A Rather Charming Invitation (9 page)

“We grow many flowers, particularly roses and jasmine,” Lisette continued. “These require experts to pick them, and we like to get them super-fresh, within an hour. They are here.” She pointed to big burlap sacks on the floor, which had flower petals and herbs that were in various stages of drying or storage. “Our task is to extract the fragrance from the flower petals,” Lisette explained. “The oldest method is ‘expression’ or cold- pressing, but nowadays we only use this method for oranges and lemons, because they have so much oil in their peels.” Oncle Philippe pressed the palms of his hands together.

“Like olives for olive oil?” I said.

He beamed at me.
“Précisément.”

We moved through another room, full of big copper and stainless steel vats with long, old-fashioned curling pipes and funnels protruding from them. Lisette explained that this was the method of distillation, or steaming out the fragrance. Then, in the next room, we paused in front of stacks of mysterious wooden trays that seemed to go up to the ceiling.

Lisette said with a flourish, “But now, you see the method that was developed here in Grasse. It is called
enfleurage
. Here, fresh flower petals are put into odorless animal fats, which absorb the fragrance from the flowers.”

She pulled out a tray made of glass and wood, containing a smooth, thick layer of fat, topped with orderly rows of whole flowers looking like delicate butterflies who’d gotten their spread wings trapped in the waxy substance. “Fats that have fully absorbed the fragrance are known as
pommade
, which is then soaked in alcohol to extract the scent from the fat.”

As we left the room Oncle Philippe said with a smile, “But, afterwards, the remaining fats still have some fragrance left in them, so what do we do with that?”

“Soap?” I guessed delightedly. He nodded, and we entered another room, where a very big, elaborate machine cranked out wide tubes of soap, as if it were a giant toothpaste tube. A conveyor belt circled it, loaded with egg-shaped soaps in Easter colors, packed in neat little rows in cartons.

“
Enfleurage
is time-consuming,” Lisette concluded. “It takes months. That’s why so many of today’s perfumers use chemical solvents instead, which requires only a few days.”

“We work with all methods,” Oncle Philippe explained, “but for our most special lines of fragrance we still use the old ways, because it results in a more natural perfume.”

I kept sniffing rapturously at everything he offered me, and I felt totally seduced by the heady atmosphere of secret formulas and glamorous scent. The mysterious, complicated process of coaxing fresh flowers to relinquish their perfume was fascinating, as if I’d come upon ancient alchemists cooking up magical love potions. I could see how easily this world might become a lost art if it were not passed down through the generations, by sophisticated elders like Oncle Philippe, who would share their secrets only with people they trusted. It occurred to me now that, despite his casual comment about taking me here because I’d seemed interested in our dinner conversation last night, clearly this tour meant a great deal to him.

We had now entered what looked like an artist’s studio, with multiple easels. On closer inspection I saw that these “easels” were really wood boards with squares of varnished color photographs of various perfume sources: vanilla pods, gardenia flowers, mint leaves, honeysuckle blossoms, even apple and cocoa. Each square had a circular hole drilled through it. On a nearby table were jars of waxen fragrance, about fifteen in all, with no names on them, only numbers.

“Now it’s time for you to test your nose,” Oncle Philippe said, enjoying this as if it were a children’s game. “See if you can match each jar of fragrance to its source, by smelling them and then placing them in the correct slots.”

Lisette unscrewed all the jars, then took out a stopwatch to time me. “Go!” she cried.

I was confident I’d “ace” the test. I picked up each jar and sniffed its waxy scented contents, identifying the scent, and then quickly putting the jar into the slot with a picture of its source. It was a delightful, sensual experience, but I soon found myself hesitating. Apple or pear? Orange or lemon or lime? Rose or jasmine or gardenia? Chocolate or coffee? It wasn’t as obvious as you’d think. As the seconds ticked by, I became less certain.

“Time!” called Lisette. I still had two to go. Quickly I placed them into slots. Lisette inspected my work at the easel; then she pulled out four jars that I’d got wrong—including the last two—and she relocated them to where they belonged.

“Did I flunk the test?” I cried, and they both laughed.

“No, no, you did rather well,” Oncle Philippe assured me. “Very few visitors recognize more. But some people are born with the natural ability to differentiate hundreds of fragrances!”

“How is that possible?” I asked. Oncle Philippe wagged his finger.

“It’s a gift,” he said. “But even they must pass a test to qualify for admission to perfume school, where they learn to identify
thousands
of the flowers, herbs, spices and other sources of scent.”

“Wow,” I said, trying to imagine that level of subtlety.

“But the
crème de la crème
of scent-finders,” Oncle Philippe proclaimed, “is the
nez.
”

“
Nez
?” I repeated.

“Ah . . . the Nose,” he explained. “Those who are born to sniff, like a wine specialist.”

“There are only about fifty of these ‘Noses’ in the whole world,” Lisette told me. “They are in great demand.”

We passed through the bottling room, where rows of little stoppered bottles, with their medicinal-looking rubber droppers, trundled by in trays on assembly-line conveyor belts; and then we reached the final destination, a guest shop, filled with crowded tables laden with boxes of every imaginable perfume gift, including fountain pens with scented ink, and plump little pillows of dried sachet tied with bright ribbon.

We stopped walking, and Oncle Philippe nodded to Lisette, who vanished mysteriously, but soon reappeared with two pretty antique bottles of dark glass: a rose-colored one for me, and a blue one for Jeremy. I discovered that, each step of the way, Lisette had been carefully noting every scent that I had particularly liked, which explained those moments when she and Oncle Philippe had conferred in French, guessing at what would make a winning combination for a custom-made perfume
pour la dame
(that would be me) and an aftershave
pour l’homme
, for Jeremy.

“We will keep your secret formulas on file, and you call us any time you need more,” Oncle Philippe declared. He and Lisette looked at me with eager, expectant expressions, as if they dearly hoped I’d approve. How could they even doubt it? I found their generosity of spirit deeply touching.

“Oh, Oncle Philippe!” I said, feeling tears spring into my eyes. “How wonderful!”

“
Zut!
No time for tears, not until the wedding, and even so, a bride should never cry. The other ladies at the wedding will do the crying for you,” Oncle Philippe declared. The bottles were placed in fine inlaid gift boxes, wrapped in colored tissue and ribbon, and handed to the driver to put into the car for us. Lisette smiled at me indulgently as we waved goodbye.

 

 

On the way home, Oncle Philippe asked, “Would you like to see the flower fields that produce our perfumes?”

“Absolutely!” I cried.

The sun had now climbed high overhead, and the sky was a stunning bright blue. A soft breeze stirred the green fields, rustling through the herbs and grasses, and making the trees and flowers toss their heads. The car turned onto a dusty unpaved dirt track with the occasional jolting hole or rock that made us bounce along. As the car slowed, Oncle Philippe rolled down the windows, gesturing out at flower-covered land as far as the eye could see. The first scent was of the warm baked earth, from the turned fields.

“These,” he said proudly, “are the very flower fields you saw on the bedspread in the tapestry.”

We drove around the corner, into a wide, short driveway protected by a wrought-iron gate that arched overhead. The driver punched in a code, the gates opened, and we entered and parked. Then we set out on foot.

The fields were neatly comprised of long rows of plantings that stretched out ahead, basking in the warmth of the day. We walked down well-worn paths between the tall rows of flowering climbers and shrubs, where bees buzzed contentedly, and butterflies flitted around us. I followed Oncle Philippe, who trotted along with a surprisingly strong, steady gait, like a man who deliberately walks every day to actually get somewhere, not just for exercise. He pointed out the various herbs and flowers en route.

“Come, let me introduce you to my ladies,” he said. Fascinated, I followed him through multiple rows of tall climbing roses. He paused at a section of bright yellow ones with cabbage-style blooms, that had a sweet, powdery scent. He touched the green leaves almost as if he were shaking hands with the plant, like an old and dear friend.

“Here you see the Marie Rose,” he said, “named for my grandmother, who was born the year that this variety was first created.” He moved on to the next row: white roses with a spicy odor, which he called, “Petite Julie”, planted for his mother. Next were roses in such a dark shade of purple that they were almost black, and they had a musky violet scent. “These are the Venetia Rose,” he told me with a smile, “named for my Tante Venetia.” As we approached a row of cherry- red roses with a strawberry fragrance, he said, “The Rose Leonora, planted the year we were married.” We came upon a row of little pink honey-scented ones, whose petals were unusual, not wrapped tightly around one another like most roses, but distinctly apart, almost like daisies. “
En fin
. . . as you may guess . . .”

“Rose Honorine!” I cried. He nodded. I gazed in astonishment at the continuing, seemingly endless rows of other heirloom roses beyond us, their heads bobbing and nodding in the breeze, as if they were living, breathing ladies who enjoyed gossiping with one another, down through the centuries. Following my gaze, he said, “You see how far back my family goes!”

We had reached the end of the fields, and just ahead of us was an octagonal-shaped gazebo, whose interior was entirely rimmed in wooden benches. As we sat down gratefully in its welcoming shade, Oncle Philippe said, “Once, the home of my ancestors stood on this spot.”

He explained that one of the glove-makers in his family built a house here for his son in the 1600s, but it was eventually torn down in the 1700s, when the family moved into the elegant château in Mougins, where Philippe and his family now lived. This gazebo was then erected here to mark the spot.

Earlier, when we’d left the car, I vaguely noticed that the driver had gone around to the trunk and opened it. Now I saw that he was following us, and he arrived slightly breathless from carrying a big wicker hamper that contained a picnic lunch. He quickly unpacked it, and began setting up china plates and linen napkins, and he opened a bottle of very light, delicate sparkling white wine. Then he took his own sandwich and returned to the car, to give us privacy.

Oncle Philippe and I ate in companionable silence, feasting on pâté, cheese and a long narrow loaf of bread. The gazebo was pleasantly cool in the midday heat, and as the breeze shifted, gently rustling through the fields, I inhaled not only the mingled scent of flowers, earth, grass, trees, but even, perhaps, a whiff of the far-off sea. Oncle Philippe, his eyes slightly closed, raised his head to it.

“You must be so proud of all this,” I said, gesturing toward the flower fields, after we had rested a bit, and I spotted the driver making his way toward us, to collect the picnic basket.

A shadow seemed to cross Oncle Philippe’s expression as he gazed at his roses, saying, “They are costly to keep, as all fine ladies are. The world wants everything fast and cheap,” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disapproval. “If they are not careful, there will be nothing left but artificial scent that comes from nothing of this earth.” He wrinkled up his nose as if he’d smelled something bad. “Junk!”

I’d seen this very expression of scorn on Honorine’s face when she spoke of things that annoyed her. I tried not to smile at the resemblance. I wondered how she was doing; I imagined that she’d been shanghaied into having lunch with Charles’ mother.

When we returned to the château, Oncle Philippe allowed me to kiss his cheek before he toddled off to have a nap in his own room. “I go to take the afternoon sleep of babies and old men,” he said self-mockingly. This was the first indication that our outing had tired him. “Leonora has planned a little early dinner for you with the ladies in the conservatory.” He waved his arm to give me directions to where I’d find it. “You will hear the dinner bell. And so,
au revoir
.”

I
began to get an inkling of the family conflict when I attended the ladies’ supper. The conservatory was a large room at the far end of the house, with glass walls and skylights, filled with big potted citrus trees and hothouse flowers. It was just Leonora, David’s wife Auguste, and me, seated at a round table laid with a blue and yellow cloth. Still no sign of Honorine, and no place set for her, either. I asked as casually as I could about her.

“She dines out with Charles tonight,” Leonora said calmly, without a hint of duress. Yet something in her tone warned me off further questions about her daughter. I didn’t want to cause Honorine any trouble; history was full of such families who might just bundle their daughter off to a nunnery if she got too rebellious.

So I talked about my day at the perfume factory, but was surprised when Leonora said, a trifle impatiently, “Yes, yes, in the old days, when Honorine and David were children, Philippe loved taking them there, but how he spoiled them! Why, even now, he’d just as soon have Honorine remain a little girl forever, hanging about the perfumery, chatting with the workers for gifts of soap!”