Mademoiselle Chanel (19 page)

M
y establishment in Biarritz was my own personal gold mine, so that my
première,
Madame Deray, greeted me with a rare smile and escorted me through the immaculate salon into the workrooms where my sports-and-leisure wear were produced in expensive fabrics for the resort’s discerning clientele.

I fussed over this or that; ordered minimal changes to confirm my authority, but the rest of the time I spent with Marthe Davelli, who had first spurred me to open the Biarritz
maison
. She expressed dramatic sorrow over Boy and proceeded to plunge me into a whirlwind of beach mornings and late lunches, evening dinners with gambling, followed by champagne-and-jazz-soaked parties in the nightclubs and her casino suite that lasted until dawn.

She had left Constant Say, whose sugar fortune crumbled in the wake of the war. Her career as an acclaimed soprano was at its height, and in Say’s absence, she consoled herself with various lovers. The latest, she told me, was an exiled Romanov.

It was hardly remarkable. The Russian revolution that murdered the last tsar had prompted the exodus of anyone with the slightest trace of aristocratic lineage. Stateless princes, princesses, archduchesses, and archdukes,
along with their assorted servants, fled the vengeful motherland with whatever they could carry, which, in most cases, was nothing at all.

Marthe introduced me to her lover at one of her parties. “Darling, I present Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, son of Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich and cousin of Tsar Nicholas II.”

Though it was unnecessary to cite his credentials, he was worth the effort. One could say many critical things about the Romanov dynasty, but they had always bred magnificent men. This particular specimen bowing to kiss my hand—“
Enchanté,
mademoiselle”—personified every romantic notion of what a prince should be. Tall and stork thin, he had light chestnut hair slicked with brilliantine on his shapely head, a sculpted aquiline nose, and a full mouth. His deep-set eyes of a mercurial amber hue lingered on me until I wondered if he expected a curtsy.

Marthe said, “Dmitri, be a love and bring Coco a fresh drink. Her glass is empty,” and he took my champagne flute from my hand, grazing my fingers with his. He had beautiful hands, tapered and white, hands whose most onerous duty until the fall of his world had been to adjust a decorative saber at his waist before a ceremonial procession.

“Isn’t he divine?” whispered Marthe as I watched his broad-shouldered stride across the room to the bar. With a jolt, I realized I felt . . . something. Nothing overpowering, certainly, nothing like what I felt when I first met Boy, but something nevertheless—a faint stirring that compelled me to smile and say, “He certainly is. Fatally attractive.”

“He’s been dying to meet you. Since I mentioned your name, you are all he has asked about. Did you know he helped murder Rasputin? If you find the attraction is mutual, you must take him. He’s far too expensive for me.”

I INVITED HIM TO MY BED.
There is no other way to put it. He didn’t leave my side the rest of the night, reciting a mournful litany of his sufferings, from the hour he killed the tsarina’s mystic to his exile to Siberia and escape after the war to Italy, Spain, and eventually France, where he met Marthe through his aunt, Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna, a fellow exile
residing in Paris. While I found his story tedious—I had little pity for aristocrats—his apparent interest went beyond the social, as he made clear toward the end of the night when the debauchery of the party reached its height and I prepared to make my exit.

“May I call upon you tomorrow, Mademoiselle Chanel?” he breathed, with an antiquated reserve that almost made me chuckle. Around us, drunken and opium-sotted couples were gyrating; Marthe herself was shrieking with laughter as two muscular black men from the band hoisted her on their shoulders while playing their trombones.

“Why wait?” Reaching into my evening bag, I gave him the extra key to my suite. “Number twenty-five. Bring champagne.” I strode out before he could respond, never expecting to see him again. It was an impetuous act. I reasoned a man like him, born to the rigidity of a slaughtered past, would find me too crass, too modern, for his refined taste.

An hour later, a knock came at the door. He did not use the key. Nevertheless, when I opened it, dressed in my robe, my dogs barking until I shushed them, he entered carrying a bottle of Bollinger. He set it upon my dressing table and turned with a flush in his cheeks.

“Expensive,” I remarked, glancing at the bottle. “I trust you charged it to my room?” Again, I did not wait for a reply. I stood, staring at him, as he lifted his long hands and, with a slight tremble, began to unbutton his dark gray suit that had seen better days.

He could not do it; his trembling became so pronounced it drove me to him. “Allow me,” I said, and I divested him of his jacket and shirt so that he stood bare chested before me, not as darkly muscular as Boy but rather ethereal in his narrow, marble purity.

“You are beautiful,” I said, and I paused. Now that he was here, I was starting to regret my impulsiveness. It had been little more than a year since Boy’s death. My skin suddenly recoiled at the thought of another man’s touch.

He didn’t allow me to voice my doubts. Coming at me suddenly, he seized me in arms that were, despite their thinness, astonishingly strong, his mouth on mine with an ardor that rivaled the most lurid kiss in my favorite
novels. I might have laughed at the absurdity of it—me, the bereaved mistress of a dead man, acting the slut with an impoverished Russian duke who would no doubt fleece me of everything he could—but again, I felt that stir inside me and it was more powerful now, more insistent, my deprived senses responding with animal need.

He was murmuring against my throat in Russian, unintelligible words I found surprisingly erotic. I closed my eyes and let him take me to the bed.

For once, I refused to think.

This time, I wanted only to feel something that meant nothing.

DMITRI BECAME MY LOVER.
Back in Paris, I installed him in my house in Garches. Joseph and Marie did not blink twice when I announced that my guest would be living in one of the spare bedrooms for an undetermined time. Appearances must be kept, though he came to my bed every night and met me after work to dine, attend the theater, and visit the Serts.

Misia was flabbergasted at first, the only time before, or since, I actually saw her struggle for an appropriate response. When she finally did after dinner, as Jojo regaled Dmitri with tales about his art commissions, she dragged me into the parlor to hiss, “Do you love him?”

I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why? He’s rather young. How old is he, exactly?”

“Thirty.” I held up a hand, anticipating her next outburst. “I’m perfectly aware that’s eight years younger than me and that he is penniless. I don’t care. He’s what I need right now.”

“What you
need
? Have you considered the scandal? He’s royalty—many believe that if the monarchy is ever restored in Russia, he is the rightful heir.” She suddenly paused, her eyes narrowing. “Or is that your plan? Society will have to receive you if you are with him. Although he has nothing but the clothes on his back, which you no doubt paid for, every blue-blooded matron in Paris will kill to receive him. It’s all the rage, inviting exiled Russians to tea.”

“When did I ever care about that?” Behind me, I heard Dmitri’s slow,
careful laugh as Sert let out one of his bawdy quips. “I’m with him because he amuses me. What the blue-blooded matrons do or say is inconsequential.”

Misia harrumphed. “I’m sure that’s what you want everyone to believe. But it’s me you’re talking to, darling; I know how you hunger for acceptance, and how better to achieve it than to be seen with a dashing Romanov on your arm?”

“Think whatever you like. He is a lover, nothing more. And,” I added, “he’s coming with me to your wedding and to Italy, too. His sister the Grand Duchess Marie is in Venice, vacationing with our friend Diaghilev. He wants me to meet her.”

I walked away, preempting her protest. Misia was perceptive, but she had sniffed out the wrong clue. During our time in Biarritz, I had found myself telling Dmitri about how I’d established my clothing business (without mentioning Boy or Balsan) and of my idea about developing my own signature perfume. I knew the Romanovs had been mad for scents, as they were for everything that reeked of luxury, and he mentioned that the French perfumery house Rallet, which established itself in Moscow under Romanov patronage, had created the Tsarina Alexandra’s favorite
parfum.

“Such an exquisite scent,” Dmitri had said wistfully, his eyes growing distant as they always did when he recalled the past. “I can still smell it now: a mixture of rose, jasmine, and something indefinable that made everyone stop. Alexandra wouldn’t let anyone else wear it. Ernest Beaux originally designed the formula for Rallet to release during the jubilee celebrations, but it proved too costly for anyone but her.”

“Do you have a sample or know where this Beaux is?” I asked eagerly.

Dmitri sighed. “The perfume must be lost, like everything else. Beaux enlisted during the war; I don’t know where he is now. Perhaps in Grasse? Rallet owns fields there. My sister Marie might know.”

Grasse was famous, a swath in southern France where such distinguished houses as Coty and Guerlain grew special hybrids for their scents. I wanted to go there at once, to track down this mysterious Beaux, but Misia’s upcoming wedding derailed my plan. No sooner had I decided to
extend my time away than she telephoned to inform me that she and Sert would wed in August and she expected me back in Paris by then.

Fitting her gown in less than a month was a torment; combative and resistant to anything less than the traditional, in the end we settled for the usual lace-and-silk affair. The wedding was a simple celebration, however, and as August thickened over Paris, we embarked on a monthlong yacht tour of Italy.

I
taly enchanted me. I had never been abroad and was swept up in the crumbling mosaic grandeur and serpentine waterways of Venice, where we stayed on the Lido, its stony beach washed by the turquoise lagoon.

Sert proved an ideal travel companion. Bursting with exuberant knowledge, he took us to see the plundered Byzantine horses in San Marco, the wealth of Titians and other paintings in the museums, and yanked us down twisted byways to find hidden restaurants that served roasted sparrows wrapped in prosciutto. He was indefatigable, to the point that he exhausted us and Misia declared, “Enough with dead masters!” and hauled me off to antiques shops that yielded gilded masks, painted icons, and incense-suffused relics.

I was happier than I had been since losing Boy. I thought of him often, not with the suffocating sadness that had accompanied his memory until now, but with a yearning that he could have been there with me, to share my fascination with this sinking city known as La Serenissima. I ceased to rely as much on Misia’s elixir, the lapping of water instead rocking me to sleep without the need to numb my senses. My penchant for gondolier-inspired loose trousers that reached above the ankles, nautical pullovers, and cork-soled sandals spawned an international trend.

But Dmitri became a stone about my neck. He walked around with a mournful air, as if the beauty around him only reminded him of the beauty he had lost. I soon grew tired of his moods and nightly cough, exacerbated by the damp, as well as his increasing penchant for heavy drinking and unimaginative lovemaking.

Sensing my impatience, Misia dug in the knife. “I heard he was madly in love with his own cousin, Felix Yusupov, who connived with him to kill Rasputin. He even made his way to London after the revolution to reunite with Felix, but they had a falling-out because Felix was bragging to everyone that he helped bring down the tsar. Dmitri accused him of threatening his own hopes of being restored to the throne.” She paused at my deliberate lack of reaction. “I trust you’re taking precautions. These men who go with other men, well . . . they can give one the most horrendous ailments. Having to take mercury cures for the clap would put a significant damper on your schedule.”

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t tell her that by now Dmitri’s sole enthusiasm was for vodka. The only time he perked up was when we went to meet his sister and Diaghilev for lunch in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Grand Duchess Marie was staying as the guest of an illustrious Italian aristocrat’s wife, for much like their counterparts in Paris, the Italian nobility found entertaining a displaced Russian princess irresistible, regardless of the expense.

Diaghilev was delighted to see us. I had not spent time with him outside of the parties held for the Ballets Russes, when he’d been invariably intoxicated and preoccupied with his latest dancer du jour. I saw his genuine but wary affection for Misia, who did not try, as she usually did, to dominate the conversation when he griped about his financial setbacks in attempting to mount a revival of Stravinsky’s
Rite of Spring
. The composer had moved to Switzerland to recover from a bout of typhoid but remained dogged by ill fortune: “He has his family with him now, but his wife, Katya, has consumption and he’s barely eking out a living,” Diaghilev said. “I want to bring him back to Paris and reintroduce his genius to the world. The times have changed. I’m certain we’d have great success together.”

If he was looking for support from Misia, he didn’t receive it. She went as quiet as a tomb, intent now on securing her own future. Diag’s keen interest took me aback. Peering through his monocle, he bombarded me with questions about my shops, and my hopes of developing a perfume. Portly and double chinned, with an enormous head that seemed to sit directly upon his massive frame and a streak of dramatic white in his ebony hair, he dressed flamboyantly but with style, his crimson velvet jacket bristling with embroidery, his great hands peppered with rings, and a black pearl affixed to his damask cravat.

“So Russian,” he declared, turning effusively to the grand duchess. “Isn’t it, Your Highness? The French may have refined perfume for the modern age but we knew best how to wear it. Remember how everyone scented themselves with a different perfume for the ballet in Moscow—men and women alike, so that the entire house seethed like a summer garden? Ah, it was magnificent, like plunging into Aphrodite’s temple. One could perish of olfactory lust.”

Grand Duchess Marie smiled. She was another superlative example of Romanov breeding, with her thick-lashed eyes and symmetrical features, her pampered complexion untouched by the sun, while I, on the other hand, had taken to sunbathing and was as brown as an Indian. I also noticed her slim hands were chafed and her cuticles ragged, like those of a seamstress.

She saw me glance at them as she poured tea. With a gracious incline of her head, she said, “You must come visit me when you return to Paris. I’ve opened a small atelier myself, called Kitmir, where I do specialized embroidery and beading; Madame Vionnet has hired me to decorate some of her gowns. Perhaps I could be of assistance to you, as well.”

If Vionnet had hired her, her work must be excellent. It impressed me, too, that unlike her brother, with his laments and drinking binges, Marie Pavlovna had rolled up her sleeves. “We must make our own way now,” she added, when I assured her I would certainly visit. “The past is dead. We must learn to adapt to everyday concerns.”

I wanted to ask her if she knew anything about the tsarina’s perfume,
but it was Dmitri, roused from his torpor, who said, “I told Coco about Alexandra’s special scent. She’s very intrigued by it and wants to know if we have the formula or know where Ernest Beaux is.”

Marie’s reply was to lead me through the cavernous palazzo to her bedroom. Opening a drawer in her bureau, she removed a tiny bottle of diamond-shaped glass. “This is Rallet number one. Those savages looted our palaces and stole whatever they could, including Alexandra’s stores of perfume. It may be the only sample left.”

With reverential caution, I uncapped the bottle and raised it to my nostrils. The fragrance immediately sank through me—a complex alchemy of flowers, with a hint of something deeper that evoked opulent privilege, the premier status of an empress: cultured, luxurious, and very expensive. Though not quite what I had hoped for, its tone conveying the slight fustiness of older women, it was still undoubtedly unique.

“Try it,” urged Marie. “I don’t ever use it. It was never mine.”

Dabbing a few drops on my wrist, I waited. When I lifted my hand to my nose once more, I gasped. There it was: the very essence I sought without understanding what it was, a hidden scent as disquieting as it was unexpected—the secret allure of feminine ardor, spent upon crisp white sheets.

Marie’s face softened as I gazed at her, mesmerized. “Ernest Beaux is indeed in Grasse, in the village of La Bocca. He still works for Rallet but maintains his own laboratory to make custom scents. If anyone still knows the formula for Alexandra’s perfume, he does.”

“I . . . I must see him,” I said.

“Yes, I thought you might.” She turned to her desk. “I’ll write a letter of introduction.”

FROM VENICE TO FLORENCE AND PISA,
and then on to Rome. Before the torrid ruins of the Colosseum, Sert threw out his arms and proclaimed it Rome’s unburied skeleton. “Architecture is the bones of a city. Everything is bone structure. A painting, a sculpture, even us: a face without
bones cannot last. You,” he added, pinching my cheek, “will look pretty even when dead.”

Overwhelmed by everything I had experienced, I was also weary of Misia and suitcases, longing to return to work, to start my journey to Grasse and the quest for my perfume. By now, I was determined: Marie Pavlovna had given me her sample, insisting it was but a memento, and she carried within her the scent of her tsarina.

In return, I promised to visit her in Paris and help her expand her own business with commissions from my atelier. She would help me create gowns to rival Vionnet’s, for now I was past the mutual distance I had thus far maintained with my rival. To launch a perfume, I needed the clothes to go with it—clothes with Russian flair, evoking bygone splendor.

Upon our return to France in the autumn of 1921, Dmitri no longer infatuated me.

I had set my sights upon a different obsession.