The Spy

8 bodices;

1 shawl;

10 pairs of more comfortable underpants; 3 waistcoats;

2 long-sleeved jackets;

3 combs;

16 blouses;

Another ball gown;

1 towel and 1 bar of scented soap-I do not use hotel soaps, as they can transmit diseases; 1 pearl necklace;

1 handbag with mirror inside; 1 ivory comb;

2 boxes for putting away my jewelry before sleeping; 1 copper case with calling cards, in the name of Vadime de Massloff, Capitaine du premiere Regiment Special Imperial Russe; 1 wooden box containing a porcelain tea service I was given during the trip; 2 nightgowns;

1 nail file with mother-of-pearl handle; 2 cigarette cases, 1 in silver and 1 in gold, or gold-plated, I'm not sure;

8 hairnets for bedtime;

Boxes with necklaces, earrings, an emerald ring, another ring with emeralds and diamonds, and other costume jewelry of little value; Silk bag with 21 scarves and handkerchiefs inside; 3 fans;

Lipstick and rouge from the best brand France can produce; 1 French dictionary;

1 wallet with several photos of me; and...

A great deal of nonsense I intend to get rid of once I am released from here, such as letters from lovers tied with special silk ribbons, used tickets from operas I enjoyed watching, things like that.

Most of this was confiscated by the Hotel Meurice in Paris, because they thought--wrongly, of course

--that I wouldn't have the money to pay for my stay. How could they think that? After all, Paris was always my preferred destination; I would never leave them to think of me as a swindler.

I was not asking to be happy; I was asking only to not be as unhappy and miserable as I felt. Perhaps, if I'd had a bit more patience, I would have left for Paris under different circumstances. But I could no longer stand the recrimination of my father's new wife, my husband, a child who cried all the time, or the small town filled with provincial people still prejudiced against me even though now I was a married and respectable woman.

One day, I took a train to The Hague and went to the French consulate without anyone knowing--something that demands great intuition and skill. The drums of war were not yet beating, and entering the country was still easy; Holland had always remained neutral in the conflicts that ravaged Europe, and I had confidence. I met with the consul, and after two hours in a cafe, during which he attempted to seduce me and I pretended to fall into his trap, I got a one-way ticket to Paris. I promised to wait for him there until he could escape for a few days.

"I know how to be generous with those who help me," I hinted. He got the message and asked what I could do.

"I'm a classical dancer to oriental music."

Oriental music? That piqued his curiosity even more. I asked if he could get me a job. He said he could introduce me to a very powerful man in the city, Monsieur Guimet, who, in addition to being a great art collector, loved everything from the East. When was I ready to depart?

"This very day, if you can arrange a place for me to stay."

He realized he was being manipulated. I was just another one of those women who venture to the city of dreams in pursuit of wealthy men and an easy life. I sensed he was starting to pussyfoot. He was listening but, at the same time, observing my every move, word, and gesture. Contrary to what you might think, I--who had been behaving like a femme fatale--was now acting like the most modest person in the world.

"If your friend likes, I can show him one or two authentic Javanese dances. If he doesn't like them, I'll be back on the train that same day."

"But, Madam..."

"Miss."

"You asked for only a one-way ticket."

I took some money from my pocket and showed him I had enough to return. I also had enough to go, but letting a man help a woman leaves him vulnerable. This is the dream of all men, according to the officers' mistresses in Java.