Duplessis bought her camellias from a society florist back on Rue de la Paix. Sometimes she wore a single flower pinned modestly to her neckline, other times she fashioned the blooms into a whimsical crown. Many courtesans at the time adopted a signature flower; Duplessis chose the camellia, it’s said, because their lack of scent did not disrupt her delicate sensibilities. Chanel took on the camellia partly in tribute to Duplessis, to a life cut short, a life that could well have been Chanel’s in an earlier time.
Chanel, perhaps, also emulated Duplessis’s interior decoration panache along with her fashion style, the extravagance of the former contrasting with the restraint of the latter. The allure of Duplessis was partly that she wasn’t the usual frilly kind of courtesan. She dressed demurely, cladding her slender silhouette in understated gowns of black or white, and wrapping herself in shawls, while saving the bells and whistles for her apartment, reflecting the voluptuousness of her private, emotional world. To dress in black and white, to hide any linings of colourful satin, is surely a form of image control, a sartorial guard of sorts. There’s also a monastic quality to monochrome, of course, and Chanel, who had lived almost half her childhood among nuns, evidently appreciated the sense of discipline that black and white created. It could well be that Duplessis eschewed colour for a similar reason; was it her own form of religious restraint? Despite being considered a fallen woman, or perhaps because of it, she changed her name from the sweet-sounding Alphonsine to Marie, in honour of Mary Magdalene, the patron saint of repentant sinners.
And perhaps that’s why Marie chose this location as her last; it was practically next door to L’Église de la Madeleine, the temple of a church dedicated to that very saint. Wander towards it, following in Marie’s footsteps. This is where she prayed, more frequently and fervently as time went on, even though it was not enough to save her from death from consumption at the heartbreakingly young age of twenty-three. Her funeral was held here, her coffin covered in white camellias; 124 years later, Chanel’s life would be celebrated here, too, her service similarly attended by le tout Paris of the time.
Given the austerity of the exterior, you hardly expect to find such magnificence within (it’s a fitting church, therefore, for Duplessis and Chanel). Napoléon had wanted a temple to the glory of the French army, in a city that he saw as the new Imperial Rome, and so he ordered this neo-Classical, multi-columned monument. After his fall, the restored monarchy replanned the building as the parish church for what was becoming one of the most chichi parts of town, which explains the internal opulence, all the marble and gold that catches the heavenly light filtering through the domes above. Still, there’s a sombre quality to the imposing columns and ceilings, and it’s not a stretch to picture Marie sitting in the shadows, on one of the little rush-seated chairs, her shawl wrapped around her while she shivered in the stony chill, her heart hopefully finding comfort in the statue above the altar: Mary Magdalene, lifted in the ecstasy of prayer, encircled by angels.
Finally, to a different kind of madeleine … Let’s return to the Ritz. Afternoon tea in the Salon Proust is inspired by the madeleine, the small sponge cake shaped liked a scallop shell. Writer Marcel Proust transformed the treat into a cultural icon when he wrote about it in his epic À La Recherche du Temps Perdu (In Search of Lost Time). Early in the book, the narrator nibbles on a madeleine, soaked in tea, and the aroma and taste trigger a gush of memory, sending him on a sensorial time travel back to his childhood, when his aunt Léonie would share with him some cake dipped in lime blossom infusion. The involuntary recollection brought back more memories for Proust, pages and pages of them (over 3000, in fact).
Proust was a regular at the Ritz, from its opening night in 1898. He partied away many an evening here, but he often ensconced himself in the nook now named for him, studiously observing the Parisian social butterflies whom he’d one day ensnare in his thinly veiled fictional memoir. A creature of the Belle Époque, he lamented the passing of this glamorous time, when duchesses wore real diamonds, and his book was an attempt to freeze the past, or at least relive it.
You won’t want to be anywhere but present right now. Luxuriate in the moment, on the cushiony sofas, surrounded by glass cabinets filled with leather-bound books, glowing in that gorgeous aureate light (César Ritz invented indirect light; he knew how to please a lady). This feast of madeleines, among other French treats, might not whiz you back into the past, as it did Proust, but you can nevertheless indulge in the deliciousness of the here and now. Not to mention a pot of perfumed thé vert — a tea derived, after all, from a camellia tree.
Itinerary
• Musée du Louvre: Rue de Rivoli 75001; 09.00-18.00 (Monday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday), 09.00-21.45 (Wednesday, Friday); closed Tuesday
The Musée du Louvre is the greatest museum in the world, a perfect backdrop for some of the most spectacular works of art. It’s easy to forget that it was once a living, breathing palace: a place of beauty, glamour, intrigue and, of course, love. You’ve doubtless been to the Louvre before, possibly several times. And perhaps you wonder why you’d need to go again when there is so much else to see in Paris, a city that’s a museum in itself. But looking at the Louvre with new eyes, seeing it for the centre of Parisian society it once was, is an illuminating exercise in French cultural study (without having to attempt a major in art appreciation, which can be admittedly exhausting in such a place). True, the Louvre has been rebuilt, renovated and reimagined countless times, to the point where it’s difficult to see its old palatial contours, but there are still clues to its former lives if you know where to look for them, and to the men and women who once inhaled this air, infusing it in turn with hot and heady romance.
Before making your way to the museum entrance, stop in the Cour Carrée (Square Court), one of Paris’s loveliest quiet corners. It’s gorgeous from any angle, at any time of the day, as the sunlight illuminates the splayed paving stones and various sculptural delights. If it’s early enough the rising sun will be catching the clock of the Pavillon de l’Horloge, just above the caryatids (columns carved as classically robed women). Move to the south-western corner of the courtyard and take a seat for a while, trying to wind your mind back 500 years …
Early in the sixteenth century — and the dawning of the French Renaissance — the Louvre was a turreted fortress on the city’s outskirts, measuring about a quarter of the size of this space, with a tall keep in the middle. Then along came the ultimate Renaissance king, François I, determined to unify and forge the country we know as France. Believing that such a nation deserved a worthy, prestigious capital — the court had been itinerant up until now, moving from château to château, particularly around the Loire Valley — François decided that the old medieval bastion (then part prison, part arsenal) should be upgraded to a Renaissance-style palace.
François was set on dragging France out of the Dark Ages, inspired as he was by the cultural rebirth that had transformed Florence and Milan in the previous century. He duly invited the who’s who of the Italian art scene to France, to sprinkle some of their magic dust over a dreary Paris. Leonardo da Vinci was one esteemed guest (which is how Mona Lisa came to find itself in François’s — and then France’s — hands), as was sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, who lived just across the river. François dreamed up grand plans for his Louvre, which was fast becoming a party palace, where the most powerful and beautiful Parisians — dressed in brightly coloured silks, plush furs and dazzling jewels — came for feasting and festivities, as much as literary readings, philosophical discussions and musical recitals. It was court life with a highly cultural twist.
Look at the southern half of the western side of the Cour Carrée: the Lescot Wing, named after architect Pierre Lescot, is the oldest part of the Louvre above ground. François commissioned the wing in 1546, but would not live for its unveiling; it was his son, King Henri II, who’d see the build through. Passing from one pair of royal hands to another, the creation also seems to symbolise the sh
ift from Italian bravado (note the virile carvings up top) to feminine French flair: there is an overall harmonious grandeur and ornamental chic that would become the hallmark of Gallic Classicism.
There’s classic French romance here, too. Look just above the doorways, in between the pilasters, and you’ll notice a monogram. It could be an H and two Cs — for Henri and his wife Catherine de Medici, the Florentine heiress handpicked by Italophile François for his son — but is in actual fact an H and two Ds, for Henri and his mistress Diane de Poitiers. Despite the craftily designed monogram, Henri did not hide Diane. In fact, quite the opposite, much to the chagrin of his poor, frumpy, in-name-only queen. Diane was, everyone said, the most elegant of all Parisiennes; when all other women wore splashy gem-encrusted gowns in bright shades, she stuck to black and white, which set off her luminous complexion. Unlike her contemporaries, she didn’t paint or powder her face. Her secret to flawless skin and rosy cheeks was a zealous wellbeing routine that involved plunging herself in cold baths every morning, drinking gallons of broth, taking regular exercise and having early nights. Her discipline paid off; she was also acknowledged as the most good-looking woman in the realm — if not the life of the party. Diane had reason to work hard at her beauty routine: she was twenty years older than the king. Still, he worshipped her for all of his adult life.
If you’ve ever read the classic French historical fiction La Princesse de Clèves, you might be able to picture the splendour, not to mention the scandals, of the court over which Diane and Henri presided. By the way, did you ever wonder about the etymology of the word ‘court’? French royalty once lived in fortresses like the old Louvre, built around an enclosed place, or court. So the word court became shorthand for castle. But back in those days, it was the seat of judicial as well as royal power, because the king or queen dispensed justice (which is why there are two kinds of court in these days of separation of powers). Upholding the law was just one of a royal court’s social roles, which required an army of attendants, also known as courtiers. Not to be confused with courtesans, of course, whose duties were of a far more personal nature.
Diane is one of history’s most famous courtesans. Henri II not only proclaimed his adoration of her in cheeky monograms, but also dedicated the Louvre’s stylish new staircase to their great love. On this note, make your way into the museum, and then in the direction of the Sully wing. The Escalier Henri II is just ahead: a cool stone shaft of a staircase, strong in form yet delicate in the detailing of its ceiling, elaborately carved in honour of Diana, the goddess of hunting (and the symbol Diane adopted). It was one of the city’s first straight staircases — medieval stairs had been spiral — and one of the first times a staircase was to play a ceremonial role, connecting the great hall of the ground floor to the private apartments above. Poor Catherine, having to walk these very steps so many times, trying to keep her head proudly high, while ignoring her nemesis forever looming overhead.
Before you, too, make your way up the two flights, pivot right into the Salle des Caryatides, the old palace’s great hall, unveiled in 1550. As you enter, you’ll walk beneath the musicians’ gallery, supported by the first caryatids seen in Paris (imagine the scandal over these near-naked ladies!). Back in those days, these walls were witness to Paris’s most lavish parties. The ceiling was originally gilded wood, and it would have shone in the light cast by hundreds of candles. One of the era’s most iconic events was the betrothal of Mary Queen of Scots to the future François II, in 1558, in this very hall. The royal family must have, at that time, seemed the height of glamour. But everything changed the following year, with Henri’s unexpected death. Catherine wasted no time in taking over, throwing Diane out of Paris in the process, and although her three sons were technically in charge over the coming decades, nobody was fooled. It was Catherine who wielded the power, newly liberated and making up for years of meekness and humiliation.
Catherine threw some of the most infamous parties here, but it was also a setting for one of the bloodiest episodes in French history. In 1572, le tout Paris came to celebrate the marriage of Henri de Navarre and Catherine’s youngest daughter, Marguerite de Valois, a.k.a. La Reine Margot. It was a happy event, in theory, even if Margot wasn’t a willing participant; their union would symbolise the coming together of Catholic and Protestant France, after decades of battles — the Wars of Religion. Four days of celebrations followed the ceremony at Notre-Dame. For one evening, this hall was transformed into an exotic garden, dripping in gold ivy, its air headily scented with floral perfume. Candelabra sparkled like stars in the sky above a botanical dancefloor, and nymphs in satin and pearls moved to the music coming from the orchestra of lutes and flutes above the caryatids. But all of the merrymaking wasn’t, in the end, enough to cleanse the bad blood between the factions. A couple of days later, one of the Protestant leaders was killed by a sniper, and the city erupted in bloodcurdling violence. Thousands of Protestants had come to town to celebrate the wedding; most of them — women and children, too — never made it home. They were hacked to death, in houses, in the streets, throughout the Louvre … It’s remarkable that Henri survived. If it weren’t for Margot, who begged her mother to save her new husband’s life, France would never have had its most beloved king: Henri IV.
Exit the Salle des Caryatides at the other end, and you’ll soon spot Venus de Milo, along with other stunning Greek antiquities. There is no sign, here, of the Louvre of Henri IV’s time, although he foresaw its future form by extending a wing westwards along the Seine — the Grande Galerie — to connect with Catherine de Medici’s Tuileries Palace that once spanned what is now the eastern edge of the Tuileries Gardens. It was to be the first step of his Grand Design, the plans of which look remarkably similar to the Louvre of today. Henri was also the first to breathe artistic life into the Louvre, inviting top artists and artisans to have their studios on the ground floor of the Grande Galerie. On the floor above, he threw all sorts of parties, where Paris’s elite dressed in elaborate costume, and sometimes performed parts in ballets or competed in mock jousts.
Although Henri was generally acknowledged to be lacking in the hygiene department (the scent of his unwashed skin likened to a goat, his breath reeking of garlic), he had a virile energy about him that attracted men and women alike — he had 56 known mistresses in his lifetime. He was a king of many grand urban plans; this was the man who gave us Pont Neuf, Place Dauphine and Place des Vosges, after all. Hélas, Henri IV was killed by an assassin in 1610, and with him went his ambitious vision of a majestic, modern Paris, the city he so loved. Fortunately his son, King Louis XIII (we’ll get to how he came about) kept his father’s Grand Design alive, working on completing the Cour Carrée.
Louis XIII lived in the Louvre when not out at his hunting lodge in Versailles, although his old apartments have disappeared. However, those of his wife, Anne of Austria, are still here — well, their ceilings are, at least. They’re just to the west of Venus: look for the series of rooms cascading down from the Rotonde de Mars, with their canopy of classical frescoes, opulent stuccowork and gilded flourishes, the very height of Roman Baroque.
Louis and Anne had a strained relationship, and it was considered a miracle when she gave birth to her first child many years after the wedding — at the ripe old age of thirty-six. In actual fact, a storm rather than divine intervention could claim the credit. Louis found himself unexpectedly stranded in Paris one night, the rain too torrential for a trip to Versailles. His apartments had not been made up, and so he stayed in his wife’s bedroom. Lo and behold, the future King Louis XIV came into the world nine months later. Still, Louis XIV was considered heaven sent, a cosmic creature nicknamed Dieudonné (God-given) before he grew into his mythological role of Sun King.
Louis XIV is most associated with the Palace of Versailles, his astonishingly glitzy makeover of his father’s modest hunting lodge, but he spent many formative — and fabulous — years in the Louvre. To visit his glamorous world, track back to He
nri II’s stairs and work your way up to the Salle des Bronzes. This — along with the next room, the Salle Henri II — was the traditional location of the king’s private apartments. Many of the old fittings were later dispersed to other rooms; whip around to the eastern wing of Sully if you want to see some of the old alcoves and ceilings. Or else, head westwards, to the round room known as the Rotonde d’Apollon (where a little Louis XIII had once kept an aviary), and the entrance to the famous Galerie d’Apollon, Louis XIV’s architectural ode to his glittering reign, and the first inkling of his vision for his future palace out at Versailles.
The magnificent Apollo Gallery — dedicated to the Sun God, and his mortal personification — is not all original, but it’s in the original spirit: the glimmering stucco, the allegorical paintings, the gleaming parquetry … the all-encompassing beauty that manages to be both overwhelming and uplifting. Here, more than anywhere in this museum, is a portal back into the Louvre as living palace. You can easily imagine the ballets performed here, courtesy of royal composer Jean-Baptiste Lully, an Italian dancer who became an icon of French Baroque style; or the witty entertainment provided by resident playwright Molière.
In the 1660s, the decade that saw Paris become the first city to light up at night, and before the court decamped to Versailles, the Louvre was the centre of the social universe. It was a time when everyone was young and attractive, and a twentysomething Louis was the leader of this jeunesse dorée. He was tall and robust, with long curling hair and finely turned-out legs that he loved to show off. He had a fondness for beauty, especially in the form of women. His first love was Marie Mancini, one of four striking and spirited Italian sisters who captured the city’s imagination from the day of their arrival. She and Louis would escape to the Louvre’s gardens, where she’d read to him from her Italian romances, or sing while he strummed the guitar; in the evening, they’d dance together in ballets, absorbed in one another until forced to separate by a queen mother determined that her son should marry for dynastic purposes. Not that marriage — to Maria Theresa of Spain — stopped the king’s extracurricular activities, mind you. There was the furtive affair with his younger brother’s wife, the divine Henriette-Anne, daughter of King Charles I of England, and the liaison with winsome Louise de la Vallière, Henriette-Anne’s lady-in-waiting who was meant only to serve as cover for the illicit amour. And many more flings. But none topped the passion of Louis’s decade-long relationship with Athénaïs, Madame de Montespan, a sensuous and voluptuous bonne vivante who was as witty as she was stunning, with her honey curls and big blue eyes.
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