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I. THE HÔTEL PIMODAN

One December evening, obeying a mysterious summons drafted in enigmatic terms understood by initiates but unintelligible to others, I arrived in a distant quarter—a kind of oasis of solitude in the heart of Paris. The river, encircling it with its two arms, seemed to defend it against civilization’s encroachments, for it was in an old house on the Île Saint-Louis, the Hôtel Pimodan, built by Lauzun, that the bizarre club I had recently joined held its monthly sessions. I was attending for the first time.

Though barely six o’clock, the night was pitch black.

A fog, thickened by the Seine’s proximity, blurred all objects with its tattered wadding, pierced here and there by the reddish halos of lanterns and threads of light escaping from illuminated windows.

The rain-soaked pavement shimmered under the streetlamps like water reflecting festive lights; a bitter wind, laden with icy particles, lashed my face, and its guttural whistles formed the treble of a symphony whose bass came from swollen waves crashing against bridge arches. None of winter’s harsh poetry was absent that evening.

Distinguishing the house I sought along that deserted quay amid clusters of dark buildings was difficult. Yet my coachman, rising on his seat, managed to read the half-gilded name of the ancient mansion on a marble plaque—the meeting place of the adepts.

I lifted the sculpted knocker (the use of copper-buttoned doorbells not yet having reached these remote parts) and heard the cord rasp unsuccessfully several times. At last, yielding to a more vigorous tug, the old rusted latch opened, and the heavy-planked door swung on its hinges.

Behind a yellowish-paned window appeared, upon my entry, the head of an old concierge outlined by the flicker of a tallow candle—a perfect Skalken painting. The head made a strange grimace, and a bony finger, stretching from the lodge, indicated my path.

As best I could discern by the faint glow that always filters down, even from the darkest sky, the courtyard I crossed was surrounded by buildings of ancient architecture with steep gables; my feet felt soaked as if I’d walked through a meadow, for the gaps between the paving stones were filled with grass.

The tall, narrow-paned stairwell windows, blazing against the dark façade, guided me and kept me from losing my way.

The steps behind me, I stood at the foot of one of those immense staircases built in the time of Louis XIV, spacious enough for a modern house to dance comfortably within. An Egyptian chimera in the style of Lebrun, ridden by a Cupid, stretched its paws over a pedestal and held a candle in its claws, curled like a candle-socket.

The stair slope was gentle; the well-placed landings testified to the old architect’s genius and the grandiose life of bygone centuries. Climbing this splendid ramp in my thin black tailcoat, I felt I marred the scene and usurped a privilege not mine; the servants’ stairs would have suited me well enough.