• Chanel: 31 Rue Cambon 75001; 10.00-19.00
• Place Vendôme 75001
• Hôtel Ritz: 15 Place Vendôme 75001
• Palais Garnier: Place de l’Opéra 75009; guided tours in English every day 11.00 & 14.30
• L’Église de la Madeleine: Place de la Madeleine 75001; 09.30-19.00
• Salon Proust: Hôtel Ritz, 15 Place Vendôme 75001; 14.30-18.00; book at ritzparis.com
Some places in Paris perfectly embody the city’s spirit of the good life, make you understand the importance of rewarding yourself with pleasure, and demonstrate how Paris motivates its inhabitants — such as the two women we’ll meet today — to create a life of beauty. Angelina is one such spot, somewhere that triggers an a-ha! moment, a sudden recalibration of priorities.
One priority should most definitely be Angelina’s famous chocolat chaud à l’ancienne. Come here mid-morning, and inhale a pot of velvety-thick creamy cocoa, along with the mouth-watering pastries and the intoxicatingly glamorous air. The vintage salon de thé seems to have bottled up the feminine glow of the Belle Époque — those glittering years of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Paris. Tearooms, at the time, were the one place where Parisiennes could respectably eat sans male chaperone, and the original décor is still warm and womanly: creamy boiserie walls and gilded mouldings, and air suffused with the kind of soft honeyed light so flattering to a complexion. No wonder Coco Chanel was a regular habituée in her twilight years.
The fashion icon would sit on a high-backed leather chair at the marble-topped table numbered 10, by the large mirror, sipping the luxurious hot chocolate. The frescoes on the opposite wall, scenes of southern France, must have also had a warming effect, reminding her of her Provençal holiday home, and other beachside jaunts, which inspired so many trends. The striped Breton fisherman’s top. The robust holiday tan, which immediately made every other Parisienne’s skin, as creamy as that dollop on your hot chocolate, seem hopelessly passé.
There are numerous books on Coco Chanel — and many are as much fact as fiction, as Mademoiselle was as adept at refashioning and embroidering her past as a little black dress. But one book that will help you delve into her psyche is La Dame aux Camélias (The Lady of the Camellias) by Alexandre Dumas fils, the tragic tale of a tender-hearted courtesan. It ‘was my life,’ Chanel once told a friend. The real-life lady of camellias, as we’ll later see, had an upbringing as pitiful and penniless as Chanel, who, at the age of eleven, was carted off — literally — to an orphanage by her father, upon the death of her mother. Buy a copy of the classic French novel next door at Librairie Galignani, Paris’s oldest English language bookstore, where you might want to linger for a while, so well-edited is the range of books on offer.
When you’re ready, return to Rue de Rivoli (pop back into Angelina for a takeaway hot chocolate; it comes in a blush-pink paper cup, naturellement) and walk east along the mosaic-paved arcaded footpath, until you see a golden statue of a girl upon a horse. It is, of course, Joan of Arc (by sculptor Emmanuel Frémiet), an icon for feisty French girls. Joan was canonised in 1920, a time when she was newly hailed as a modern style icon, with flappers lopping off their long hair in emulation of the original icon of girl power. The French called flappers garçonnes: the feminine version of the word for boy, inspired by La Garçonne, a 1922 novel that caused quite the scandal with its tale of a woman who leaves her unfaithful fiancé for a life of free love. Chanel, as ever, was ahead of the bobbed-hair trend; she had cut off her plaits in 1917. She was rather good at the free love thing, too.
Head across the road to the Jardin des Tuileries, and find a green chair by a flowerbed — it’s the perfect place to read about the Lady of the Camellias. Like the lead character Marguerite, Chanel also lived the life of a courtesan for a time, climbing the ladder of social success through sheer grit as much as seductive gorgeousness. And similarly, Chanel’s existence was as marked by beauty as by tragedy. She lived well into old age, in contrast to Marguerite, but the very fabric of her life was shot with threads of disappointment and grief. It’s telling that Chanel made black, traditionally the colour of mourning, into such a stylish staple. Fashion, in the form of immaculately tailored pieces, kept her stitched together, tucked away the frayed emotional edges. She had no time for the feathery, frilly fussiness of the Belle Époque’s fashions. Its bright colours, too, made her feel ill. In her drive to control her own character and plotline, she changed the course of fashion history. As the curtains of the Belle Époque drew to a close, Chanel set the stage for modern life, and designed its costumes, too.
It’s impossible to fully appreciate Chanel’s fashion impact these days, when anything goes (look around you; the Parisians and tourists alike who flock to the Tuileries prove that fashion is now a culturally diverse street style). But there’s no denying that Chanel was a game-changer. Fashion had seen nobody like her; it likely never will again.
Spend some time reading, and smelling the Tuileries flowers, figuratively but also literally. It’s in the city’s floral-scented parks that you well understand how Paris has become the world’s fragrance capital, offering endless aromatic inspiration for the perfumers who live and work here. Perfumers, of course, no longer rely solely on floral notes; they give their olfactory mixes all sorts of unexpected twists, such as sea breeze or fairy-floss or tobacco. But it hasn’t always been this way. Back when Chanel had long hair, women smelled like heady bouquets, the fragrance equivalent of a ruffled gown in rose or violet satin. The designer was determined to do to perfume what she was doing to fashion: modernise it. She wanted ‘a fragrance for women that smells like a woman.’ For her 1921 Chanel No.5, the now classic of all classic scents, she had her perfumer Ernest Beaux mix feminine flowers (May rose, ylang ylang, neroli) but in a clean, abstract way. Beaux achieved this through science as much as art; by sprinkling in a generous dose of aldehydes — organic compounds based on a particular arrangement of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen atoms — he gave the concoction its much-loved soapy zest.
It was a chemistry that turned floral water into sales gold, as a generation of short-haired, little-black-dressed women doused themselves in this fresh new fragrance. Just like Chanel before them, they were cleansing themselves of the frills and flowers of the past. Except for the camellia, which appeared on many of Chanel’s designs, in the form of corsages and buttons. Chanel chose this as her signature bloom, for it was the symbol of her literary heroine, Dumas’s Marguerite Gautier, who carried a bouquet of white camellias with her every day — except for the five days of every month when she switched to red; the witty Chanel would have appreciated that humour. Chanel would have also appreciated that the camellia had no scent, so it could not compete with a woman’s fragrance.
If you’ve always wanted to buy yourself a little something Chanel, be it a perfume or a camellia brooch, today is the perfect day to fulfil that dream. Head back to Rue de Rivoli and north up Rue de Castiglione, to the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré. A short walk west you’ll reach Rue Cambon; turn right. No.21 is where Chanel opened her first boutique, in 1910, selling hats. But not the frothy kind so in mode during the Belle Époque, hers were simple affairs, such as straw boaters trimmed neatly with black ribbon. The most on-trend Parisiennes soon came knocking, eager to dress like the socialite they were hearing so much about. For Chanel had made herself over from Gabrielle, a milliner’s assistant in small-town Moulins, to a Parisian siren named Coco. She’d earned the name at the age of eighteen, moonlighting as a singer at the local dancehall. Her signature song, ‘Qui Qu’a vu Coco?’ — about a lost dog — became a favourite of the military types in the audience, including her future first protector. As much as Chanel disliked the nickname, it stuck; perhaps because it played so perfectly into her reputation as a cocotte.
Chanel’s foray into fashion — jersey pieces to be worn sans corset — was an instant success. Business boomed after the war, when a sombre new reality called for sartorial restraint. She was eventually financ
ially independent of her backer (her second, super-wealthy patron) and able to move up to Chanel at no.31, a now-iconic fashion address. There’s an air of reverence in this beige boutique, which serves as a shrine of sorts to Chanel fans the world over. It’s at the very least a quasi-museum, showcasing every element of Chanel style — from the tailored jackets that hang perfectly thanks to a chain hidden in the hem, to the two-tone shoes (beige to lengthen the leg; black to foreshorten the foot) to the classic gold-chained, quilted-leather shoulder bag. The serious spenders are served champagne from a mirrored tray — all the better to help them shop. It’s fascinating to watch: the woman agonising over which colour handbag to choose (and then buying all three); the silver fox who has brought in his latest amour, and is looking somewhat pale at the growing piles of shoes and jewels around her; the gaggle of Chinese twentysomethings who speak the language of Chanel, an alphabet of interlinked Cs.
Chanel used to work on the floors above. She also kept a fabled apartment, where she’d entertain her famous friends among all the glitter and gold — the more-is-more interior decoration style (lacquered Coromandel screens; crystal-studded mirrors; bibelots everywhere) perhaps making up for her fashion minimalism. And when her work-hard-play-hard days were over, she’d retreat into her bedroom: a suite in the Ritz across the road. The back door is usually closed these days, so make your way to the hotel by retracing your steps back to Rue de Castiglione, then turn left into Place Vendôme.
Place Vendôme is a luxurious expanse of urban space, and Chanel must have loved the grandeur of its austere beauty (even if the column in the centre — made from the melted Austrian and Russian cannons captured in Napoléon’s battle at Austerlitz — seems a little incongruous). It was an enclave of great wealth from the start, and the piazza seems to smell of cold-hard money — and multi-carat diamonds. All sorts of financiers set up shop here over the centuries, and in turn came the jewellers; two of the big names, Boucheron and Van Cleef & Arpels, have been here over 100 years. That Place Vendôme has become a centre for jewels seems fitting, for the square is faceted into a gem-like shape; the original architects sliced the corners off, so that the light would bounce off one wall onto another. When the sun’s out, the shimmering effect of this octagonal space is mesmerising (aptly so, because it was on this very square that a certain Franz Mesmer invented hypnotism, back in the 1770s, inspiring a new synonym for enthralling). At no.18, you’ll find more sparkle: the Chanel haute joaillerie boutique, which opened in 1997. It’s as exquisite (and expensive) as you could imagine, but Coco Chanel’s original jewellery ranges were more about fakery than finery. She was the first designer to champion costume jewels, a modern kind of artifice for a world in which a new elite was emerging, one of artists not aristocrats.
Roam around Place Vendôme, anti-clockwise, until you reach the Hôtel Ritz. The hotel, which opened in 1898, championed modern luxury (bathrooms for each room; electricity throughout), and was the kind of place that happily welcomed the changing social order of the early twentieth century, with its mix of party girls and princesses, pearls both faux and genuine. Chanel partied here, when first in town, as a fresh-faced demi-mondaine, newly arrived from the country. Her fashion career had yet to materialise, but she already stood out, her sleek silhouette topped with a simple boater hat.
Walk up the hotel’s ruby-carpeted steps, through the revolving door and into a world that, like Angelina, seems to retain an olde-worlde afterglow. The Ritz was revolutionary in its interior design, with an eclectic mash-up of vintage eras, and each room decorated uniquely. The effect was to make you feel at home — or, at the home of a rather distinguished friend. You might not be able to splurge on a night here, but anyone can swan through the lustrous foyer, past the white-marble staircase, to follow the candelabra-lit trail into this other world. Veer to the right, and wander around the linden-shaded alcoves of the summer garden, and then along the vitrine-lined shopping corridor (César Ritz’s genius solution to connecting two buildings) where, in the gift boutique, a Ritz bathrobe in that iconic peachy shade or the hotel’s very own version of Monopoly might tickle your fancy. At the Rue Cambon end, you’ll find the Ritz Bar and Bar Hemingway. Like the rest of the hotel, these have been remodelled since the 1920s, but try to imagine you’re back there, the rooms a haze of smoke and No.5, and a blur of black satin as a group of garçonnes walk by. That tinkling you hear? Cole Porter on the ivories. That hysterical screeching? The Fitzgeralds, high on fame and highballs. The Americans had come to town, and specifically to the Ritz, to escape Prohibition, bringing their American-style bars along with them. Ernest Hemingway was a particularly prolific drinker here, which is why he has been immortalised by his namesake watering hole. The social cocktail was also more potent than ever: new world meets old, nouveau riche meets ancien régime. Only in the Ritz could the self-made rags-to-riches Coco Chanel have hooked up with an impoverished Russian duke, escaped to Paris after the fall of the Tsarist regime. Socialising at the Ritz is a little calmer these days, but no less luxurious. Make yourself a booking for a late afternoon tea in Salon Proust. It will be the ideal way to end today’s tour.
Back on Place Vendôme, head left into Rue de la Paix (another for the Monopoly nerds: this street is the most expensive in the Paris version of the game). Since the early nineteenth century, Rue de la Paix was where the city’s most fashionable women came to buy everything needed for the good life, from sugary pastries to embroidered lace fans, and glistening silverware in every guise (the family firm Aucoc even offered a lustrous take on a portable bidet). It was also where haute couture was born, after Charles Frederick Worth set up shop, in 1858, at no.7. Previously, wealthy women bought their own fabrics and trimmings, then had a dressmaker whip up their dream design. Worth similarly worked in a made-to-measure way, but he was the first couturier to dictate fashion; clients could choose from a set number of dresses each season, all brightly coloured, extravagantly trimmed variations on a corseted-and-bustled theme. They were the gowns that defined fashion of the Belle Époque, and the very kind that made Chanel feel ill. When she moved to Paris, in the early twentieth century, it was the twilight of the House of Worth’s heyday.
At the end of Rue de le Paix look up to the glory that is the Palais Garnier, the former opera house — and still the best place in town to see an opera or a ballet. If you can’t make an evening performance, try to get to the afternoon’s guided tour (in English at 14.30). The extraordinary interiors of this self-proclaimed palace must be seen to be believed. From ravishing paintings overhead to elaborate mosaics underfoot, and a delirium of marble and gold in between, the opulence is knee-weakening. And then there’s the staircase, a stunning sweep of marble and onyx that splits in two. It was just the thing for showing off Worth’s beguiling bustle-backed gowns. The Palais Garnier rolled out the red carpet in 1875, as the hedonistic Belle Époque was getting underway, and it became a palace for partying, and for seducing. The best action happened off stage. Still, the auditorium is hardly shabby: a flamboyance of gold leaf and ruby velvet, shimmering under the prismatic Marc Chagall-painted cupola and bronze-crystal chandelier.
One of the most popular operas to play at the Palais Garnier has long been Verdi’s La Traviata of 1853. Despite its Italian name, it’s a most Parisian love story, being inspired by La Dame aux Camélias — which was in turn inspired by a lady we are about to meet. Walk back to Place de l’Opéra and turn right onto Boulevard des Capucines. This was one of a succession of boulevards that were created back in the seventeenth century, when the city’s defensive walls came down, introducing Parisians to the joys of strolling along the streets. But it wasn’t until the 1840s that the boulevards came into their own, when gas-lighting turned night into day, and a cluster of cafés spilled out onto the footpaths, creating an exciting stage to compete with the action in the nearby theatres. It’s hard to imagine, with today’s car congestion, the allure of the boulevards in a time when carriages clattered by, led by the amber glow of ornate la
mpposts, but the social mood along here was electric, a buzz of politicians, princes and party girls. And at the epicentre of it all was a young twentysomething named Marie Duplessis.
At no.15 Boulevard de la Madeleine, you’ll see a building where two curvaceous caryatids, at mezzanine level, hold up a black lacy balcony. They’re a latter-day tribute to the apartment’s most renowned resident, as Duplessis moved in here after becoming the city’s most celebrated and sought-after courtesan. By this time, after only a few years in town, she had made herself over into a queen of culture, with a library of all the literary greats. She socialised with the smartest and wittiest guys in town — and could more than match them for conversation. After evenings at the theatre, and late dinners in the private salons of the boulevards’ cafés, they’d often all pile back here, drawing the brocade curtains and igniting the chandelier — turquoise trimmed with porcelain flowers and birds — to party on amid the sumptuousness: the Louis XV furniture, vases of flowers, and precious knickknacks. Her amour Franz Liszt was even known to provide some entertainment, taking to her treasured rosewood piano.
So in demand was Marie that at one point she had seven official lovers, each allotted a night of the week, and entry into her satiny pink boudoir. For a time, the author Alexandre Dumas fils was a member of those hallowed ranks. He loved her beyond their relationship, as his book proves. With it, he showed the rest of France why so many men had adored her. How her heart stayed pure even when her spirit strayed into dissolution, how she couldn’t help but crave an indulgent life after a childhood of deprivation. No wonder Chanel was fixated on Duplessis; she really could see herself in her. They’d suffered similarly woeful childhoods, and fathers, and had unrelenting drives for a better life, propelled by inner strength and searing intelligence. Both attracted a host of A-list lovers; there had been little choice but to begin their Parisian lives as courtesans. But Chanel was fortunate in coming of age at a time when socially disadvantaged females wanting more from life had career choices beyond that of a kept woman. And Chanel was externally tough — hardy and tanned — whereas Duplessis was physically fragile — consumptive and pale.
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