Mademoiselle Chanel by C. W. Gortner

Author:C. W. Gortner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2015-02-01T16:00:00+00:00

A FEW WEEKS AFTER ANDRÉ LEFT and before I embarked on my trip to Grasse in the summer of 1922, I left my atelier early and made my way to the Hôtel Continental on the rue Castiglione, a short walk from rue Cambon. From the lobby, I had word sent upstairs. A half hour later, Diaghilev arrived, rumpled and emanating the sour tang of cigarettes and drink. He blinked in confusion before his vodka-soaked brain recognized me, and he stammered, “Mademoiselle Chanel, no one told me it was you.” He was obviously flustered, the dandified overlord of the Ballets Russes exposed as a paunchy, intemperate man.

I handed him a sealed envelope. He was bewildered until I explained, “I’ve thought a lot about what you said in Venice about Stravinsky and launching a new performance of his Rite. I am in complete agreement as to his genius; I was at the first performance of the Rite in 1913. You will find there sufficient funds to bring him to Paris and begin production. Tell him the couturière Coco Chanel offers him and his family my home of Bel Respiro until he can find an appropriate residence elsewhere. But I would request one condition.”

He gaped at me, the envelope in hand.

“No one is to know,” I said. “I hope you will oblige.”

I smiled as I walked away, fully aware that the first thing he’d do after ripping open the envelope to find my check for 300,000 francs would be to race to the nearest telephone to tell Misia. Much as I loved her, it was time she learned that I was not beholden to her anymore.

Stravinsky arrived the following week, leaving his two daughters behind in Switzerland with his wife so they could finish out the term in the convent school where he had enrolled them. He was gaunt, pared to mere flesh and bone, his thick lips quivering as he thanked me repeatedly and offered to put Katya to work in the house to repay my generosity.

“Nonsense,” I said. “I have plenty of help. When she arrives, she must rest.” I led him up to the room where he would stay, after having shown him the Steinway piano I had installed in the living room for his use. As we passed Dmitri in the hall, Stravinsky edged around the glaring Romanov and almost wept when he beheld the spacious suite I had prepared for him.

“Is he your new lover?” Dmitri spat out with more passion than he had displayed in months. “That bespectacled wreck who stinks of gratitude and penury?”

I eyed him, refusing to dignify his question with an answer. He was looking rather a wreck himself, his vodka consumption having reached alarming heights. “I’m going to lock up the liquor if you don’t take a bath this instant and put on a fresh shirt,” I finally said. “We leave for Biarritz tomorrow and I’ll not have you looking like a stray dog. Be at the Ritz by nine. I’m going to stay there for the time being.

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