The Lantern by Deborah Lawrenson

Author:Deborah Lawrenson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 2011-07-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The perfume was called Lavande de Nuit. Years after I helped make the potions in order to be able to describe every detail of the factory to Marthe, it was her blend of flowers and herbs that changed the fortunes of everyone concerned.

While the war dragged on, the frustrations of the Vichy years, when our so-called leaders and army never did turn against the oppressors as expected, the rise of the Resistance and through to the painful liberation of the country by the Allies, the Mussets and their employees kept their heads down. It was a solid provincial business, of use to all sides, and it continued to manufacture basic lines in antiseptic lavender water and soap. While others became heroes and traitors, Marthe, blind and considered no use to anyone, was quietly experimenting with scent combinations, not using expensive ingredients like ambergris or violet-leaf absolute, but those close to hand, from plants that grew freely all around, the familiar scents of her home.

When the war was over, she had a catalogue of creations made from practically nothing. For the next five years, the Musset factory put them into production and saw profits grow beyond all estimations.

It’s no exaggeration to say that it was these years that transformed the lavender fields and steam factory distillery between Manosque and Valensole into the far more prestigious Parfumeur-Distillateur Musset, and Marthe Lincel into a creator of perfumes.

No longer were their products sold from market stalls, but in shops in Aix and Avignon and Marseille; then—the crowning glory—from the Musset parfumerie in the Place Vendôme in Paris, which opened in 1950 to herald the new decade.

Occasionally, Marthe would send me magazine and newspaper clippings. The photographs showed a slim, elegant woman with a beguiling expression. Often she would be posed in front of a counter full of scent bottles and their fashionable striped boxes, or sitting, wearing the latest look, in a chic sitting room. The photographer would never get too close; it was barely possible to discern in those pictures that the pretty, laughing eyes were empty.

Even more occasionally, the same envelopes would contain a leaf or pod or sliver of wood that allowed me to smell what she was working with, for old times’ sake.

Over the years, I asked her for money now and then, toward the upkeep of the farm, and she was always generous. At first, she would send what she could from Paris, then more, as she became more successful. She had a good head for business, and without her ideas and help, the place would have gone under long before it did.

Of course, I never did leave or fulfill my ambition to train as a teacher. It was not to be. But I did complete my education, on my own, for my love of books never diminished. I loved Balzac and Zola, who could move me to tears, so I knew the harsh truth about society and thwarted dreams, and the resilience of the human spirit. I

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