A night of vertiginous intrigues, brain-taxing puzzles, bewitching smiles and murdering glances – all in the glisten of the devilish emerald of absinthe, slyly cloaked in moonlight (okay, that might have been the flickering of the green carbonated brew known as Mountain Dew). Oh, that was the night that all of them – French poets, artists, literary critics, philanthropists, Americans in Paris starving for what a hotspur mind and parturient soul can only raven for, trailed by inquisitive officers of the Gendarmerie Royale and shadowed by a Russian Okhrana agent – will not soon forget.
Amenities
