At about two this morning, there was a knock at my door. I made the mistake of answering it thinking that it must be the hotel staff anticipating my need for additional bottles of the Widow. They are very good about these things. Surprisingly, it was not room service but a désespérée whom I had seen, but not talked to, at Alain Delon's party earlier in the evening.
She slipped past me and into the room before fixing me with a wounded regard and in an urgent tone explained how she wanted to go away with me. I replied in a most diplomatic fashion that I had only just arrived a few days ago and that, for reasons best left to the imagination, I needed to remain in Paris keeping a low profile in the process. Her response was to remove all of her clothing and climb into my bed, whereupon I called room service to find out how quickly they could replenish my supply of Veuve Clicquot.
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