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dear, are you giving away all my secrets again?” Comte Laurent de L’Herme-Pierre
     remarked as he rejoined his wife in the receiving line.
    “Not at all. Merely enlightening Marie-Hélène about the Leongs,” Isabelle replied,
     flicking away a speck of lint on her husband’s grosgrain lapel.
    “Ah, the Leongs. Why? Is the ravishing Astrid here tonight?”
    “You just missed her. But don’t worry, you have all night to ogle her across the dinner
     table,” Isabelle teased, explaining to Marie-Hélène, “Both my husband and my son have
     been obsessed with Astrid for years.”
    “Well, why not? A girl like Astrid only exists to feed obsession,” Laurent remarked.
     Isabelle smacked her husband’s arm in mock outrage.
    “Laurent, tell me, how is it possible that these Chinese have been rich for generations?”
     Marie-Hélène inquired. “I thought they were all penniless Communists in drab little
     Mao uniforms not too long ago.”
    “Well, first of all, you must understand that there are two kinds of Chinese. There
     are the Chinese from
Mainland China
, who made their fortunes in the past decade like all the Russians, but then there
     are the
Overseas Chinese
. These are the ones who left China long before the Communists came in, in many cases
     hundreds of years ago, and spread throughout the rest of Asia, quietly amassing great
     fortunes over time. If you look at all the countries in Southeast Asia—especially
     Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia—you’ll see that virtually
all
the commerce is controlled by the Overseas Chinese. Like the Liems in Indonesia,
     the Tans in the Philippines, the Leongs in—”
    His wife cut in. “Let me just say this: we visited Astrid’s family a few years ago.
     You can’t
imagine
how staggeringly rich these people are, Marie-Hélène. The houses, the servants, the
     style in which they live. It makes the Arnaults look like
peasants
. What’s more, I’ve been told that Astrid is a double heiress—there’s an even more
     enormous fortune on her
mother’s
side.”
    “Is that so?” Marie-Hélène said in astonishment, staring across the room at the girl
     with renewed interest. “Well, she
is
rather
soignée
,” she conceded.
    “Oh, she’s incredibly chic—one of the few from her generation who gets it right,”
     the comtesse decreed. “François-Marie tells me Astrid has a couture collection that
     rivals the Sheikha of Qatar’s. She never attends the shows, because she loathes to
     be photographed, but she goes straight to the ateliers and snaps up dozens of dresses
     every season as if they were
macarons
.”
    Astrid was in the salon admiring the Balthus portrait over the mantelpiece when someone
     behind her said, “That’s Laurent’s mother, you know.” It was the Baronne Marie-Hélène
     de la Durée, this time attempting a smile on her tightly pulled face.
    “I thought it might be,” Astrid replied.
    “
Chérie
, I must tell you how much I adore your necklace. In fact, I had admired it at Monsieur
     Rosenthal’s a few weeks ago, but sadly, he informed me it was already spoken for,”
     the baronne gushed. “I can see now that you were clearly meant to wear it.”
    “Thank you, but you’ve got the most magnificent earrings,” Astrid replied sweetly,
     rather amused by the woman’s sudden about-face.
    “Isabelle tells me that you are from
Singapour
. I have heard so much about your country, about how it’s become the Switzerland of
     Asia. My granddaughter is making a trip to Asia this summer. Perhaps you will be kind
     enough to give her some advice?”
    “Of course,” Astrid said politely, thinking to herself,
Wow—it took only five minutes for this lady to go from snooty to suck-up
. It was quite disappointing, really. Paris was her escape, and here she strove to
     be invisible, to be just another of the countless Asian tourists who crammed eagerly
     into the boutiques along the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. It was this luxury of