by Jan Moran
“Max hates any assistance. Charity, he calls it.”
“Ridiculous. He’s still trying to regain his father’s honor.” Marie threw up her hands. “Sometimes I don’t understand men. Your father included. Such pride, such misplaced pride.”
Marie ran her manicured hands over Danielle’s long auburn hair and drew her from her chair, kissing her on both cheeks. “I forgive you for the pearls, there will be other pearl necklaces. I’m just glad you returned to France, however you managed to get here. It’s where you belong. And I know you love the perfumery and your uncle, Philippe, but I wish you’d stay in Paris. Why, we haven’t even shopped for clothing for you.”
Danielle sank into her mother’s warm embrace. I have missed her so much, she realized. “I love seeing you and Papa, but I feel so useless. I need to work again. I need to visit Grasse.” For weeks she’d been feeling the pull to Grasse, her creative sanctuary, where she could soothe her soul with her work. Though it seemed indulgent, it was the only thing she knew to do. Living one day at a time, waiting for news that seldom came, was tortuous.
“That’s exactly what I thought you would say.” Marie shook her head. “Well, I can’t blame you, you need something to do. It won’t hurt to refresh your nose in the laboratory. My brother can certainly use your help. Since his assistant enlisted, he’s been doing everything himself.” She inclined her head. “But business has slowed. I hope you don’t find yourself just as bored there.”
Danielle grinned. “I’m never bored in the laboratory, Maman.”
“No, I think you are most happy when you are creating.” Marie hugged her. “Do you know how proud I am of you? Imagine, my daughter! You’ve earned your place among the rarefied clique of the world’s top perfumers: Ernest Beaux, who blended Chanel No. 5, Jacques Guerlain of the Guerlain dynasty, Ernest Daltroff, who created Nuit de Noël for Caron, and the prolific François Coty. And now, my daughter, Danielle Bretancourt, for La Maison de Bretancourt and Parfums Bretancourt.” Marie smiled with obvious pride.
Danielle felt her mother’s kiss on her forehead before she released her. She truly appreciated her mother’s recognition, for her mother was also a leader in the field. “You’re a force, too, Maman. You’ve solidified the reputation of Parfums Bretancourt around the world. So, do you have any new clients for me, Maman?” Marie handled clients out of Paris, while her brother Philippe oversaw production. Their clients included scores of wealthy patrons and members of royal houses across Europe, and even as far away as Shanghai and Buenos Aires.
Marie sighed. “Only one or two. The war, you know. Right now, people have other things on their mind.”
Danielle winced, thinking of her son and Sofia. Where are they? “How well I know.”
Marie took her hand. “I know you’re thinking about Nicky. But I’m sure Max will bring him to you soon. In the meantime, Grasse will be good for you. You’ve always loved it. I suppose because I was born there at the chateau, I couldn’t wait to leave for the excitement of Paris. And the fresh air will be good for you in your condition.” Marie frowned. “I hope you’re not leaving because of how your papa feels about Max.”
“Actually, I think Max would agree with him. Max is quite hard on himself, and he can’t forgive himself for what’s happened to Nicky. He won’t, not until—” Danielle blinked and looked away. She couldn’t help thinking, What if Max doesn’t find them?
“Don’t upset yourself again, my dear. You’ve told me that Max is going to persuade the government to release his mother and Nicky.”
Danielle swallowed hard. The way she had told her parents, she made it sound as if their release was practically agreed upon. But Danielle hadn’t told her parents everything. Why worry them?
Danielle glanced at a tall standing clock and started for the door. “We should go soon. My train leaves in an hour.”
“We’ll be there in plenty of time.” The melodic lilt returned to Marie’s voice; Danielle knew it was to mask her own worry. “And remember, even if I can’t convince your papa to visit, I’ll be there in a few weeks. I want to finish closing the chateau for the season, and of course I want to be there when this new baby arrives.” She wagged a finger at Danielle. “Besides, who will keep you and Philippe out of trouble?”
Marie strode to the door, her high heels clicking sharply on the floor. “Come now, let’s have a café before we meet the train.”
* * *
Danielle stepped off the train at the small Grasse station, her nose twitching, thirstily drinking in the rustic aromas of the countryside. The sun felt warm on her shoulders, melting the tenseness she’d felt in Paris. Grasse was her muse.
She spied her uncle, a wiry, bespectacled white-haired man standing on the platform. “Philippe,” she called happily, waving.
“My Danielle, how good it is to see you.” Philippe had the weathered face of a Gallic farmer, and it creased into a warm, genuine smile. He kissed her on both cheeks, and as he did, she warmed to the remembrance of his familiar aroma, a subtle veil of the natural perfume oils he worked with everyday, the aromatic emblem of his artistry.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “How is everything at the farm?”
“Needing a woman’s touch. I’m glad you decided to come.”
“I couldn’t wait. How was the flower harvest?”
“It went very well this year, so we have a surplus of essential oils. Unfortunately, the perfume business is slow due to this damned war on the continent. But I’m already planning for next year. We’ll be in excellent shape if we have a quick end to the war.” He stooped to pick up her small suitcase.
“I’ll get that, mon oncle.”
“Nonsense, I’m still strong as an ox. Is this all you have?”
She nodded sadly. “All I have in the world.”
“No, my little one,” he said, his ivy green eyes twinkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “All you have is within you, and that is all you will ever need.”
Suddenly, her reserve shattered, and she flung her arms around Philippe, tears welling in her eyes, her words tumbling out. “Oh, Philippe, how I need to be here with you. I can’t sit and do nothing, I’ll go mad if I do. That’s why I left Paris. There was nothing for me to do but worry and wait.”
“I gleaned as much from your telegram.” Philippe put an arm around her and pulled her close. “There’s plenty here to keep you busy.”
Arm in arm they walked to Philippe’s truck, a battered vehicle used on the farm. He cranked the engine and it sputtered to life.
They wound through Grasse on narrow cobblestone streets lined with lace-curtained shops. As they drove, the sights and smells of her childhood comforted her. How I have missed it here, she thought, welcoming it all into her psyche.
The aroma of garlic and saffron wafted through the air from a corner café. Men passed puffing on Gauloises, and when they approached the boulangerie, Danielle detected the sweet scent of calissons d’Aix, the almond cookies she had loved as a girl. Tension flowed from her as she savored the beloved scents.
“We need provisions.” Philippe parked the truck, and they went into the bakery. He bought several fresh breads, including brioche and Danielle’s favorite, fougassette, a flat bread made with orange blossom water. “And a navette for each of us,” he told the shop girl.
“Two for me,” Danielle added, grinning at her uncle, and thinking of her baby. She loved the orange blossom-flavored cookies, too.
Next, they visited a shop for wine, and another for cheese. Laden with their purchases, they returned to the truck.
“I feel better already,” Danielle said, munching on her cookies.
Philippe nodded. “A soul can be at peace here, amid the flowers and bounty of nature. These are your roots.”
They drove through the foothills, and when they neared Philippe’s farmhouse and factory, Danielle spied with delight the lavender fields she’d once traversed on horseback. When she mentioned it to Philippe, he smiled.
�
�How about a ride this afternoon?” he asked.
“I can’t ride now. Don’t you know?”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Really? Marie never tells me anything. Or perhaps I forgot. Anyway, that’s wonderful news. Well, if you can’t ride, you’ll have to learn to drive.”
She beamed. “Would you teach me? Max never thought it important for me to learn.”
“You’re a modern woman, Danielle. Someday all of this will be yours.” He waved his hand. “Believe me, it’s easier to oversee the operation by truck than on horseback. Especially with my old bones.”
Danielle gazed out the window. She shook her hair in the cool breeze and inhaled, the scents of lavender and rose and jasmine sweet in the lucent air. To her, these were the aromas of creativity, of freedom, where she’d always been happiest. They passed fields where delicately scented rosa centifolia bushes grew. “How was the rose crop this year?”
“Excellent. We had a mild spring and a generous rainfall. We had twenty to twenty-five blossoms on every branch. Our rose was indeed the ‘queen of the flowers’ this year, to quote Sappho, the Greek poet.” He lifted his chin and peered at her down his nose. “Our rose de mai is expensive, Danielle, but it is far superior to others.”
Laughter bubbled in her throat. “Your Gallic pride is showing, Philippe.”
He expressed a puff of air between pursed lips. “Bulgaria? Morocco? You can’t tell me their roses are better than mine.”
“Just different,” she said with patience. “Moroccan roses have a rich perfume, and Bulgaria’s Valley of the Roses produces lovely damascena roses scented with a brilliant tinge of pear.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “But you know that, you’re just testing me.”
Philippe returned her sidelong glance with a grin. “I see you haven’t forgotten my training.”
“I had the best teacher, didn’t I?” She gazed out over a rowed field, dormant after harvest, undulating like ribbons over the hillside. “And the jasmine?”
“A very good crop, too, and we got a good price for it.” He shrugged. “But for those clients who wish to curtail their costs, I’ve discovered some nice jasmine from India, near Virapandi, as well as some from Morocco, near the village of El Kelâa des M’Gouna. In fact, I’d just returned from Morocco when I received your telegram.”
Danielle nodded, filing the information in her mind. She stifled a yawn.
“Tired? Why don’t rest your eyes?”
“Hmm. Think I will.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, half-dozing while they continued the drive. She loved every aspect of this business, and realized with a pang how much she’d missed it. The perfumery was in her blood.
Her grandfather had founded the business after apprenticing with Pierre-François-Pascal Guerlain at Guerlain’s Rue de la Paix shop in Paris. Like the Guerlain family perfume dynasty, Danielle’s family was also steeped in the tradition of perfumery. They were primarily suppliers. They had their fields and factory, but they also functioned as perfumers, supplying completed perfumes to a select group of private clients and couturiers, a relatively new trend popularized by Paul Poiret and Gabrielle Chanel, who augmented their fashion business with parfum.
Her uncle had taught her to love the land and honor the artistry of creation. Danielle knew someday the business would be her responsibility, a fact that often escaped Max’s notice. For some reason, Max assumed that she would sell the business once it passed to her. “How could you possibly manage it?” Max had once said.
“We’ll talk about it when the time comes,” she responded, not wanting to provoke him. The Bretancourt family chateau would go to Jean-Claude as the eldest son, but Marie had planned to bequeath the perfumery and the flower farm in Grasse to her. And in her heart, she wanted to preserve this heritage for Nicky. And his siblings, she thought, rubbing her stomach. I will never part with the perfumery.
A few minutes later, Danielle opened her eyes, refreshed. The road curved, and they passed the stately Bretancourt family chateau, where as a child she and her family had spent summers, with their father visiting on weekends from Paris and taking holiday for the entire month of August. Philippe preferred the two-story cottage on the grounds, claiming the chateau was far too large for just one person.
Over the rise loomed their factory, where rose and jasmine and lavender were processed after harvest. The building was quiet today, but she could envision in vivid detail the busy summer harvests, when workers began before sunrise to pick and process flowers. Roses were sweetest when picked at dawn, by midday their scent suffered and became less sweet. Jasmine bloomed at night and was at its finest when harvested before dawn, for heat and dew damaged the delicate flowers.
Danielle smiled as she reminisced on the dawn’s rosy blush when she and Philippe used to check progress on horseback. The work was demanding. A good worker could pick twenty-one hundred rose blossoms an hour, about twenty-five kilos. Eight hundred kilos produced just one kilo of absolute, or purified product. Their lavender was harvested by hand using a sickle, then tied into clumps to dry. The process was labor-intensive, but the end result—the perfumer’s alchemy—was pure magic.
When they approached the rambling stone cottage where Philippe lived a rush of joy welled within her. The laboratory had been added onto the rear of the house. There she’d spent many happy days immersed in aromas that danced in her imagination.
“Do you still have my old journal?” she asked, referring to her record of trials and formulations.
“Of course. In fact, I consult it often.”
She laughed. “You can read my writing?”
“It’s not so bad. I thought you might want to look at it again. It’s in your workspace.”
They got out of the truck. Philippe insisted on carrying the groceries. “You should relax, I’ll get your suitcase in a moment.”
Danielle walked through the door. The unique scent of her uncle’s home enveloped her senses. A mélange of aromas permeated the stone walls of the cottage, burnishing it with a scent that was utterly indescribable, and completely original. The smell lay imbedded in Danielle’s memory. This was the home of her heart. She turned to Philippe. “Would you mind if I go to the laboratory first?”
“Go on.” Philippe laughed. “You’re a true perfumer.”
Danielle reached the laboratory and opened the door; an aromatic patina permeated the air. She paused, joy welling in her heart. And there, beyond the vats, across the worn stone floor, in the far corner beneath a window framed with pink bougainvillea, sat her workbench, or, in the lexicon of perfumery, the organ.
Several tiers rose above the horseshoe-shaped desk. Bottles of raw material oils lined the shelves: flowers, resins, leaves, woods, mosses, spices, herbs, seeds, grains, roots, bark, and fruit. From the animal kingdom came fixatives: civet, musk, and ambergris. The absolutes, the resinoids, the essential oils. Here she had learned to identify thousands of aromas, committing each to memory.
Philippe had taught her how to weigh and blend a formula, and which materials complemented others, such as orange blossom and rose with a dash of vanilla, her first attempt when she was but six years old. Her eyes glistened at the memory. Someday, my children will follow in my path. A lump rose in her throat as she thought of Nicky, then she touched the curve of her developing child.
Lovingly she trailed her fingers across the worn wooden table and drank in the aromas until she was dizzy with excitement. Exciting new ideas swirled in her mind and she couldn’t wait to begin.
Tomorrow, she decided. I have no time to waste. It could take weeks, months, even years to perfect a formula that would one day become a beloved perfume, bringing joy and happiness to the lives of many people. Danielle loved this aspect of perfumery the most. To her, perfume was the language of love.
In her mind’s ear she could hear Philippe, saying, “simplify, simplify.” She sought beauty in simplicity.
She was known not fo
r complex arrangements, but for perfumes that spoke to the soul, that were elegant in their simplicity. Refined. Harmony and grace; these were the hallmarks of her creations.
When she was very young, one of her favorite Guerlain perfumes, Mitsouko, inspired her. A simple ten-line formula, Mitsouko was a perfume of incredible depth, a miracle of achievement. Not unlike her subsequent creations, designed to transcend time. Like a Monet canvas, she hoped her work would also live on, far beyond her years.
For like an artist, the true test of a perfumer lay not in the skill with which she blended her materials, but in the imagination. To dream without boundaries was a natural talent, just as one might have a natural talent for music or art. Danielle understood she had been blessed with a rare gift, and for this, she was thankful.
And here, only here, did she dare to release her intuitive sense, to rely on it to the fullest.
She lingered a moment longer, before she turned and closed the door softly behind her.
* * *
The days wore on and Danielle passed the time in the laboratory, immersed in her work, developing the perfumes she’d promised Marie for their clients.
Philippe also kept his promise about driving, and Danielle learned to handle the truck under his patient tutelage. He laughed when she ran off the road, the vehicle mired in a field of lavender, but he dug out the tires while Danielle maneuvered out of the rut. “You must learn how to get out of trouble, too,” he told her.
As Christmas approached, Danielle began work on a new project she named Chimère, a perfume with a base accord similar to one she had created for her wedding day. But this perfume was more mature, deeper and richer, a reflection, she realized, of her life and recent trials. She knew every artist revealed themselves in their art.
One day in the laboratory Danielle sat at her workbench, testing several perfume compositions ensconced in small amber-colored bottles. She waved blotter strips of paper under her nose, then made notes in her journal. Too much bergamot in this one, too tart; no depth in this one; bring forward the orange blossom in another. She tilted her head, studying her notes.
