I wrote to the address she gave and the following day this person came to the house. She was quite tall, slim and a little pale. She seemed terribly shy. Beautiful big dark eyes, lovely complexion. I took to her straight away. Asked for her references. She gave me one written in English, since apparently her last appointment had been in the household of Lady Rymwell where she had been employed for ten years. The reference confirmed that this young lady was leaving of her own accord since she now wanted to come back and live in France. Throughout the lengthy period of her employment, apart from what was referred to as a certain French coquetterie she had given absolute satisfaction. I was slightly amused by the prim phrasing of the English letter and hired her on the spot.

She began her employment with me the very same day. She was called Rose, and within a month I was practically in love with her. She was phenomenal. A treasure. Fabulous. She was an incredibly good hairdresser, a near-professional milliner, particularly when it came to lace, and she wasn’t a bad dressmaker either. I was amazed at what she could do. I’d never had a servant like her. She used to dress me in no time at all and with such astonishing lightness of touch! I hate being touched by my maid but never once was I aware of this young woman’s fingers on my skin. After a while, I became extremely lazy, so much did I love this tall shy girl to dress me from top to toe, from undergarments to gloves, blushing as she always did, and never saying a word. When I used to get out of the bath, there she would be, waiting to rub me down and give me a massage while I sometimes dozed off on a divan. I tell you, it got to the stage where I used to think of her more as a friend from a slightly inferior class than just a servant.

Well, one morning my concierge asked if he could have a word. He was very mysterious about why he wanted to see me. I was surprised and asked him in. He was absolutely reliable, an ex-soldier, my husband’s former batman, in fact. He seemed embarrassed to speak. Then finally he blurted out that he’d got the local commissioner of police downstairs. I asked him outright what this chap wanted.

“He’s got a warrant to search the house.”

Now I know how necessary the police are, but personally I can’t stand them. Seems like an undignified profession to me. So I was both offended and annoyed by this.

“What’s the warrant for? I refuse to let him in until I know exactly what this is all about!”

The concierge went on: “Apparently they have reason to believe that someone wanted by the police is living in hiding here.”