The Allure of Chanel

FORAIN

FORAIN AND I GOT ON WELL. I was young and defenceless. There was a suspension of hostilities. He took charge of my education. He took me to the cabaret. With his crooked mouth, his beady eye, his acute sensitivity, open-hearted as always, using his vocal cords as he would the string of a bow, and pierced himself by as many arrows as he fired, Forain made me understand that Paris of a quarter-of-a-century ago, which, in its resonances and small proportions, still resembled the Paris of the Second Empire.

“Do you like Mother Edwards? Don’t trust those sorts of people. They’re bastards! It doesn’t suit you … My girl, the human species is not very nice … I’m told you go around with queers … I’m telling you one last time: fairies, they’re all bastards!”

He would go on like that all day long. It was July. He couldn’t stop walking the streets. I was delayed because of my dress collection. Paris in July is delightful. Everything is lovely and empty, the Parisians who are there for the day have left. One has the city to oneself.

“Let’s go and have dinner. I won’t leave you again … What is it now? Is that you, Jean-Loup?” (Forain’s son emerged.) “What do you want?”

“Papa, give me some dosh.”

“No.”

Forain put on his overcoat and wound his Bruant-style scarf around his neck.

“Papa, give me some dosh …”

“Sh—!”

Forain polished his spectacles and put them to soak in turpentine.

“Papa, give me some dosh …”

The father’s face suddenly lit up:

“Isn’t he nice?”

“Yes,” I said to please him, “your son is charming.”

Forain’s love for Jean-Loup sparkled, like a fire you blow on.

“Really? You find him charming?”

We went to dinner. I talked to him about Marie Laurencin, in whose work the Groults then held exclusive rights.

“Her painting, it’s like some dreary needlework … She stitches soles together …”

He relaxed, his mouth grew less bitter, and he asked me to sing him a song. He especially liked this one:

Il monta sur la montagne

Pour entendre le canon

Le canon tonna si fort

Qu’il fit dans son pantalon …8

It was at Gaufres. He grabbed Georges Hugo at the bar, by the tail of his English sportscoat, made of thick, checked material, like a horse blanket!

“Listen to this, Georges:

Le canon tonna si fort …

He taught me about life:

“Never trust stupid people; choose people who are dishonest instead.”

Or again:

“Be careful of drug addicts. Drugs don’t make people nasty, but they bring out the nastiness.”

We parted:

“I want to paint your portrait. Come to the studio.”

I went to Forain’s home. I was about to climb up to the second floor. But, at the first floor, I was grabbed by Madame Forain.

“I really must paint your portrait …” she said to me.

She wouldn’t let me go. Forain was waiting for me impatiently, on the landing.

“You were stopped on the way by Madame Forain, eh, admit it. Did she want to prevent you from sitting for me? She’ll pay for that, the bitch!”

Forain was blowing his nose on a red handkerchief.

“I’m going to tell you the latest thing she did, I’m going to tell you what she found … She went through my pockets … she got hold of my love letters … She didn’t breathe a word to me about them, but she simply glued them to her fan! At a certain point, during a grand dinner party, she opened her fan, in front of everybody …”

8 He climbed up the mountain/ To listen to the gun/ The gun roared so loudly/ That he soiled his trousers. [Tr]