The Perfume Collector

Paris, Winter, 1954

She was standing in his office, by the window overlooking the Louvre, when he came in that morning.

‘I’m sorry,’ his secretary whispered, taking his briefcase and coat by the door, ‘but she was early. I didn’t know what to do with her, so I showed her in.’

‘It’s fine,’ he told her, though slightly irritated to be caught off guard. He walked in, positioning himself behind his desk. ‘Madame Hiver?’

The woman turned to face him. She was attractive, perhaps in her early forties, with dark greying hair and rather surprising pale green eyes. She was wearing a deep navy suit, a hat and gloves, and on the desk, lying across her handbag was a small Latin prayer book. When she crossed to greet him she moved slowly, carefully, as if with some effort. And he could see, as she came closer, that her skin was sallow; her remarkable eyes ringed with bluey circles. Removing her gloves, she held out her hand. ‘Monsieur Tissot, how kind of you to meet with me so early.’

‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, indicating a chair opposite. ‘What may I do for you?’

Sitting down across from him, she opened her handbag and took out an envelope. ‘I am here today to draw up a will.’ She passed it to him. ‘I have included a list of my assests and the name and address of the recipient. And I have chosen you, because I’m assured you have an excellent grasp of English.’

‘Thank you.’

He opened it. Inside was a letter, outlining the sale of a property and a considerable amount of equity retained in shares by an investment firm in Les Halles. On a second sheet, there was the name and address of a woman in England.

Madame d’Orsey opened her handbag, took out a cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Please.’

Opening the case, she took one out and lit it. Then exhaling, she leaned back in her chair. ‘I want you to help her. The beneficiary, I mean.’ She nodded to the paper in his hand. ‘She’s not from this country and will need advice.’

She was speaking as if her demise was imminent – not years in the future but months.

‘Of course,’ he agreed.

‘And promise me you’ll meet with her alone. If anyone else comes with her, ask them to please wait outside. I want…’ she paused a moment, ‘I want the bequest to be read privately.’

He nodded, made a note on a pad in front of him. ‘As you wish.’

Her shoulders relaxed, the tensions in her face eased. ‘Good, then,’ she sighed, taking another drag. ‘Oh, and this might help you.’ Reaching forward, she opened the prayer book. Inside there was a newspaper clipping folded into the front cover. She took it out and handed it to him.

It was obviously some years old, cut out from an English publication. It showed a photograph of three young debutantes, standing on a grand marble stairway, dressed in white gowns. Looking at the caption, Edouard matched the face of the first young woman with the name on the bequest. ‘Is this her?’ She was so much younger than he anticipated. ‘A lovely girl,’ he added, looking up. ‘Is she a relative of yours?’

Madame d’Orsey was quiet a moment. ‘I don’t think that matters,’ she decided.

Suddenly, a smile spread across her face, softening her features, banishing the pain in her eyes. And when she spoke, he caught the warmth of something confident and sure, like pride, in her voice.

‘The past is over,’ she decided.

Her shoulders fell, as if a great weight had dissolved.

‘What matters now, all that matters now, is what Grace Munroe chooses to do next.’