The expectation is violent. Mirabeau, what a beautiful word, uniquely Parisian, suspended over the Seine. It composes a memory, connects another shore, and returns following its trail of sandalwood, rose berry, and cedar. In the heart of the City of Light, toward the twilight of the day, there is a bridge, a poem, and a perfume. A discreet and symbolic bridge, the spirit of the master builder who transcends borders, improving as they unite. These solid foundations of cedar, sandalwood, and orcanox embrace love and musk. A poem as slow as it is violent, expressing the brutal and desirable hope of one who desires to believe, of one who desires to love. Vanilla, I write your name on the water, with faint traces of incense and green violet. A perfume to save us, silently fishing us out of the water, rising above the Seine, our spirits floating in the waters of our essences, bergamot and pink pepper mixed with fig in a glass bottle, intensely uniting bodies and souls in a single rhythm, returning to her in her wake. ⸻ There are bridges where we danced; as children, we sang to them; some, where we fought, have been etched in history; others offer their architectural perfection to the admiration of generations. All are famous. But there's one that didn't need dances, battles, or works of genius to imprint itself in our memory: the Mirabeau Bridge. Twenty verses were enough to achieve this. It must be said that they were written by a poet, and that his poem spoke of love, an unhappy love. When Apollinaire composed it, the Marie he loved had left him. But we can only guess at their story, which he doesn't tell, and isn't it the story of so many lovers? Love has fled, like water and like the days. The perfume, named after the Mirabeau Bridge, was meant to convey its power, resisting the flow of the Seine and time, an impassive witness as it underscores the final resumption of the first verse. But the fragrance's delicacy, blended with this base, conveys the melancholy of lost love, while imposing a sharp note fit to bear witness to "violent hope." This fusion of strength and sweetness embodies in him the symbolic bridge of the joined hands of Guillaume Apollinaire and Marie. But, as with the poet himself, it is to the eternal story of lovers that we are referred. Not to those of legends immortalized by death and whose passion transcends time, but to those all-too-human loves that believe themselves eternal and are one day lost, as inexorably as the flow of a river. Guillaume and Marie certainly loved each other, but "the poet is a winged creature," Plato said: he flies far and wide, drawn by the intoxicating scent of many flowers. But the young woman, who imagines herself fragile and defenseless, is in fact a passionate being whose intense feelings refuse to be shared and exclude forgiveness. It is she who will break up. Neither the poet's pleas nor his oaths will change anything. Thus he becomes forever the man whom the women he passionately loved rejected. It is from the despair they provoked that the Chanson du Mal-Aimé and the Pont Mirabeau were born. To them, he will be able to say one day, in a peaceful farewell: I picked this little sprig of heather Autumn is dead, remember that We will not see each other again on earth Perfume of time, sprig of heather And remember that I'm waiting for you Paris, January 2022 Suzanne Julliard-Agie & Etienne de Swardt