The Essence of Paris. How to capture a city in a scent? To Élodie’s mind, the spirit of Paris was sophisticated and light and elusive, like the sparkle of champagne, like the pale rosé of a Parisian sunset, the soft, enchanting glow of lamplight along the Seine. Dreaming of la vie en rose, she envisioned a mix of florals; of clean, green notes to leaven the sweetness; of warm wood and fresh spice underpinning the concoction. And of course, deep at its heart, incomparable rose. But which rose? That was the question.

A rose was not just a rose—not in terms of perfume, anyway. Depending on the region it came from, the damask rose had a range of scents. Then there was the Bulgarian rose with its fresh, green nuances, while blooms from Morocco tended to be the most intensely floral and sweet. The Turkish rose held spicy, candy elements. Apart from the damask variety, an essence often used in perfume was the centifolia or May rose, with its honeyed robustness and hint of fresh lemon.

Even when the variety of rose was selected, the choices did not stop there. Did she want this perfume to evoke the full-blown rose, drenched with dew on a summer’s morning? Or the exquisite, tiny bud, just unfurling its petals? Or something in between?

Élodie decided to test the Moroccan rose first. She unscrewed bottle tops and dropped different scents on blotter strips, pinched the strips into a fan and waved them a short distance from her nose. She took one short sniff, then held the fan away from her while she took notes. Soon, she became absorbed
in her work.

As the sensitivity of her nose began to dull, as it always did after rigorous use, Élodie looked around her and realized she’d forgotten to beg the cook for coffee beans. Madame Tourneau would have retired for the evening and she didn’t like anyone hunting in the pantry after hours.

With a shrug, Élodie rolled up her sleeve, then raised the crook of her elbow to her nose and sniffed. Her own scent, unadulterated by perfumes, soaps, or perfumed creams, would clear her nose of other odors so she could begin again.

Different scents were added, some removed, rearranged. She would wave the fan of blotter strips in front of her nose, sniff, sit back, consider, take notes in her journal. Many perfumers used more than one hundred ingredients in one perfume. Following her mother’s example, Élodie liked to keep her main accord simple, using only four to seven components.

Hours passed, and she wasn’t even close to cracking this perfume. Her neck had begun to ache from sitting for too long. She moved her head from side to side, then stretched up her arms.

She added a drop of heliotrope to the mix, but she couldn’t tell whether it made the arrangement better or worse. Her nose was becoming completely desensitized. Frustrating. She would have to finish for the night.

Suddenly, the skin tightened on the back of Élodie’s neck as she felt a presence behind her. She turned her head, expecting to see one of the servants.

It was Marcelo, looking apologetic. He held out his hands, palms outward. “Sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you when you were so deep in thought.”

Élodie shot to her feet so quickly, her rickety chair tottered. She put a hand on the top rail of its ladder back to keep it from falling and also to steady herself.

She felt caught out, like a guilty schoolgirl discovered smoking behind the dormitory. “Uh, I was just . . .” She looked down at the blotter strips that were now scattered on the floor and bit her lip. How had he got in? Usually a maid would show a guest upstairs and announce him. Then she recalled that he’d been
working in the attic for months; he likely had the run of the house. That was not a comfortable thought.

She took him in, all six feet two inches of him. Broad shoulders hugged by a perfectly tailored suit coat, white shirt and grey silk tie, not a crease on his trousers, black shoes shining like onyx in the lamplight. Then it dawned on her how dowdy she must appear. After all of her determined primping and preening that morning, now she stood before him in her oldest clothes, covered in dust and cobwebs from moving furniture about, her rebellious hair falling out of its elegant chignon and spiraling around her face.

He grinned down at her, as if he understood her chagrin completely, and he looked younger and more approachable than when she’d met him in Cannes. “Sorry. I should have sent you a note tomorrow morning but I just arrived back in Paris and I couldn’t wait. They told me you were up here, still working, so I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind.”

He rubbed his hands together as he looked over her shoulder at the perfume notes she’d made. “Rose?” He tilted his head. “Do you think so?”