Les Tourterelles de Zelmis (2017) by Oriza L. Legrand

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Les Tourterelles de Zelmis Oriza L. Legrand 2017

Version from 2017

6.7 / 10 37 Ratings

A perfume by Oriza L. Legrand for women, released in 2017. The scent is floral-spicy. It is still in production.
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Main accords

Floral

Spicy

Sweet

Green

Resinous

Fragrance Pyramid

Top Notes

Saffron

Black pepper Ivy

Ivy

Heart Notes

Bourbon geranium

Red peony

May rose

Base Notes

Turkish rose absolute

Beeswax absolute

Ratings

Scent

6.737 Ratings

Longevity

7.427 Ratings

Sillage

7.231 Ratings

Bottle

7.234 Ratings

Submitted by OPomone · last update on 06/12/2025.

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Reviews

2 in-depth fragrance descriptions

06/12/2025

8Scent

grotesqueque
26 Reviews

grotesqueque

1

Realistic spicy rose

This is good! Opens with a waxy and spicy realistic rose smell, followed by a green accent which could be the ivy note listed, it also has a slight dewy nuance to it. I can picture an image of a rose bush surrounded by long ivy and vines covered in dew. It's quite vintage and nothing like the mainstream rose fragrances out there.

04/24/2022

8Scent 8Sillage

Stanze
105 Reviews

Translated · Show original

Stanze

Top Review 22

Who is this Mr. Zelmis?

Someone once said that titles should not contain questions. I bet that this very statement encourages me to use questions as titles. But honestly, who is this Mr. Zelmis? I then turned to Google, and it first suggested that Zelmis is a residential complex in Paris. Then it etymologized me to an obscure Gothic god. The Goths themselves are somewhat obscure ancestors of the Romanians. Zelmis means "to hide," and this Zalmoxis was a god of the dead to whom sacrifices were offered. This would fit with the fact that some perfume enthusiasts find this scent very dark. But think again... I googled the poem that is on the official website, and Google explained to me that it is the first stanza of a collection of poems by Jean Dorat (1508-1588). An obscure poet, indeed, and the poem is called Les Tourterelles de Zelmis ('The Doves of Zelmis).

"The winter ceases to sadden nature.
Birds sing on the green,
and think of new loves.
Sweet scents announce beautiful days.

From the high skies, Cupid, flapping his wings,
shakes sparks with his torch,
rounds off the arch of the groves
for the lovers, a thousand canopies rise."

And so on.

A love poem, then. And we think of grief, melancholy, and the like. The first volume is 305 pages long. Okay, now I'm getting a bit melancholic too. And I definitely won't translate this to the end. So no worries.

You can't tell the age of Les Tourterelles de Zelmis (16th century) from its scent. I don't actually smell any green, and who knows what sparks smell like. Forests and canopies are also not present. Perhaps it is more the memory of someone who read the poem aloud. A university lecture with a beautiful classmate beside you or a handsome classmate. A deceased beloved who wrote you the poem as a love letter in the 60s, and today the paper is all brittle and smells slightly of saffron. Between the brittle papers lie dried rose petals, and then the memory floods back of the rose hedge where you met to engage in some activities that I won't elaborate on now. A little discretion sometimes isn't a bad thing.

Les Tourterelles de Zelmis has a very strong scent of geranium in the top note. Then the tide turns, and saffron peeks through. I first wondered what smelled so metallic until I checked the official website, and then a lot became clear to me. The light waxy scent would also fit with the old papers. Perhaps the letter was sealed with wax.

I think the scent is great, but Oriza L. Legrand has totally captivated me anyway. The company has certainly scored even more points with me by using a poem from the 16th century. They know how to win me over.

Family tester M doesn't think it's that great. He always waits for the appearance of synthetics, as he says. But that doesn't happen at all. The sillage is very strong at first, but then it returns to a normal level.

You can wear Les Tourterelles de Zelmis anytime. That's a bit disappointing, isn't it? You can wear it if you're a bit odd and a follower of the god Zalmoxis. But you should refrain from human sacrifices; modern society doesn't really have an understanding for that anymore. You can also wear it at university, for example, if you're studying the French language. Lovers can wear it, but "to love is to lose." There remains a bit of melancholy. If you want to fully indulge in joy, then you have to reach for another perfume. I don't even know which perfume. I'm not the specialist in that.

Thanks to R3mt9, who found out that Jean is not actually the culprit of this poem, but rather Claude-Joseph Dorat, born on December 31, 1734, in Paris, where he also died on April 29, 1780. He is quite unknown internationally compared to Jean, who is probably rolling in his grave because I attributed this nonsense to him. The 18th century is fine with me, although the 16th would have been more accurate. But the poem is still long. 9 pages is just the "first song." And I'm still too lazy for that.