tossed the card into the waste-paper basket.

‘What are you doing?’ Valmont scrambled to get it out again. ‘Legrand is rich.’

‘What are you doing? You cannot go. You must turn them down.’

‘But this could be a client!’

‘Are you willing to throw it all away? And when we’re so close? Think, Andre. The wrong clients will kill you before you’ve begun. It’s up to you to set the tone. Tea? With Madame Legrand and her lady friends? Are you mad?’ She stood up, pacing the room. ‘Your perfume should be the magic potion that allows the average person to transform into a god or goddess. The people you create for should be these Olympians!’ She turned on him. ‘Have you seen Madame Legrand?’

‘No, not exactly,’ he admitted.

‘Well,’ she folded her arms across her chest, ‘Madame Legrand looks very much like Monsieur Legrand in a dress. Is that worthy of your art?’

He had to smile.

Her passion was invigorating; her vision even more comprehensive than his own. And he loved to hear her talk about his work.

‘I leave it to your discretion,’ he conceded.

And so Monsieur Valmont respectfully declined.

Madame Legrand was in a frenzy.

To make it up to him, the very next evening Eva introduced him to her friend Yvonne Vallée, the beautiful wife of film and cabaret star Maurice Chevalier. Yvonne had a childhood fondness for violets, a romantic memory of the scent that she’d never been able to recapture. Was there any way, she begged, that Valmont might be persuaded to create something based on this simple flower?

Valmont sighed wearily, as if he couldn’t imagine anything more tedious.

That very same night he set to work tempering the overwhelming sweetness of the flowers with heavy doses of damp green moss and rosewood, and sensual undertones of old leather, black earth and amber. It took several days, transforming his bathroom into a makeshift workroom; sending Eva to Grasse for supplies.

Yvonne was delighted and amazed with the result.

The perfume became her signature scent, made all the more tantalizing by the fact that Valmont would create it for no one but her.

Soon afterwards, Thelma Furness arrived, the radiant, married paramour of the Prince of Wales. At Eva’s urging, Valmont conjured an exotic, narcotic creation of night-blooming jasmine, jonquil, narcissus, tuberose, sandalwood and musk… an operatic formulation full of decadence and lust.

She was devoted. Monte Carlo swooned over both her and her scent.

And Paris began to take note.

This was followed by discreet enquiries by the Prince of Wales himself. No matter how vehemently Valmont denied all rumours of the association, his stock skyrocketed overnight. And the French, being besotted with the sex scandals of the English, were quick to equate him with two of the world’s greatest aphrodisiacs: exclusivity and illicit sexual desire.

In a very short amount of time, Eva had managed what Valmont couldn’t have accomplished in years on his own. Soon he couldn’t imagine making a professional decision without discussing it with her first.

In the evenings he stalked her. He didn’t mean to, but night after night he found himself in the Grand Casino, watching her from a distance. And he was aware that he wasn’t the only one. She had many admirers.

There was the Italian newspaper editor with the curling moustache and cigar, the businessman from Vienna, and the French cabaret star, who kept delaying his departure to Hollywood on the off chance that Mademoiselle Dorsey might return one of his many telephone calls. Valmont observed in silent mortification as notes were exchanged, expensive gifts delivered to her room, ‘chance’ meetings staged so that they might speak to her.

Somewhere in the background, Lamb presided over the entire drama. His demeanour was relaxed, even amused. He acted like a man in possession of an exceptional race-horse. Drink in hand, he was content to sit back and watch as she sidestepped one man, or flirted with another. But his composure alarmed Valmont. Whatever ties he had to her, they were unthreatened. And while Valmont drifted from one location to the next like a ghost haunting her wake, Lamb let her wander freely, from his room to anyone else’s, without so much as the bat of the eye.

He was sure of himself.

This sureness depressed Valmont more than if she’d been wearing a gold wedding ring and pushing a perambulator.

He tried to confront her about it. ‘You could have any man here,’ he pointed out, trying to present the argument as an impartial witness. ‘Why do you stay with Lamb?’

‘One man is very like another,’ she answered vaguely.

‘That’s not true. He’s a drunk and a third-rate gambler! He needs you much more than you need him.’

‘If only that were true. He has something I want.’

‘What can he have that you can’t get more easily from someone else?’

Eyes dimmed, she turned away. ‘It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand.’

The conversation was over.

His questions had forced her into a private world he could sense but not penetrate.

One night, very late, he heard Lamb boasting about her in the bar. He was beyond drunk; his tie was undone, his jacket off, and he was badly in need of a shave. The sickly sweet odour of alcohol and sweat oozed from his very pores.

A racing car driver was quizzing him. ‘How is it you have ended up with the most beautiful girl in Monte Carlo? An old man like you!’

‘An old man like me!’ Lamb took another swig and leaned back. ‘I tell you what, I’ll do you a deal. You can have her for a small fee.’

‘A fee? Are you mad?’ The man laughed.

‘No, I’m perfectly serious. Ten thousand pounds and she’s yours.’

‘Ten thousand pounds!’ The man whistled. ‘That’s no small fee.’

‘She’s worth it.’

‘But how can you sell another human being? It’s impossible.’

Lamb shook his head. ‘If you buy the lead, my dear man, then you can have the dog for free.’

‘Dog? Lead? What is this? I don’t understand.’

Lamb clapped him on the back, a little too hard. ‘Unless you have the money, the rest is unimportant.’

The driver laughed awkwardly, and the conversation changed.

Valmont was incensed. He wanted to strangle him.

He was possessed by a painful, confused longing, charged with possibility. When Eva was close to him, he was satisfied, whole. But his desire to touch her was waning. Her scent was all he needed to satisfy and stimulate him. It filled his dreams, spurring him to new refinements in his art.

He formulated Auréole Noire, inspired by the fiery halo that seemed to burn around her that first night she visited him. It was, in fact, a variation on the theme of her own natural scent. An elaborate composition on the central aria of her smell.

Bright, icy clear and yet tender at the same time – built on the original idea of contrasting states that had inspired him with the rain. Top notes of velvety violet leaves, luxurious white flowers and light geranium, warmed to fiery depths, created from amber resins, smoky wood and smouldering dry citrus leaves. Underlying doses of ouhd and ambergris lent it a melting, shifting quality; metamorphosing from an apparition of pure light, to a burning dark core and back again. It was a scent that lacked coyness, made no concessions to charm. Like standing on the edge of a great and terrifying cliff, it was shocking, beautiful, sublime.

Something of Eva’s disturbing beauty, slow-burning sensuality and razor-sharp mind was reflected in it.

And yet he doubted himself.

No other perfume smelled even remotely like it. It was too bold, unorthodox, veering from one extreme to another without any mollifying middle notes; it assaulted the senses rather than seduced them. It had an unapologetic grandeur, ancient and iconic, like the hard, symmetrical face and staring unseeing eyes of Greek gods, carved in cold white stone.

Valmont realized with a sickening sense of fear and disgust that suddenly Eva’s opinion mattered more to him than his own.

No one, not even Madame Zed, had ever held such power over him.

His muse possessed him, saturated him the way water soaks into a flimsy cloth until the fabric is more liquid than solid.

He hid the perfume from her.

It was his first act of betrayal. And, his first true act of independence.

Then the actress Kay Waverley came to spend a fortnight by the sea.

Kay Waverley had flared into stardom seemingly from nowhere. And like many would-be sirens of the silver screen, she was tight-lipped about her origins. The studio claimed she’d been discovered working as a clerk at a Woolworths’ in Missouri, backing the story up with a photo spread of her visiting one such store, surrounded by awestruck, young women in uniforms. But here in Europe there were other rumours, rumours that her past was considerably less wholesome – that in fact she’d earned her living as a highly paid prostitute before she acquired the trappings of a Hollywood starlet. But nobody knew for sure either way.

The single fact that everyone agreed on was that she’d been the lover of the German film director Josef Wiener. He’d launched her career in the bizarre surrealist movie, Moon Dust, in which she’d received mixed reviews. Her one universal success had come from her portrayal of Salome in his film of the same name. But then he’d grown tired of her and replaced her with a beautiful young girl from Kentucky. (Some said that she was still a teenager at the time.) Alone and unattended, Waverley’s star flickered uncertainly in the Hollywood firmament. She moved from one lover to the next, from leading men to producers to scriptwriters. There were tales of morphine addiction after she’d fallen from her horse filming The Bandit of the West. She was replaced.

Now she’d taken up residence in one of the sprawling pale pink villas in the hills that surrounded Monte Carlo. Apparently she needed to rest her nerves. But the sudden presence of the Italian playboy and her former co-star Enzo Gotti made it unlikely that rest was what she was getting.

She appeared at the Grand Casino late one evening, dressed in a gold silk gown, her hair twisted inside a matching turban, escorted by Gotti and a coterie of his friends. She spoke very little French and almost no Italian and as a result seemed sullen in comparison to her companions, smoking steadily, rolling her eyes when autograph seekers approached, scanning the room nervously for more when they disappeared.

It was a sweltering, humid evening. Eva arrived later, after a dance competition that she had entered with an Argentinian polo star. Lamb was doing rather well that evening without her.

Valmont was waiting at a table on his own, watching for her. From where he was seated, off to one side, he had a clear view. He saw Eva enter, pausing at the doorway, surveying the scene.

Her eyes rested on the centre craps table, where Gotti was attempting to impress his new lover by placing higher and higher bets. Eva watched as he urged her to blow on his dice for good luck; Kay Waverley, in all her golden glory, hung from his arm, distracted and bored.

There was something about Eva’s face, her level of concentration, that stuck Valmont. Her energy had always been mercurial, uneasy and agitated. But right then, right there, she solidified. Her focus, on Gotti and especially on Kay Waverley, sharpened into a fixed stare. It was as if she’d suddenly spotted something she’d been searching for, for a very long time. He didn’t realize it until much later, but in that brief, unguarded moment, Valmont observed a complete shift in Eva’s personality. Nothing about her changed outwardly, but internally, a decision had been made. In that moment, she turned away from him, towards a separate, shadowy agenda of her own.

Eva proceeded to the blackjack table and threw an arm around Lamb’s shoulder, accidentally bumping into Gotti just as he was about to throw. ‘Pardon me. And who is this?’ she asked, turning. ‘Why, it’s Adonis, throwing dice!’

Gotti laughed and gave a little bow. ‘Mademoiselle.’

She bowed back. ‘Say I’m forgiven. I can’t bear to offend.’

‘You’re too kind. I’m certain you’ll only improve my luck.’

‘What more luck can the gods bestow on you?’

He laughed again, thrilled by her attention.

Waverley’s eyes narrowed.

‘But I’ve disturbed you,’ Eva apologized. ‘Go on – show your mother how it’s done.’

Gotti’s friends gasped, twittering to each other in Italian.

Eva pretended not to notice. ‘Ah, parli italiano? Fantastico!’

Valmont watched as she chatted away in Italian to both Gotti and his friends, before announcing to anyone who would listen that she fancied a little skinny dip before dawn.

Completely out of her depth in multilingual society, Kay Waverley was reduced to mute fury.

Some of Gotti’s friends decided to race after Eva onto the beach. Gotti, left behind, looked after her with longing.

But before she left, Eva did something Valmont had never seen her do before. She wrapped her arms around Lamb’s neck and gave him half a dozen kisses.

Eva taunted and teased Lamb; everyone knew they shared a suite. But she never displayed any affection for him. Lamb laughed, shrugging her off, but even he looked a bit surprised as he waved them away, into the night.

Kay Waverley slipped her arm through Gotti’s, reeling him in closer.

Then she cast a look over her shoulder at Lamb, who’d just tripled his winnings.

He was buying a round of drinks for everyone. For one shining moment, he was the most successful man in Monte Carlo; handsome, urbane, gracious.

And above that, clearly the man this little fool Dorsey adored.

Her face softened into a half-smile.

But Valmont couldn’t help but notice that something in her too had suddenly sharpened; the bored distracted look was gone. She looked at Lamb several more times as the evening progressed.

He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly Valmont felt uneasy.

Kay Waverley knew how to charm when she wanted to. And she’d launched a charm offensive now. She appeared, magnificent and toned, sunbathing by the hotel pool one late afternoon, even though she had a private pool of her own in her villa. Young men seemed to collect by her side, ready with drinks and conversation. She tanned quickly and easily, her delicate limbs oiled and gleaming. In the evening, she made the most of her new tan in low-cut clinging evening dresses in white or black. And suddenly the Grand Casino was her favourite haunt. Gotti had been dismissed, sent abruptly back to Rome. Instead, she began arriving alone in the evenings, late, sitting at the tables, a whisky glass in hand. In addition to her good looks, her other great natural talent was that she knew how to drink.

Kay Waverley drank like a man, matching anyone shot for shot. She became neither tipsy nor morbid; she never giggled, slurred or swayed. Instead, she eased herself into a drunk, like falling, weightless, into an old lover’s arms. She had a finely honed appreciation for the irony and ridiculousness of the human condition which shot out as wry little asides. She could savour pathos without becoming pathetic; she could intimate that she was one of the boys without sacrificing any of her sex appeal.

Men tended to look after her. She tended not to stop them.

Kay made a point of sitting next to Lamb one evening. It didn’t take long before they were sharing a bottle and a joke.

Eva became visibly distraught at this new alliance. It was excruciating for Valmont to see the way she tried to drag Lamb away or interject herself between them. This was no longer an act, he was sure. Suddenly Eva circled the tables like a gadfly; hung on Lamb’s arm, tried to lure him on to the dance floor or into another room.

The tension between them was palpable. One evening Valmont heard them arguing in hushed, angry whispers on the terrace before supper.

‘You promised!’ Eva’s tone was vehement.

‘I never said I was willing to go that far. Never!’

‘She likes you. It will be easy.’

‘And what about me? What if I don’t like her?’

‘Do I have to remind you how far I’ve gone for you?’ Her voice turned vicious. ‘How much I sacrificed? Don’t tell me you can’t remember!’

‘Dorsey, don’t!’

‘There are only two people I hate in this world. And she’s one of them!’

There was a taut silence. ‘I did what was best. It was best for all concerned. Eva, please…’

Her voice caught. ‘Don’t touch me! And don’t fail me! And don’t ever pretend to know what is best again. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and it’s time you kept yours.’

She ran in through the open French doors, eyes blinded with tears, past the entrance to the dining room which was filling up for the last dinner service.

When Lamb came in to supper, he looked tired and visibly shaken.

He drank more than usual that night.

Only he didn’t do it alone.

Dorsey was out of her league. When a woman like Kay Waverley took you on over a man, you were done for. It was the scandal of the season and all of Monte Carlo agreed; poor little Dorsey wasn’t handling it well.

One night, right in the middle of the piazza in front of the Grand Casino, she confronted Lamb as he escorted Waverley to her car.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She grabbed his arm.

‘Dorsey, stop it!’ He pulled away. ‘Go back to the hotel, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Not without you.’

Kay had stepped aside. She knew when to play the star and when to slip into a supporting role. ‘I can make my own way.’ She waved to the valet. ‘After all, I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘I said go back to the hotel!’ Lamb hissed to Eva.

Kay’s silver Bentley pulled up and Kay slid into the driver’s seat.

‘Not without you!’ Dorsey’s voice had reached fever pitch. She was pathetic, clinging to him.

‘Damn it! Leave me alone.’ He gave her a shove.

She stumbled backwards, almost falling.

‘Don’t! I’m warning you,’ she threatened.

A small crowd was gathering, clusters of well-dressed patrons, spilling out of the casino, eager to watch the drama unfold.

‘Stop making a scene.’ Lamb regarded her with unveiled disdain.

Kay rolled down the window. ‘Hey sailor, can I drop you somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ he decided firmly, ‘as a matter of fact, you can.’

Kay opened the door and moved over into the passenger seat. ‘In that case, you can drive. A man’s place is behind the wheel.’

Lamb climbed in and she curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should do some skinny dipping of our own. What do you think?’

She laughed as the car pulled off, making its way up the winding streets to the villa on the hillside. And Dorsey, humiliated and sobbing, ran off alone into the dark narrow streets.

‘Didn’t you hear? She made the most ridiculous scene last night.’

Valmont was sitting at breakfast across from the Lyonesse Sisters. Both widows in their seventies, they came to Monte Carlo every year at the same time; a permanent feature of the social hierarchy. Their father had owned the Lyon Sugar factory and so they were known by their maiden name and considerable fortune.

‘She’s a pretty girl.’

‘A very pretty girl,’ the other agreed.

‘But she’s out of her depth.’

‘Completely.’

‘Kay Waverley is a woman of the world. And so is Lord Lambert.’

‘Lord?’ Valmont looked up, surprised. ‘I didn’t know he was titled.’

‘He never uses it. But we know all about him – we know his father, in fact. But young Dorsey made such a scene.’ The old woman sighed, stirring an extra lump of her family’s sugar into her coffee. ‘And that will never do.’

‘Not the way to impress a man like Lamb,’ her sister surmised. ‘Shouting, grabbing at him.’

‘Like some sort of fishwife. Right in the middle of the courtyard.’

‘I almost felt sorry for Kay. And for Lord Lambert.’

‘I suppose they’re in love.’ Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. ‘I hear he hasn’t been back to the hotel yet.’

‘That young girl has no mother,’ the other concluded. ‘A mother would have instructed her in how to handle the situation. One should never give the other woman the satisfaction.’

‘It’s best to simply ignore it,’ her sister agreed. ‘And of course to find a lover of your own.’

(They were both old campaigners and had survived many marital skirmishes in their time.)

‘Yes,’ the old woman chuckled, reaching for another slice of fresh brioche, ‘men can only focus on one lover – either yours or theirs. And after they’ve made their conquest, yours becomes considerably more interesting.’

Valmont sipped his coffee too, but inside he felt lacerated by the strength of Eva’s feeling for Lamb. Ever since Kay Waverley had arrived in Monte Carlo, she’d been distracted and elusive. The woman who was once his keenest advocate could barely spare him a few words. The conversation moved on, but he sat miserably.

After they’d parted company, he tried to send a message to Eva’s room but was informed that Mademoiselle Dorsey had left the hotel that morning, without leaving a forwarding address.

Valmont sat on his bed, staring out at his newly acquired sea view.

She was gone. And it had never even occurred to her to let him know.

His hatred of Lamb hardened into a knife in his heart. He found himself searching the casino and bars for him, unsure of what he would do when he found him, only that it would be as violent as he was capable of making it. But with no luck.

Lamb had not emerged from the pink villa in the hills.

In fact, Valmont never saw him again.

Two days later he received a telegram from Paris.

YOUR SHOP INTERIOR IS HIDEOUS STOP ARE YOU PLANNING TO SELL PERFUME OR RAW MEAT STOP

Within the hour, he was on a train.

It was months later that Valmont read, quite by chance, of the death of an Englishman in the South of France. The body of Viscount Charles Lamb, aka Charles Alexander Haveston Lambert, only son of the Earl of Royce, and the recipient of the British Victory Medal for his service in the Great War, was discovered early one morning reclining in a deckchair on the beach at Cap Ferrat, staring out towards the sea. The coroner concluded that he’d gone there deliberately to overdose, which he’d accomplished with a substantial amount of morphine, to which he’d been addicted ever since he’d suffered a serious leg injury in the war.

He’d just won 20,000 francs at roulette a few hours earlier. The money was nowhere to be found. Theft was ruled out when it was discovered that he’d posted a letter in the early hours of that morning, a fact that had been noted by the night receptionist at the hotel.

During the post-mortem that took place in Cap Ferrat shortly afterwards, when the medical examiner was asked if he suspected any foul play, he surprised the court by answering an unequivocal ‘no’. When pressed as to what reason Lord Lambert might have had for taking his own life, he paused, looking around the crowded courtroom, before he answered.

‘I’m afraid that the man known as Charles Lamb was very seriously ill, Your Honour.’

‘Really?’ The Coroner adjusted his glasses. ‘Can you elaborate? What was the nature of his illness?’

Again, the medical examiner hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he continued. ‘Mr Lamb, or rather, Lord Lambert, suffered from an advanced case of syphilis. His liver was already inflamed, indicating hepatitis, peritonitis, and possible kidney disease. His prognosis would not have been good. And he probably suffered a great deal of pain. Further manifestations would most likely include seizure, meningitis, dementia, not to mention horrendous pains in the lower extremities and possible deformity.’

And so the case was concluded.

The money and the letter were never traced.

Lambert’s family refused to collect the body or pay his outstanding bills and so the local people gave him a burial at sea as a civic kindness.

Sitting in the dining room of his Paris apartment, Valmont read the story over and over.

He thought of Eva’s face the first night she’d seen Kay Waverley and the argument she’d had with Lamb on the terrace.

‘She likes you. It will be easy.’ Her words resounded in Valmont’s head.

Without knowing why, he had the sickening feeling that Eva had manipulated the situation to her own particular ends. Had her jealous hysterics been just another deftly played con – one that even he had fallen for?

He considered asking her about it but recoiled from phrasing the questions out loud. Part of him suspected she wouldn’t answer him truthfully; that in all probability she would claim complete ignorance. And he couldn’t bear to have her lie to him.

Shortly afterwards, he heard through the Parisian gossip that the actress Kay Waverley no longer presided at the pink villa hidden in the hills of Monte Carlo.

Apparently there had been a minor motorcar accident in the early hours on one of the steep winding roads. The driver had emerged unscathed but Kay had been thrown forwards into the windscreen, suffering damage to the right side of her face. Some said that the scars left behind from the accident never fully disappeared, despite the expertise of some of Europe’s finest surgeons.

She never resurfaced in the world of films.

In fact, she ended her days, some say prematurely, in a remote house on a dairy farm in Minnesota.