Gabrielle’s lack of occupation during the war had been frustrating enough, but in Switzerland, she didn’t even have the consolation of rue Cambon nearby. Aside from a handful of friendships, for more than twenty-five years, her work had represented the one permanent fixture in her life. Her lovers, her friends, her family, where she lived—these were forever changing. Gabrielle was almost a caricature of the Heraclitean notion that the essence of life is flux, and to resist this change is to resist the heart of our existence.

Whatever she might have sometimes said to the contrary, she had chosen change as her life, and would say, “I am scared only of becoming bored.” Constant movement was the one thing that would keep this fear at bay. She also knew that moving on, carrying no baggage from the past, was the climate out of which she was best able to create. Gabrielle came closest to being a revolutionary when understanding that, within her there was a “deep taste for destruction and evolution.” This was what she meant when she said, “Fashion should express the place, the moment . . . fashion has a meaning in time but none in space.”¹

Without her business—both the building and the exercise of designing—as the fixed point in her life, Gabrielle’s incessant movement had lost its meaning and acquired an aimlessness that did not suit her. Leaving Lausanne, she wandered from one grand Swiss hotel to another and back again. With her energies previously harnessed creatively, she now had no outlet for her restlessness and “revealed a certain weariness,” a disenchantment with life, as her old friend Paul Morand put it.

Morand, who had worked for the Vichy government, had recently taken refuge in Switzerland with a number of other political exiles like himself, so as to avoid any legal judgments being meted out by his homeland. He had lost almost everything. As an impoverished and vilified ex-member of the French literary establishment, in the winter of 1946 he took up Gabrielle’s invitation to visit her in Saint Moritz. There, at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, they sat together over the course of several evenings, and Gabrielle told Morand her story. With nothing to do, with her youth now behind her, inevitably, she looked back.

(These were the evenings referred to at the beginning of this book, and the record of which, years later, Morand would publish as Gabrielle’s “memoir,” The Allure of Chanel. In his introduction, Morand would recall that “with nothing to do for the first time in her life,” Gabrielle was “champing at the bit.”) Reflecting on her heart, which “unburdened the secret of a taciturn disposition,” Morand remembered Gabrielle’s voice “that gushed forth from her mouth like lava, those words that crackled like dried vines, her rejoinders, simultaneously crisp and snappy . . . a tone that was increasingly dismissive, increasingly contradictory, laying irrevocable blame, I heard them all.”² He heard her doubts about when to return to the rue Cambon, and how she felt both “trapped by the past and gripped by time regained.” She was part of an age which was suddenly “foreign to her . . . black bile flowed from eyes that still sparkled, beneath arched eyebrows increasingly accentuated by eyeliner.”³ And although Morand’s Gabrielle was formidably alert and well informed, her star was no longer in the ascendant.

Sitting in the palatial opulence of the Swiss hotel, she talked. Far too intelligent not to be self-aware, she said of herself, “I lack balance . . . I talk too much,” but she added, “I forget quickly, and furthermore . . . I like to forget. [Emptying her mind enabled her to create.] I throw myself at people in order to force them to think like me.”⁴ The contradictions came thick and fast, and while she did always forget, this woman of paradox also declared, “I have never forgotten anything.” Saying that “aging is Adam’s charm and Eve’s tragedy,” Gabrielle now had more time than she wished to contemplate the possibility of her own decline. On the one hand, she despised women who faced aging without dignity, and on the other, she was unable to comprehend the thought of her own nonexistence. She would say that the idea “of youth is something very new, who talked about it twenty years ago?”; she also said that 1939 was the first time it had occurred to her that she was no longer young: “It hadn’t occurred to me that I could grow old. I’d always been among bright, pleasant people; friends. And all at once I found myself alone, separated from everyone I liked. Everyone I liked was on the other side of the ocean [she means those who had fled to the States].”⁵ But there were distractions. A few old friends, such as Visconti, visited her in Switzerland; there was a handful of new Swiss friends, and a new female companion, Maggie van Zuylen.

Marguerite Nametalla was an Egyptian (it was said she had been a violet seller) married to the diplomat Baron Egmont van Zuylen, whose home was the immense medieval De Haar Castle, in the Netherlands. Maggie was elegantly beautiful, with pale skin and green eyes, and enjoyed dramatizing her “unwealthy origins.” Her son-in-law, Guy de Rothschild, described her as “witty and gay, lively and provocative, she combined audacity and fantasy. Completely natural and devoid of timidity, her sense of humor . . . her repartee, her gift for imitation, made her seem like a character in a play.”⁶ André Malraux would proclaim that “Chanel, General de Gaulle and Picasso are the three most important figures of our time,” and of Maggie van Zuylen, he said, “Hers is intelligence in its purest state, since it is unencumbered by any intellectual baggage.”

“Maggie could participate in any conversation, for while conscious of her lack of culture, she never gave it a second thought.”⁷ Her vivacity was seductive, and Gabrielle felt renewed in the company of this worldly and vital younger woman. She also became her lover. In the winter of 1945–46, they entertained each other uproariously with their sparkling and acid wit. Writing many years later in his journal, Paul Morand would say that before Gabrielle “became exclusively lesbian, I lived with her and Mme. de Zuylen at the Beau Rivage, shared their private life . . . in Lausanne. They didn’t hide when I found them in bed together.”⁸

Gabrielle had so far outwitted her demons by “never resting.” Still on the move from everything she found too painful, she was obliged to use her hotel hopping as a new method of forgetting.

Did she make herself forget, too, the mounting deaths of her friends, lovers and family that reminded her of time passing? Her two brothers, whom she had cut off so peremptorily at the beginning of the war, were both dead, Lucien felled by a heart attack early in the war, and without seeing their sister again. Gabrielle rarely referred to her family. She was one of those who had so outgrown their roots that in doing so she had rejected them, left them far behind. When they pulled her back, they did nothing but remind her of a childhood that she said she remembered every day and that she spent her whole life trying to avoid. Either through a sense of social inadequacy or a genuine impatience with the roots that were of no use to her emotionally, psychologically or financially, Gabrielle had made the decision and ruthlessly thrust them aside.

Excising almost all her family from her life, Gabrielle appears to have retained only her aunt Adrienne and her nephew, André Palasse, and his family. She brought André and his family to Switzerland in an attempt to improve his health, but André would eventually die of tuberculosis.

In 1942, Gabrielle’s friend Max Jacob had died in the appalling Drancy internment camp, in Paris’s outer suburbs; his sister and brother had already been sent to be gassed in Auschwitz. That same year, Duke Dmitri Pavlovich had died in another kind of prison, a sanatorium in Switzerland, where for more than a year he had struggled with tuberculosis. In 1948, Vera Bate-Lombardi died in Rome. But before Vera, Gabrielle’s old friend José Maria Sert’s death was announced. Theirs had been what Gabrielle called a relationship “with all the ripples that the clash of characters as entrenched as ours can stir up.” Sert was “as munificent and as immoral as a Renaissance man,” who had done nothing to curb the pace of work, food, drink and the drugs that his doctors had said would kill him. One day, in November 1945, while laboring on his huge mural in the cathedral of Vichy, he dropped dead.

Misia had been quite unaware that Sert was close to death, and was bereft, afterward writing, “With him, disappeared all my reasons to exist.”⁹ Her beloved brother had already died; and her divorced niece, now living with her, would be killed in a car crash, leaving Misia more alone than ever. The dosage and frequency of her morphine increased. It was her only way of keeping at bay the inevitability of loss and its sibling, pain, made worse by the sequence of her own aging. She survived by spending increasingly long periods shielded from reality under her cloak of narcotics: “Chatting at dinner parties, or wandering through the flea market, she would pause to jab a needle right through her skirt.”¹⁰ And here was one of the great differences between Misia and her friend and sometime lover Gabrielle. Both of them had long ago reached a state where they could not live without their drugs. But where Misia’s addiction meant that she became utterly controlled by it and used her narcotics in increasing quantity, Gabrielle was never in that position. She was dependent, but her great force of character never allowed the morphine to control her; Gabrielle controlled the morphine.

Procuring Misia’s drugs had become dangerous, yet she bothered less and less about concealing her habit. “Once, in Monte Carlo, she walked into a pharmacy and asked outright for morphine, while a terrified Gabrielle pleaded with her to be more careful.”¹¹ In those postwar years, Misia traveled to Switzerland to spend time with Gabrielle, and also to collect her supplies, as she and Gabrielle had done together so many times before. But Misia’s name was now found on a drug dealer’s list in Paris; she was arrested and thrown into a cell with fellow addicts, prostitutes and down-and-outers. Friends got her out after twenty-four hours, but at seventy-six, she was greatly shaken by the experience.

Now too frightened to answer the door, Misia turned ever more to her chemical oblivion. In September 1950, when there was little of herself left to destroy, Misia made her last trip to Switzerland to visit Gabrielle and collect her latest consignment of drugs. Not long after returning to Paris, she withdrew to her bed. A month later, her maid called friends to her bedside; she was dying. Gabrielle came, and stayed until Misia retreated into that silent space before death. Late that night, her breathing quietly stopped. Early the following morning Gabrielle took charge, as only she knew how. She had Misia’s body removed to Sert’s great canopied bed, then set to work to “perform her last rites for her friend.”

She arranged Misia’s hair, made up her face and decorated her with her jewels. In white, on a bank of white flowers, a pink ribbon across her breast, at its center one pale rose. Thus Misia was presented by Gabrielle to her mourning friends. Misia’s biographers would say that Gabrielle had made the years fall away and that Misia looked “more beautiful than ever.” With more realism, in a typically arch aside, the novelist Nancy Mitford wrote, “Dolly . . . had just come from the deathbed of Misia Sert. Mlle Chanel was there doing up the corpse. “Well, Coco was doing her nails—I thought it was kind of her—but I must say, she had overdone the makeup.”¹² The funeral was held in the Polish church, in rue Cambon, close by the Chanel boutique.

First Sert and now Misia were gone. Whatever dreadful things Gabrielle might have said of Misia, these two had been a source of strength and comfort to each other in an enduringly passionate friendship lasting for more than thirty years. Gabrielle said, “Whoever mentions Sert mentions Misia,” and so it must have been in her own heart. With the death of the prodigiously unreconstructed Sert and his woman, a crucial aspect of Gabrielle’s life’s entertainment, exasperation and support was gone, leaving her world a diminished one. While declaring that “I am much more frightened of women than I am of men,” she added, “Women never amuse me. I feel no friendship for them . . . They don’t play the game, but expect it to be played for them.”¹³ Meanwhile, Misia, who like Gabrielle was “neither good nor bad,” was also the one about whom Gabrielle would say with stark simplicity, “She has been my only woman friend.”¹⁴

As she sat in that Swiss hotel with Paul Morand, Gabrielle’s now unsparing tongue demonstrated the formidably tough exterior few were brave or imaginative enough to challenge. Yet hidden in her armory of words, every now and then, alongside the unrelenting worldliness, Gabrielle revealed her other self, a diffident, fragile and lonely creature. This vulnerable woman who admitted, “I have only ever found loneliness . . . at the age of six I am already alone,” went on to say defiantly, “It is loneliness which has forged my character, which is bad-tempered, and bronzed my soul, which is proud, and my body which is sturdy.” At the same time, she said, “I have a horror of loneliness and I live in total solitude. I would pay so as not to be alone.” (In fact, she often did. On her annual trips to Italy, for example, she took lovers, saying later, “One doesn’t go to Italy for gentlemen. But I always paid.”¹⁵ And reading her comment “I would have the duty police constable sent up so as not to dine alone,” the thought of von Dincklage, there in the background, springs to mind.

Since his arrest by the British in 1945, von Dincklage had been living in Schleswig-Holstein (British zone) with his aunt, Baroness Weber-Rosenkranz.¹⁶ But in September 1949, we find him once again in Switzerland, staying at the Hôtel Beau-Rivage in Lausanne. Between December 1949 and January 1950, Gabrielle was also at the hotel.¹⁷ Von Dincklage and she had somehow arranged to meet. With Gabrielle, von Dincklage was able to enjoy a well-appointed lifestyle, while Gabrielle didn’t have to send for the “duty policeman” so as not to dine alone, or fend off the idea that “if I let myself slip, I know that melancholy awaits me, open-mouthed.”¹⁸ Von Dincklage was still an attractive man who retained his unctuous charm. Even if there was a modicum of sincerity in his feelings for Gabrielle, it is difficult to believe it was much more than convenience that put him at her side.

Meanwhile, Gabrielle, who was as powerful and forthright as she was vulnerable and alone, said she would recall Arthur Capel’s comment to remember that she was a woman and to remind herself, she would stand in front of the mirror where she saw her

This same “poor woman” believed she had been put here for a purpose and said, “That is why I endured, that is why the outfit I wore to the races in 1913 can still be worn in 1946, because the new social conditions are still the same as those that led me to clothe them.” Remembering the revolution she had initiated, she described how “I was working toward a new society.” She described clothes until then as being for women who were “useless,” who did nothing for themselves or with their lives. Saying she designed for busy working women, she added that “a busy woman needs to feel comfortable in her clothes. You need to be able to roll up your sleeves.”²⁰ And in the drive to fulfill her destiny, and her deep urge for independence, Gabrielle also understood, and regretted that “I belong to that breed of foolish women, women who think only of their work.”²¹

While saying that she had never really known happiness, she also said, “I have never had the time to be unhappy, of existing for another human being, or having children. It is probably not by chance that I have lived alone.”²²

Asking herself where she would go now, Gabrielle continued looking forward : “I don’t know, but I’m going somewhere and it’s not over.” Saying that her reaction to being told that Europe was in ruins made her think that while she felt that Europe was her mother, if it was lagging behind in the world, she would readily leave it behind, as she had done her family, and begin her new life: “I want to be part of what happens. I will go wherever is necessary for that . . . It will be necessary to do something else. I am ready to start all over again.”²³

This refusal to be bowed by circumstance, as well as the willingness to “start all over again,” was most impressive in a woman of sixty-three. For all her tenacity and verve, however, Gabrielle didn’t have quite the same energy she had possessed thirty years earlier. And yet the icon Coco Chanel had become so intertwined with whoever Gabrielle was, she was unable to relinquish it. As it turned out, what she would take up wasn’t as novel as she might have envisaged when she spoke these words in 1946.

For several years before the war, convinced that their initial agreement had been a bad one, Gabrielle had intermittently skirmished with the Wertheimers. In the early thirties, for example, they had begun making Chanel perfumes with their own company, Bourjois. They gave sales rights to foreign subsidiaries they had created; from these they also gave Gabrielle her 10 percent profit. This infuriated her. As the business had grown, Gabrielle was increasingly frustrated by what she saw as a reduction of quality in her creation, and had insisted on being released from the original agreement. While the war had interrupted Gabrielle’s initiation of a lawsuit, the conflict between her and her partners only intensified.

At the onset of the war, before leaving France for America, the Wertheimers had cleverly entrusted their business to a cousin, who in turn cleverly appointed a non-Jewish industrialist, Félix Amiot, to be the front for the family. He had continued marketing the Chanel perfumes during the occupation. At the same time, the Wertheimers had set up production of Chanel N° 5 in America, where they made yet more perfumes, using natural essences from the south of France, that didn’t follow the original formulas.

These activities, for which Gabrielle was given ridiculously small royalties, continued after the war. Chambrun and the president of the French Bar Association, called in to assist him, advised Gabrielle that “an amicable settlement will bring you much more than litigation.” But relishing the thought of a fight, Gabrielle would not agree. The Wertheimers argued that they had made a major financial contribution to Parfums Chanel, had built it into a worldwide business and that Gabrielle’s contribution was no longer relevant. She was no longer a public figure, and was too old to offer the talent, youth and celebrity she had possessed when she had launched Nº 5. Gabrielle was incensed: “So I’m too old! They think I’m too old, those—bastards!”

In the two months before the case came to trial, Gabrielle was very busy. Eventually, she handed Chambrun several tiny phials and asked him to give these to his wife. Could she make up phials like this from her own home? Chambrun said she could, with the proviso that they must be presents. Josée de Chambrun declared the perfume exquisite, as did a Russian “nose” called in to confirm her opinion. Gabrielle then instructed the perfumer in Switzerland to make up a hundred bottles of her various perfumes. The bottles were not the same design as the originals and were prefixed with the word “Mademoiselle,” making them “different” perfumes, too. Gabrielle then sent them as “gifts’ to all the smartest department stores in New York. The Wertheimers asked her lawyer, “But what does she really want?” Not long afterward, they made a settlement out of court.

While the Wertheimer brothers had played rough with Gabrielle during the war, they were also distinguished losers, and the terms of the new agreement were most favorable to Gabrielle. She had the right to make Mademoiselle Chanel perfumes anywhere in the world—a serious threat to her partners she never acted upon; she was to be paid substantial damages, with interest, for the sales of Parfums Chanel in the United States, Britain and France; she was to have a kind of monopoly conceded to her in Switzerland—“her fief, her kingdom”—and she would be paid a royalty of 2 percent on all gross sales of Chanel perfumes throughout the whole world.

At the conclusion of this intense legal battle, in which Gabrielle had joined with righteous indignation, tremendous enjoyment and considerable low cunning, she was left a multimillionaire. After the agreement had been signed, she took the Chambruns back to rue Cambon for a celebration. “My dear Bunny,” she said to Chambrun, “I have already made a great deal of money in my life, but, as you know, I’ve also spent a lot. Now, thanks to you, I shall never have to work again . . . I’m not going to do anything anymore.” That was in 1947.

The Swiss now told Schellenberg he wasn’t welcome there. The Schellen-bergs then moved to Italy and a house on Lake Maggiore, where, apparently, all their expenses were paid by Gabrielle. Schellenberg had developed cancer, and by early 1952, he was dead. His wife would write to von Dincklage’s friend Captain Momm that “Madame Chanel offered us financial assistance in our difficult situation and it was thanks to her that we were able to spend a few more months together.”²⁵ When Schellenberg’s memoir, The Labyrinth, was published, there was no mention of Gabrielle or any reference to the mission to Spain with Vera Bate-Lombardi, christened Operation Modelhut by Schellenberg . At the end of 1952, von Dincklage went to visit Mrs. Schellenberg in Düsseldorf in order to collect two “objects’ she wanted to give Gabrielle. We have no evidence, but these “objects” may well have been documents.

Notwithstanding Vilmorin’s lack of moralizing, she was unable to subsume her own personality sufficiently to permit her subject to settle into the foreground. Vilmorin was also driven mad by Gabrielle’s inability to be straight about her early years. Gabrielle wasn’t pleased with Vilmorin’s account, especially when it failed to find sympathy with any of the American publishers. Their friendship did, however, weather this episode. Next, Gabrielle tried out one of the extraordinary Kessel brothers, Georges, the suicidally depressed ex-lover of Colette, whose opium-cocaine-morphine habit left him wasted before his time. This, too, was a failure. Undaunted, for the rest of her life Gabrielle tried to coax a succession of writers into helping her construct and reconstruct her legend.

Soon after Kessel, there was the journalist and novelist Gaston Bonheur, then came the young novelist Michel Déon, who had recently helped Salvador Dalí with his memoirs and brought out his own successful first novel. Michel Déon, who spent a good part of 1951 to 1953 in her company, recently described Gabrielle as an “exceptional, and at the same time exasperating and brilliant woman.” Traveling with her from Paris to Lausanne, from Roquebrune to Rome to New York, he faithfully noted down her stories. Déon’s mode was not to query what she said. She talked; he listened, and then wrote.

Déon is now a youthful nonagenarian and one of the grand old men of French literature. His irony and sly wit are countered by a prevailing warmth, and one can imagine Gabrielle being charmed by the young writer. In conversation, he alludes to a novelist’s material-gathering. Describing himself as “a robber,” Déon was fascinated by her “complexity and seductiveness.”

Telling how he listened happily to this woman forty years his senior, “who had seen and experienced everything,” he was moved by her admission that “timid people talk a great deal because they can’t bear silence in company. I’m always ready to bring out any idiocy at all just to fill up a silence. I go on, I go from one thing to another, so that there’ll be no chances for silence. When people don’t enjoy my company . . . I feel it right away. I have a kind of nervous flow. I talk vehemently. I know I’m unbearable.”²⁶

Gabrielle made a remarkable admission to a young Jean Cau, then Jean-Paul Sartre’s secretary, that in fact everyone intimidated her, from her mannequins to minor employees to the delivery boy. And she added, “Fortunately no one or almost no one knows this.”

Déon was both sufficiently observant and imaginative enough that in spite of the flaws, he found Gabrielle sympathetic and tantalizing. She asked him to come with her to Switzerland in her Cadillac, but he preferred to remain independent, making the journey in his own car, a black MG. Gabrielle traveled “with two black Cadillacs, one for her, driven by her chauffeur in livery, and another carrying her two personal maids, one of them clutching the famous jewelry box in detergent-worn hands. Traveling in convoy like this, halfway she stopped her car and got into my convertible, her head veiled in pink gauze like a motorist from the early 1900s.”²⁷ The young novelist was paid a monthly salary by Gabrielle and occasionally returned to Paris to write an article or pay his rent. In the end, Déon spent so much time away from Paris listening to her that his girlfriend got tired of waiting and dumped him.

On several occasions, Déon met von Dincklage in Switzerland and describes how Gabrielle “continued with the pretense that he hadn’t had anything to do with the war on France.” (In 1950, a Swiss police report stated that “Today, VD still comes across as a very cold man and tries to impose his will on every occasion.”) Meanwhile, Déon wryly tells a story demonstrating how much the older man, by then aged fifty-seven, still retained his looks and his ability to ensnare. One night, Gabrielle had retired early to bed, and Déon and von Dincklage set off for a nightclub. There they met Déon’s new German girlfriend, a club dancer. Von Dincklage worked his charm so effectively that Déon was amazed at the speed with which his girl dropped him for the older man.²⁸

Sometime around 1953–54, von Dincklage disappeared from Gabrielle’s life. All we know is that Gabrielle continued giving him an allowance; he eventually settled on a Spanish island, and there he devoted his time to painting erotica.

After considerable perseverance, by the end of 1953 Michel Déon had produced a manuscript of three hundred pages recounting Gabrielle’s life story. He waited for her judgment, but none came. Then, Gabrielle sent word through her friend Hervé Mille, editor of Paris Match and one of the arbiters of postwar Parisian taste: “In these three hundred pages there is not a single sentence that is not hers, but now she sees the book, she thinks that it is not what America is expecting.”

Michel Déon understood Gabrielle’s message. He had written down her words just as she had spoken them, without interpretation and with all the fantasies intact. He understood that in her heart she knew the truth perfectly well, that the fantasies that helped her survive were fine to expand on in conversation but, as he says, “not to read black on white.” As a writer, Déon was sensitive to the very powerful hold her imagination had upon her. “What I found truly moving about her was her constant call to this strange, imaginary, quality of existence,” he said, “her charming impulses, a very delicate generosity—when one did not ask for anything—a remarkable intuition in music, poetry, drama.”²⁹

Rather than criticize her fantasy life—“this strange, imaginary, quality of existence—he understood that she could not have survived without it. He also appreciated her respect for the integrity of writing. Thus when she said to him, “Michel, it is my voice, but I don’t want to hear it,” he told her he understood, and they remained friends. He then destroyed his manuscript. Asked why, Déon said, “I knew that one day I would be approached to use it and, if I didn’t have that unique copy, then I couldn’t.”³⁰ In Michel Déon, Gabrielle had found a true ally: someone who appreciated her blend of understanding exactly what truth is, and her emotional need to fantasize. In this, Déon did not judge her. Rather, he felt great sympathy for her childlike fears, her “inability to abandon her dreams in order to face reality.”