Maison Proust Hotel & Spa

Having lived in Paris over a decade ago and knowing the city well, I approached Maison Proust, one of the capital’s newest boutique hotels, with a certain scepticism. In a city so saturated with luxury, what could possibly feel new? How wrong I was. After two luxurious nights wrapped in velvet, literature and 19th-century glamour, I left thoroughly enchanted — and already plotting my return.

Tucked discreetly into the Marais, Paris’s eternal quartier of cool, Maison Proust doesn’t feel like a hotel. It feels like a private home — if your home happens to be a lavish Belle Époque mansion curated by the architect and interior designer Jacques Garcia, and scented with quiet opulence. Sadly, I am not a wealthy bourgeois debutante (and tick none of the relevant boxes), but for a fleeting weekend, I got to cosplay one.

From the moment you cross the threshold, you’re embraced by unapologetic luxury. The reception is lined with hand-painted garden murals. Lush velvets, antique objets, flickering sconces, and richly layered textures seduce every sense. The interiors are an homage to Marcel Proust’s world, culminating in the crown jewel of the lounge: a circular library stocked with first editions and antique volumes worthy of the man himself. While I won’t pretend to have read all of À la Recherche du Temps Perdu, the gesture thrilled my bookish heart.

The bar and lounge feel like a fantasy film set, but one you’re somehow allowed to inhabit. The staff were charming, discreet and made me feel like a returning guest rather than a first-timer. A warm welcome indeed.

My room — one of the hotel’s entry-level offerings — was anything but basic. Swathed in patterned wallpaper and heavy curtains, with plush carpets and possibly the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in, it was a sanctuary. Lighting, that elusive hallmark of true luxury, was seductive and precise. Garcia knows a thing or two about romance (and clearly so do the architects of the mood lighting). Though I was alone this time — on a work trip, alas — I made a mental note to return with my husband for a more… collaborative experience.

As I was admiring my view over the Carreau du Temple, the lovely and unflappable manager Florian informed me I was entitled to a private hour in the spa. I blinked. A spa? To myself? Yes, please. Just downstairs lies an opulent Moroccan-inspired grotto, tiled in deep blues and whites, with a 10-metre pool and hammam that instantly transported me to Marrakech. The La Mer treatment room across the corridor was the size of my London flat. Another mental note: book a facial. Bring husband.

Work duties called, and I had a significant meeting with a world-renowned artist nearby. Could I host it in the lounge? 'But of course,' said Florian, ushering us to a velvet banquette with tea and cake, which naturally led to wine and cocktails. What began as a work meeting turned into a sensory experience: on Friday evenings, the lounge becomes a chic local haunt for fashion editors, designers and elegant Parisians in the know. They come for Colin Field, legendary bartender of The Ritz's Hemingway Bar fame, who now presides over Maison Proust’s bar on Friday evenings with characteristic charm and precision. His Vesper Martini (my barometer for all bars) was perfection.

The cheese plate was divine, the atmosphere electric but intimate, and had my guest and I not had further obligations, we would have happily stayed all night.

But the following morning offered more magic. After another private hour in the spa, I rejoined my artist friend for breakfast in the salon. Post-Vesper mornings can be perilous, but the Continental breakfast was pitch-perfect. As the weather swung between drizzle and sunshine, we remained cocooned in Garcia’s theatrical, decadent interiors. The lounge, just metres from the street, felt a world away.

Maison Proust is one of many Parisian hotels designed by Garcia, and possibly his most successful — an intimate, immersive escape into a bygone world of elegance and beauty. With just 23 rooms, it feels like a secret. A luxurious, candlelit, book-scented, velvet-draped secret.

There are many five-star hotels in Paris, but few that manage this level of imaginative immersion, service without pretence, and romance without cliché. Whether for a clandestine tryst, a literary escape, or simply to indulge in one of the best cocktails in town, Maison Proust is where to go.

Just don’t tell too many people — I’d like to be able to get a reservation next time.