Getting from Café de la Paix to l’Hotel de Rothschild would have only taken me ten minutes on the Metro. It was cheap and reliable, but I always felt the tentacles of claustrophobia squeezing my chest when I was under the ground. Whenever possible, I would walk. Paris was a beautiful, vibrant city, and it felt disrespectful to be slinking around beneath her. The cool wind was at my back as I started off along rue Auber past the Grand Hotel. The edifices always felt like the faces of ornamental canyons around me. Ladies wrestled with their parasols. A man chased his boater. Remembering the horse at La Paix, I kept one eye to the ground when I crossed to Boulevard Haussmann. The trees there had been trained to lean away from the buildings, which made it appear that the apartments were lounging back against the grey sky. I passed the depressing, windowless Chapelle Expiatoire and—cognac and wind assisted—I reached rue Berryer in twenty-five minutes.

Any hopes I may have had of strolling up to the president as we perused the book display, looking into his soul and inviting him for a chat and an absinthe were thwarted when I turned the final corner to see that a large crowd had gathered opposite the hotel. Two gendarmes stood in the road in front of the onlookers motionless but for their black capes flapping like bat wings. There was no rope barrier, but the crowd comprised mainly elderly ladies and families with children holding small tricolors. An enterprising shoe-shine boy was taking advantage of the boots on display. The policemen had apparently assessed the danger level and decided there was no threat, so they had their backs to the crowd.

It was very orderly and I could have probably slotted in amongst the old ladies, but I actually wanted to look at the exhibition and pick up a few bargains before they let in the public. Fortunately, we “Chinese” were at our most popular, so I ignored the police, who ignored me in turn, and entered an alleyway beside the hotel. I emerged at a rear door whose sign read tradesmen and hotel employees only. This was no fluke. Three months earlier, Boua and I had entered the hotel through this door whilst gate crashing a wine-tasting event. We had become quite competent at enjoying free French hospitality. On occasions, we’d even been able to convince people that we were the Japanese ambassador and his wife. Why not?

For a presidential visit I’d expected security to be tighter on this occasion, but the commissionaire’s table inside the door was unattended. I was able to walk through the busy kitchen and the chambermaid’s quarters unchallenged. Nobody knew what to say to me. And suddenly, there I was in the grand ballroom, which that day looked more like a book emporium. Men in monocles and tailcoat suites fussed over last-minute preparations, and hotel staff stood at attention in a line receiving their final in-house briefing. I was able to browse at leisure and even paid for and put aside my book selection at one of the secondhand booths.