Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  “This is mine,” I exclaimed. “I showed this very dress last year in London.”

  The escort grimaced. “Manufacturers send spies to couture shows, pretending to be reporters. They sketch everything they see. The clothes are then reproduced in cheap fabrics with modifications like zippers. See? That dress has a zipper up its side, which I am sure was not part of your original design.”

  It wasn’t, and I found the novelty as horrifying as it was clever. For five dollars and a zipper, whoever bought this would be wearing Chanel, if not by label, then by association.

  I was staring at the future. I recognized it at once, with the same jolt of insight that had propelled me to open my first shop. The Depression had spawned many changes and I could not afford to ignore this one. Ready-to-wear was how the majority of women would soon buy their clothes, and I embarked on my trip home in April 1931 with a new goal.

  Hollywood had not suited me and, frankly, neither had America, but it reinforced my long-held belief that to resist progress was to risk extinction.

  OTHER UNPLEASANT SURPRISES awaited me in Paris.

  The first and most devastating was the loss of both my Pita and Poppée. Both had become increasingly feeble, Joseph informed me, but they had waited patiently for my return before succumbing within days of each other. I wept as I had not since Boy, feeling his death all over again. I had my dogs cremated and their ashes sealed in white boxes, which I kept in a cabinet. For days afterward, I could barely speak or venture outside, until Bendor telephoned to invite me to London and I sobbed over the line to him. He promised to buy me a Great Dane puppy from the next litter that a friend of his bred. It was typical of him to think I could simply replace what had been lost with something new, but at least he didn’t chide me for being ridiculous, as Misia did when she found me crying.

  The next surprise cut deep. The Italian Schiaparelli had had such resounding success that she dared to open a shop near mine on the place Vendôme. After hovering at the edge of distinction, she seized inspiration from the Spanish surrealist painter Salvador Dalí, featuring ludicrous trompe l’oeil designs on sweaters and shockingly pink gowns printed with lobster motifs, as if women were food platters.

  I laughed when I saw the coverage of her new collection in the 1932 issue of Vogue, albeit through my teeth. “It’s an exercise in how to make women look foolish,” I declared, even as I seethed that while the magazine fawned over Schiaparelli’s irreverent style, they relegated me to a sidebar with the comment that I had revolutionized Hollywood by putting Ina Claire in white silk pajamas. An editorial in The New Yorker declared, “Chanel wants a lady to look like a lady, but Hollywood wants a lady to look like two ladies,” lauding me as a designer of principle in an amoral environment. Still, the overall message remained clear:

  I had failed to make an impression.

  Adding salt to the wound, the pictures I designed for flopped. The fashion gazettes of Paris delighted in reporting how Chanel could not guarantee box-office gold. In a fit of rage, I fled to Bendor’s London townhome at his invitation. I had been right to assume my work was not meant for film but the confirmation proved bitter. Though I was a million dollars richer, it marked the first major failure of my career.

  “Hollywood wouldn’t know elegance if it spat on them,” I cried, striding about with my drink in hand as Bendor eyed me from his armchair. His marriage had already faltered; his young bride found his lifestyle intolerable and refused to join him on his endless yacht excursions or hunting expeditions, so he eagerly welcomed me. He would have taken me to bed, too, had I not been in such a state.

  “I’ve had to cut my prices nearly in half because of this damn Depression. And those Wertheimers—,” I cried, stabbing my cigarette in the air, “they rob me blind! My perfume is earning millions in America alone, and they refuse to renegotiate our contract with my lawyer.”

  He drawled, “What did you expect, Coco? Jews rob everyone blind.” He stood, then moved to the bar to refill my drink, which I gulped down. As he chipped more ice, he added, “You should never have signed a deal with them. The Jews are a menace.”

  I paused. Misia’s assessment of him had been accurate, it seemed, but his stance still took me aback. “They did get my perfume into the department stores,” I found myself saying, in sudden contrition. “Number Five is distributed across America. Without their contacts, I would never—”

  “They are not responsible for your success,” he interrupted. “You created the perfume and they profit by it. Jews always do that. They never do any work; they merely find the easiest way to drain money from others, like leeches. Let me recommend you to another lawyer for advice here in London. You need to sever your contract with them before it’s too late.”

  I paused, my glass half lifted to my lips. A sudden chill went through me, reminding me of what I had felt that afternoon on the Europa with Misia. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention? Adolf Hitler is about to be appointed chancellor in Germany. He has an agenda to deal with the Marxist threat and the Jews who bolster it.” Bendor returned to his chair and the table beside it, heaped with books. He withdrew a volume. “This is his treatise, Mein Kampf. You should read it. It is brilliant; he writes of the Jewish conspiracy to gain world leadership, abetted by America. Germany’s woes are the Weimar Republic, Jews, and social democrats, as well as the bloody Marxists. He will abolish them all if he can.”

  I was aghast. “The Germans nearly destroyed us the last time. Would you advocate their resurgence, after everything they did?”

  “We need a strong Europe,” was his terse reply. “Germany is part of it. Hitler does not want war with us. He simply wants to rebuild his country for those who deserve it.”

  I forced out a shrug, setting down my untouched drink. “What do I know of politics? I’m only a designer. But there is something you could do for me,” I went on, recalling my disturbing experiences in New York. “I want to do something unprecedented—an exclusive presentation of one-of-a-kind designs that garment manufacturers can copy under my license. I can present it here, in your home, and invite everyone we know. That ought to give Schiaparelli a run for her money. She can’t afford to give away her ludicrously expensive designs for free.”

  He smiled. “You know I’m always willing to help you.” Setting the book aside, he came to me. “And that other lawyer I mentioned, you will meet with him? I think you should. A time of change is coming. You cannot allow Jews to steal your life’s work.”

  I nodded. “I’ll see him after the presentation. Why not?”

  Evading his amorous advances, I excused myself, saying I needed to rest. As I went upstairs to my guest suite, I heard Misia in my head: “He is not someone you want to be associated with . . .”

  I was relieved now that he had never proposed. Yet in my fervor to retain my grip on fame, I did not pause to mark the darkness about to envelop us.

  IV

  My prêt-à-porter collection helped reestablish my reputation. I earned significant fees from the licensing to manufacturers, and as I had predicted, Schiaparelli was vociferous in her criticism of me, calling my decision to allow copies of my work made “a betrayal of couture.” When asked about my reasons by the Daily Mail, I replied, “Clothes are made to be worn and discarded. You cannot protect what is already dead.”

  Nevertheless, my clientele continued to dwindle; I had to cut my workforce from nearly four thousand to three thousand, and economize in my choice of fabrics.

  Abandoning my garçonne silhouette that epitomized the 1920s, I presented a dazzling new collection for the 1933 spring season, emphasizing the feminine in white day dresses of cotton-silk and chiffon with gossamer sleeves, floppy bows at the waist or rhinestone-studded ribbons crisscrossing shoulders and backs, as well as unisex trousers and a camellia motif on black suits. Vogue applauded my innovation, but more and more fickle women absconded to Schiaparelli and her partnership with Dalí. In return, I expanded my perf
ume empire with new fragrances: No. 22, Glamour, and Gardenia. None proved as profitable as No. 5—none could be—and my battle with the Wertheimers turned acrimonious as I fought them with everything at my disposal, including paying a retainer to Bendor’s lawyer to advise mine in France, seeking any means I could to break the contract I had signed so carelessly years before.

  Pierre Wertheimer eventually came to see me at my atelier. He arrived with his briefcase in hand, alone and portly in his bowler hat and overcoat, his expression mournful but steadfast.

  “My brother Paul and I have discussed this at length and agree to increase your share by five percent. We do not want legal trouble between us. It does not serve our mutual interests.”

  “That is unacceptable,” I said. “My name is on the bottle and that warrants a far bigger share in the profits. Lest you forget, I hired you, monsieur, not the other way around.”

  “Yes, you hired us to distribute it, mademoiselle.” He smiled. “We have done what we promised, as stated in the contract.” He tapped the document, as if to draw my attention to it. “You cannot now decide to renegotiate terms because the perfume is more successful than you envisioned. It is successful precisely because of our hard work.”

  “But I am the one who created it.” I leaned to him, taking momentary satisfaction in his visible discomfort. “My name gives the perfume prestige, so a raise of a mere five percent is a crime. You are taking millions in profit to line your own pockets.”

  He sat quietly for a moment, regarding me, before he sighed, leafed through the contract to a page toward the back. He motioned that I should read it. When I refused, he said, “This clause binds you to our contract for its duration. Is that your signature below?”

  “You know that it is,” I said. “I wish now that I never signed it.”

  “Then all I can say is that I am sorry, mademoiselle, but this is business and you did sign a binding contract. Personal feelings are not a factor.”

  “Not a factor?” I echoed, and I felt my self-control disintegrate, so that I gripped the edge of my desk until my fingers hurt. “It most certainly is a factor. My feelings are everything.”

  “Perhaps in how you choose to run your boutiques,” he replied, turning even calmer as he watched my outrage increase. “But not in how we run Bourjois. If that were the case, we’d never make a profit on anything we—”

  “You conniving crook,” I hissed, cutting him off. “How dare you sit there and tell me that my feelings mean nothing? Your company reaps a fortune off my name! I will not stand for it.” I stabbed my hand at him. “Your contract is invalid; I signed it without realizing what I was doing. You will give me my fair share or I will see you in court.”

  His expression hardened. “Insulting me will not avail you, mademoiselle. With all due respect, I find such words beneath you.” He came to his feet, leaving the contract on the desk. “You may consult with your lawyer Chambrun or whomever else you like. It will not change a legal contract. And,” he said, “I now feel compelled to warn you that as majority shareholders in Les Parfums Chanel, we have the right to protect ourselves.”

  “Protect yourselves?” I was shuddering with fury, so much so that I almost leaped around the desk to yell in his face. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I merely warn you, as I have said. If you persist in bringing suit against us, we can remove you from the board of directors.”

  It was too much. Flinging my hand across the desk, I swept his contract and several other items from its surface, tumbling paper and pens and bric-a-brac to the carpet as I brandished a letter opener and shouted, “Do so and you will regret it. You have my word!”

  He inclined his head, taking up his case and hat. “Perhaps,” he said, and he turned on his heel to depart, though he was a brave man indeed to show his back, for I was within seconds of plunging the letter opener into it.

  Instead, he left me panting at my desk like a cornered animal. I grabbed up the phone to call my lawyer René. “Sue them! I want the contract voided. Take them to court, file as many legal injunctions as you think necessary. I never want to do business with them again.”

  He could not do it. Instead, René telephoned me a week later to say that the Wertheimers had indeed removed me from the board as president and filed a countersuit against me for defamation, which now required months of wrangling to overturn. I vowed that I would take my revenge. Come what may, I would disentangle myself from Pierre Wertheimer if it was the last thing I did. No one owned me; I had built my wealth with my own hands, overcoming poverty and other obstacles through sheer force of will. I refused to be held hostage because of some careless oversight. Deep within, I recognized my own irrationality. Years before, Balsan had warned me to be careful, but I’d ignored his advice, signing my perfume contract in haste. This was my fault; but my fear of being exploited, and the bitter seed of Hollywood, as well as my faltering business and fervent anger that my hard work filled someone else’s bank account overwhelmed me. All I could see, all I could think, was that the Wertheimers were thieves.

  They had become my enemy.

  It was under this noxious cloud of acrimony that I met Paul Iribe. Bendor introduced him, though he was already familiar to me by reputation—a Basque caricaturist, he had illustrated Poiret’s fashion catalogs until his second marriage to an heiress allowed him to expand into interior design. Bendor was a fan of his magazine Le Témoin, which Iribe had founded before the war but now languished, out of print.

  “You should help him relaunch it,” Bendor suggested. “He has a brand-new concept for it and you keep saying you need a new venture. Why not this? I predict it’ll be very popular.”

  He knew exactly how to hook me, Bendor did; and so I agreed to meet Iribe at his new shop on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, not far from my residence.

  The man who came to greet me was thickset and short as Jojo Sert, if less sallow in his complexion—hardly handsome by any measure, though his dark eyes were piercing behind his wire-rim glasses, and he exuded an extraordinary charisma that he knew how to wield.

  His designs were exquisite, in particular his jewelry, which I lingered over in his display cases, entranced by its baroque style. “They are commissions for the International Guild of Diamond Merchants,” he explained. “If you like, I will recommend you to them, made-moi-selle.” He enunciated every syllable in a modulated tone that made me think he had gone to some pains to disguise the fact that Catalan, not French, was his native tongue.

  “Whatever for?” I said. “As beautiful as these are, who can possibly afford gems now?” Yet even as I spoke, I found myself considering his offer, urged by his next pronouncement: “With the name of Chanel on the pieces, who could afford not to afford them?”

  I nodded, thinking it would come to nothing. He was clearly being flirtatious, promising whatever he could to press his agenda. He proceeded to show me illustrations for his new proposed edition of Le Témoin, along with sample text. I winced as I read it; I should have guessed, given that Bendor was a fan. Iribe’s rhetoric was fervently nationalistic, promulgating an anti-Marxist view with a strong dose of anti-Semitic hatred. I was not offended, but I wasn’t charmed, either. I told him I must think on it, wondering why he needed me to fund his magazine when he had a wife with money. Then, as I turned to leave, he himself answered my unvoiced question. “I’d like to see you again, mademoiselle. In private.”

  Startled by his directness, I turned to him. It had been so long since a man had been that forward—there was no mistaking his intent—that I had a mind to refuse, just to see how he would react. Instead, as his eyes locked on mine, without evasion or apology, I found myself teasing, “Aren’t you married?”

  “Yes. Does it matter?”

  “It might—to your wife.”

  He shrugged. “It might.” He stared at me with an insolence that was almost amusing. “The important thing is, does it matter to you? Because I assure you, it has never mattered to me.”

  I had
to stifle my laughter. What a cad! But an interesting one, nevertheless. I had always had a fondness—or, as some might say, a weakness—for men who went after what they wanted without fanfare. At my age especially, it was refreshing.

  “Let’s see about this commission with the guild first, yes?” I replied, and I sailed from his shop, feeling his gaze boring into me through his display windows.

  THE COMMISSION CAME two weeks later. The guild was overjoyed by my offer and I set myself to designing pieces for a charity benefit. I would be paid for my work, though not through the sale of any pieces, which were promotional. I recruited Misia to assist me, for she needed something to occupy her time. All she had done since our return to Paris was rattle about her apartment or mine. We took astronomy as our inspiration, scavenging books for ideas. In November, we presented the collection at my home, displayed on wax mannequins in police-guarded vitrines. Thousands queued outside to gawk at the lopsided diamond stars echoing the secret mosaics of Aubazine; the comet-shaped necklace with shower-spray clasp; yellow-gold bracelets and crescent moon barrettes; solar brooches in saffron-hued gems; and cascading tiaras.

  Every major newspaper and magazine reported on the exhibit, skyrocketing the price of De Beers stock. My name was again on everyone’s lips. Ingeniously, I had designed the jewelry to mimic my clothes, separates that could be taken apart: the tiaras turned into bracelets, eardrops to brooches, the star-shaped pendants as buckles for shoes or belts. To enhance the prestige of the event, I gave several interviews declaring that “the point of jewelry isn’t to make a woman look rich but to adorn her, which is not the same thing” and “diamonds offer the best value in the smallest package”—a slogan De Beers used to advantage in their advertising.