(a four-minute read)

Wherever my eye lights, nothing disturbs nor disappoints; I can enjoy frustration-free, pure rest.

The château sits on a hill overlooking Reims surrounded by acres of relaxed, softly-lit gardens-a Daubigny-like landscape with the famous cathedral brush-stroked in the distance.

The house started out in life as the home of the Polignacs; she was an American Singer… whose daddy made sewing machines.

Half the sixteen rooms are French Elegant, the others International Perfect; all with a nod to being in the country. The walls are so perfectly upholstered, Coco Chanel could not have done it better, and I can't imagine how many slabs it took to produce the absolutely perfectly matched, marble paneling in the bathrooms. Of course the loos are separate, with two toilet paper roll holders in each; of course the lighting is low voltage, tungsten and cheek-high for make-up, with an extra magnifying mirror-light for shaving; of course there are scales, terry-cloth robes, a dozen fluffy towels and a hairdryer.

Of course the closets are custom-fitted, the hangers are padded and shaped, and not theft-proof. Of course there are books and stationery and postcards and pens and pencils, and of course the valet (the "t" is pronounced, you know) knows how to sponge a suit, and the maid how to press a dress, and of course the phone is answered within two rings. Why not? It's as comfortable as home; perhaps more! You see, Madam Boyer spent a year designing it all and another year personally supervising every inch of building it, and now is there every minute to see that it all works… perfectly.

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