Top Notes 
Violet leaf
Green notes
Heart Notes 
Violet
Jasmine
Rose
Base Notes 
White musk
Glycyrrhiza glabra
Bellatrix
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Bellatrix
Top Review
14
Party like it's 1866...
Her fan hums through the air, unrestrained. She despises state receptions! All the gazes that cling to her, greedy and possessive, like something dirty that she would have to wash off later. That she must be stared at as if she were a wild animal in a menagerie! And now her husband is giving a speech, dreadful. Bored, she lets her gaze wander and her lace fan hum. Each movement of the fan sends a tiny waft of violet scent into the air, which she has dripped onto her lace handkerchief and hidden in her corset. Velvety, dark violet violet flowers and equally velvety, dark green violet leaves combined in a clean, well-groomed, noble yet somewhat aloof fragrance. The sweet smell of the powder with which she protects the porcelain pallor of her skin mingles with the natural, slightly fruity scent of the violet essence and the gentle, pure scent of her freshly washed underskirts, which her lady-in-waiting had brought from the castle laundry to her chambers this morning. The fresh laundry from the castle laundry always smells a bit like roses and jasmine, but above all fresh and clean like white musk.
The French Emperor has been staring at her all evening. Lustfully, it seems to her, as if he would love to pluck the lace handkerchief soaked in perfume from her décolletage and fight his way through to her underskirts in search of the fresh laundry scent. Of course, he only does this in his thoughts, but she can hardly suppress a giggle at the thought of the diplomatic crisis that would ensue. A light laugh escapes her lips, which she barely manages to disguise as a cough and hide behind her fan. Her husband looks at her and barely raises an eyebrow, causing his imperial mustache to tremble slightly, then he continues speaking undeterred, about the friendship of his crown peoples with the French nation... what a farce! She would like to frown, but she fears the wrinkles. So she just continues to fan herself.
In her perfume, the licorice is now more pronounced, bittersweet and, together with the rich green tones of the violet leaf, somewhat wistful, almost abyssal. She has the impression that this suits her. She, too, is only gentle and lovely at first glance. They all know nothing of the depths, the shallows that lie dormant within her, least of all he, her high-born husband. Unfortunately, the violet scent that calms her tense nerves is all too fleeting, after all, it is the newest, most precious perfume from Paris. No trust in the French, indeed... But isn’t everything fleeting, vain, ephemeral, as fleeting as the toupee of the French diplomat sitting a few seats away from her at the table, who is just trying to discreetly adjust his poorly fitting hairpiece? She closes her fan and tries to concentrate on the Emperor's speech. She really tries, but the boredom is overwhelming... and the perfume has already faded again. One cannot have everything in life, she thinks, not even with a crown on her head.
The French Emperor has been staring at her all evening. Lustfully, it seems to her, as if he would love to pluck the lace handkerchief soaked in perfume from her décolletage and fight his way through to her underskirts in search of the fresh laundry scent. Of course, he only does this in his thoughts, but she can hardly suppress a giggle at the thought of the diplomatic crisis that would ensue. A light laugh escapes her lips, which she barely manages to disguise as a cough and hide behind her fan. Her husband looks at her and barely raises an eyebrow, causing his imperial mustache to tremble slightly, then he continues speaking undeterred, about the friendship of his crown peoples with the French nation... what a farce! She would like to frown, but she fears the wrinkles. So she just continues to fan herself.
In her perfume, the licorice is now more pronounced, bittersweet and, together with the rich green tones of the violet leaf, somewhat wistful, almost abyssal. She has the impression that this suits her. She, too, is only gentle and lovely at first glance. They all know nothing of the depths, the shallows that lie dormant within her, least of all he, her high-born husband. Unfortunately, the violet scent that calms her tense nerves is all too fleeting, after all, it is the newest, most precious perfume from Paris. No trust in the French, indeed... But isn’t everything fleeting, vain, ephemeral, as fleeting as the toupee of the French diplomat sitting a few seats away from her at the table, who is just trying to discreetly adjust his poorly fitting hairpiece? She closes her fan and tries to concentrate on the Emperor's speech. She really tries, but the boredom is overwhelming... and the perfume has already faded again. One cannot have everything in life, she thinks, not even with a crown on her head.
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Ergoproxy
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