True Pleasures by Lucinda Holdforth Read Free Book Online

is a place of male ritual. And even though this room is officially a center of French culture, of Frenchness, the absence of women makes it, in truth, un-French, even anti-French. This empty room is wonderful, but it’s not where the heart of French culturebeats. If it exists, it’s surely somewhere else – it’s where the women are. And if she were ever here, the presence of Hortense Mancini has now been completely erased.
    We leave and the great key turns again in the lock. I sense that my guide wants to get rid of me quickly now that our quest has failed.
    On the way downstairs, I thank Monsieur profusely, I apologize for disturbing him, and then, suddenly, regretfully, I am expelled from the cool fish tank of the Institut into the hot bright day. Instantly the sweat breaks out again on my legs. I need a surge of cold air and a drink.

    Paris is one of the few cities in the world where a woman can be comfortable on her own. Solitary women are everywhere: in little teashops or brasseries, in bistros or restaurants. Sometimes women bring a docile husband with them (whom they tend to ignore) or a little and ugly dog (which they lavishly pet). Now I notice a new accessory has taken off – the mobile phone.
    But there are still plenty of women like me, cheerfully alone, cooling down in a modest teashop behind the Louvre. During earlier visits to Paris I liked to pose in café windows looking moody and intellectual, scribbling into a notebook what I fondly told myself were haunting haiku. Now I don’t bother. I don’t bother to look purposeful and get out a mobile phone or a diary and write. I do what Parisians do – I sit and stare.
    Have you ever wondered at the numbers of mirrors in Paris? I used to think it was because Parisians were vain and liked to look at themselves. But it’s not that, or not only that. It’s because the French enjoy looking at people, and don’t mind being looked at in return. It’swhy the most famous reception room in France is the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. It’s why all the café chairs are side by side and face the streets. Inside many cafés a mirrored strip around the wall ensures that each face is seen from three angles. The French are comfortable with the provocative idea that other people make interesting viewing. (The writer Colette’s very last words were
Regarde! Regarde!
) This is a profoundly disturbing notion to Anglo-Celtic societies, which is one reason I like it so much. I also like it because of its next logical conclusion: if people are objects of aesthetic pleasure, then everyone has their role to play in contributing to the beauty of their surroundings.
    That’s one reason why visiting the Hall of Mirrors is always a faintly disappointing experience – the mirrors should reflect exquisite men and women twirling in ice-cream-colored silks and snowy wigs under the warm twinkle of thousands of candles. Instead, they reflect Midwestern Americans in primary colored microfibers.
    As I sip my drink, my head is framed in triplicate for anyone who cares to look at me. I am reminded of that famous Brassai photograph of the thirties’ lovers caught multiply in corner mirrors, she with her head arched playfully back and her cigarette raised; he leaning in to her, captivated; and we, Brassai’s curious audience, peering at both.
    Which gets me thinking about Hortense again. She was one of those women people looked at – and talked about – all her life. There’s a portrait of Hortense with one delicate breast exposed in a white chemise. She gazes serenely at the viewer – she might, you imagine, be surprised if she looked down and caught sight of her vagrantnipple. Or perhaps not, for Hortense took to the life of a courtesan with remarkable gusto.
    Hortense Mancini grew up in the spotlight, a European celebrity from birth. She was the second youngest of Cardinal Mazarin’s five Mancini nieces