Miss Diamonds, this much is true

Her real name was Ida Jean Emilie Sesques. She was born in Paris on February 11, 1875 and died Dec 19, 1940 at the Hotel Dieu. The Hotel Dieu was actually a hospital that took in penniless cases at the time. Brassai's efforts to learn her history were limited but what he did discover was that she was once wealthy but had come upon hard times. She made a living of sorts telling stories in places like Bar de la Lune and had once lived at the Hotel Amour in Paris. She was, according to Brassai's account, a formidable and irascible woman who did not take kindly to his photographs of her. Ida Sesques was buried at age 65 in common ground at Thiasis, Val de Marne, in southern Paris. Both the Hotel Amour and Hotel Dieu exist to this day.

The career on the stage, the Turkish lover, fortune telling and a riské lifestyle at the Hotel Amour? Well, that's all made up. But it could have been true.

In 1963, thirty years after he first photographed her, Brassai had an astonishing encounter. In his own words, he wrote:
"It was at the Menton Palais du Louvre, we were hanging photographs in my show. I had included my photograph of Miss Diamonds and it had appeared that morning in a Nice newspaper. Suddenly an old man, still vigorous and neatly dressed, came into the Palais and asked to see me. 'Sir, you are the author of this photograph? When I opened my paper, I got quite a shock. So you knew her! I wanted to know, because in my younger days, I was Miss Diamonds' lover.'
A miraculous encounter. Would I finally learn the true story of Miss Diamonds? 'It was a long time ago,' my visitor told me. 'I could tell you so many things . . .'
Unfortunately, the installation was not finished, and I excused myself, promising the noble old man that I was immensely interested in his story and that I would visit him in a few days. Visibly disappointed – he was trembling with eagerness – he presented me with his card and left.
I kept my word. But when I got to his hotel, one of those old, dilapidated Menton palaces dating from the time of the Grand Dukes, and mentioned his name – Dumont-Charterêt – I was met with dismay at the desk. Delays, consultations, telephone calls. After a long wait, the concierge asked me, "Are you a member of the family?"
"No," I said, "but Monsieur Dumont-Charterêt wants to see me. We made an appointment on the telephone. Would you please announce me?"
"I'm sorry sir, but that's impossible . . ."
"Impossible? Why?"
"Monsieur Dumont-Charterêt has just died. He died suddenly yesterday afternoon. I'm sorry, sir."
My aged gallant carried his secret with him to his grave. And so I will never know the true story of Miss Diamonds.