The curtain rises on a stateroom at the corner of 69 Rue des Archives in the Marais, Paris. A place that is like a frontier, where the old world ends and the new begins. In the distance, the pale moon can be glimpsed descending over the towers of Notre Dame. A man and a woman are in a perfumery, surrounded by bottles. He has surrendered to a fallen sovereign and is condemned to his final fate. She is the new soul, the new role, desirable and conquered. She is the denunciation, with a condescending touch. The flutter of her eyelashes declares that her hour of glory has arrived, with a scent strip in her hand. The date is November 16, 2019. «– EXIT THE KING, a perfume for dreaming about entropy? Etienne, you're delusional, you've finally lost your mind. Entropy has nothing to do with perfume. – Yes, Lola, you heard that right. EXIT THE KING, a perfume for dreaming of entropy. Don't you think entropy has its charm? – On the scaffold before the guillotine, you pronounce these three words as a farewell to the turbulent world. – There's nothing to understand, innocent girl. It's about making a perfume like a Loire castle, a perfume that can rise higher than the Château de Blois, higher than the terrace where the last Valois saw the sun set in all its splendor. And then disappear, die, as if by magic before the fall. With the whisper of a kiss at the moment of its glory, and then a humble return to something else. A perfume of magnificence, love, and kindness for the new world, and of forgetting the old, crushing power. Resolutely chypre. – Welcome to the new world, you mean? – Yes, Lola, as long as it’s modern and eternally chypre like this perfume. EXIT THE KING.