In her Hôtel Ritz suite, and her apartment on the rue Cambon, meanwhile, Gabrielle had created sumptuous and atmospheric surroundings, luxurious interiors filled with private symbols. Yet the apartment at 31 rue Cambon was never at heart a domestic one. Gabrielle had entertained many friends there over the years, but she also conducted business there. Someone now very familiar with the apartment describes it as “the place where she kept her memories, her links with her close friends, and her past. But if it had been a really intimate, personal apartment it would have had a bedroom. In some ways she lived her life like a man.”³ Neither was there a kitchen at rue Cambon ; Gabrielle had food brought in. And while she could juxtapose grandeur with simplicity and severity with comfort, in truth, Gabrielle had little interest in the hearth.

A hotel, where she slept and ate most of her meals, is essentially an undomestic space, and its underlying atmosphere of transition precisely served Gabrielle’s needs. Although she lived in the Ritz for more than seventeen years, in theory, at any moment she could be on her way: “In a hotel I feel I am traveling.” An echo of her nomadic childhood—in whose recollection Gabrielle often spoke of trains—this existence also represented her undaunted and slightly cracked refusal to be tied down. Her openness to the possibility of change in turn represented the possibility of creativity, leading her to say, “When I can no longer create, I’m done for.”⁴

By contrast, the symbols of others’ rootedness affected Gabrielle more adversely as she grew older. For example, she hated Sundays. Traditionally the family day, it was also the one when her salon was closed, making it more difficult to divert herself—with work—from admitting her sense of isolation. She professed to dislike marriage, and children, and on occasion used her unerring capacity for fantasy to erase spouses and their progeny from the lives of those around her. In the same spirit, she was quite capable of trying to destabilize a relationship. Good ones unsettled her. Gabrielle could also quietly admit to the one member of her family with whom she remained close, her namesake, Gabrielle Labrunie, “Actually, it’s you who has been right in life. You are much happier than I am. You have a husband and children. I have nothing. I am alone with all my millions.”⁵ Gabrielle told one of her favorite models, “I envy you because I always wanted to have children, and I had an abortion and I could never have any. It’s not true when I say that I find children disgusting.”⁶

Gabrielle had many years ago nurtured her image, now she was tending her legend. And while saying, “May my legend gain ground, I wish it a long and happy life!”⁷ she had also become its victim. Unable sometimes to distinguish it from herself, she had said some years before, “My legendary fame . . . each of us has his or her legend, foolish and wonderful. Mine, to which Paris and the provinces, idiots and artists, poets and society people have contributed, is so varied, so complex, so straightforward and so complicated at the same time, that I lose myself within it.”⁸ Her friend the novelist Michel Déon recently recalled to me how “with time, she turned a cynical eye on her milieu . . . She didn’t care, because being a celebrity no longer went to her head. I have rarely seen someone desire victory so much and then so disdain its rewards.”⁹

Gabrielle’s friends were only temporarily able to hold back her solitude, in which she had become imprisoned, and one day, she posed a mournful question to one of them: “What’s going to happen to me? What can I do ? . . . In bed at night I say to myself: “Why do you put up such a front? Why don’t you dump all that ?”¹⁰ But she couldn’t. She talked on, through shyness and through fear. Indeed, years before, she had declared with that startling self-awareness, “I prattled away out of shyness . . . How many windbags, mocked for their self-assurance, are simply quiet people who, deep down, are frightened of silence ?”¹¹ Meanwhile, that “prattling” public self made a habit of toughness and self-aggrandizement: “So much insensitivity . . . the jewelry, the rings on her thin fingers . . . the monologues, the Chanel jargon, with the opinions, the judgments without appeal.”¹² It was as if poor Gabrielle had welded her armor of self-protection to her mind and frequently to her heart. Her inner plight, accurately described by a young friend as the “truant furies,” had overtaken her.

Her solitude had deepened even further with the deaths of her oldest friends and ex-lovers. Hardly had the war ended than José Maria Sert had gone. Then, in 1950, Misia, whom she had loved, and hated, for so many years, and who knew so many of Gabrielle’s secrets that they had both long since dispensed with any pretense. In 1953, the Duke of Westminster, with whom, as with Dmitri Pavlovich, Gabrielle had always remained on close terms, died of a heart attack after only six years of his final and happiest marriage. The sympathetic, horse-mad Etienne Balsan, who had recognized that, in Sachs’s words, “Her spirit and her heart were unforgettable,” had rescued Gabrielle from her servitude, and died in South America. Following his daughter’s marriage and move to Rio de Janeiro, Etienne had gone there, too. His wish to die quickly had been answered when he was run over by a bus, in 1954.

When Adrienne de Nexon (née Chanel) died, in 1955, she took to her grave the most intimate details and appreciation of Gabrielle’s background. At Solesmes, in 1960, when Pierre Reverdy, the man for whom Coco “would have gladly given up everything,” died, only his wife and the monks were present at his simple funeral. As with all the rest, Gabrielle only heard about it through the papers. In 1963, Jean Cocteau, whom she had supported and denigrated for more than half a century, died, too. And on Pierre Wertheimer’s passing, in 1965, she lost the man who for so long had fulfilled for her the stimulating role of beloved adversary. In 1969, the aging Paul Morand would write in his journal: “We are the last ones, the survivors. We talk of people, of stories which only Cocteau, Poulenc, Radiguet, Etienne de Beaumont, Misia could understand. Only Chanel remains.”¹³

As a solace, during these years, Gabrielle came to rely much on her small group of younger friends and assistants. These included her butler, Jean Mironnet—“François,” as she called him—and two or three young women. François, the son of Norman peasants from Cabourg, was a man who didn’t speak too much, and unlike Gabrielle’s more sophisticated and better informed friends, there was much she could teach him. Whatever his private thoughts, François looked up to her, and a few years before her death, Gabrielle promoted him as a kind of companion. He was often by her side, sat silently behind as she worked on her collections. He kept her pills and gave her the water to take them with, was ready to help if she needed an arm on the stairs, remembered anything she might have forgotten. He was invited to eat with her and accompanied her when she traveled, now only to Switzerland. “Monsieur François” was Gabrielle’s “quiet gentleman-in-waiting,” who did his best to make sure she was rarely alone.

Aside from her models, the significant young women in Gabrielle’s life were her great-niece, Gabrielle (Labrunie); Claude Delay, daughter of the psychiatrist Jean Delay; and Lilou Grumbach (née Marquand), Gabrielle’s assistant from the late fifties onward. Lilou Marquand’s actor brother was Christian Marquand, friend to Roger Vadim. He was also friend to the Mille brothers, Paris Match editor Hervé and interior designer Gérard. (The Milles’ rue de Varennes apartment was one of the most powerful postliberation Parisian salons, and Gabrielle felt at home there. Hervé and Gérard were old friends who had known her since 1935, and Hervé regularly did “battle on her behalf.”) Lilou Marquand, meanwhile, had made a botched attempt at meeting Gabrielle, and asked the Mille brothers for their help. They told her they were going to dinner with Gabrielle that very evening; why didn’t she come along? Someone mentioned to Gabrielle that Lilou would like to work for her, but she made no comment. Then, as everyone was leaving, she said to Lilou, “You’re starting on Monday.”

After Marie-Hélène Arnaud’s departure, Lilou found herself being taken more into Gabrielle’s confidence. In theory, her job was handling press and public relations; in practice, her role was far more extensive than that. Among other duties, she acquired responsibility for photo shoots and was in charge of the dressing rooms, the cabines. Seeing Gabrielle almost every working day for the last fourteen or so years of her life, Lilou came to know her well. She was strong enough to withstand Gabrielle’s rages and outspokenness, and while remaining an employee, she also became an intimate. In an interview with the author recently, she laughed and said, “We used to shout at one another. She would scream. You could hear everything we said downstairs, but she’d reply: “I don’t give a damn!” Lilou lost track of how many times over the years Gabrielle had sacked her.

As the sixties had worn on, by day, Gabrielle remained indomitable. As her friend Claude Delay says, she was “very strong, very violent, not a sweet little character. She was a force. She was exigent. Demanding of herself and of others.”¹⁴ However, in quieter moments, and by night, Gabrielle’s vulnerability had grown more disabling. When the end of each working day forced her to halt for the rest she sorely needed, she was increasingly defenseless against the sense of abandonment that now overcame her each night on finding herself alone. The mark left by her mother’s emotional and physical frailty had not equipped Gabrielle with that specific emotional strength required to come to terms with her father’s abandonment, and it had lain unresolved. In this way, throughout her life, Gabrielle had suffered inordinately when she felt herself “left,” be it by man or woman, in life or through death. Her strength of character had enabled her to survive, but without the emotional tools to face her demons, with time they had grown more frightening. Lilou Marquand would say:

Claude Delay tells how Gabrielle would say, “I’ve wept so much, now I don’t cry any more. When one doesn’t cry any more it’s because one no longer believes in happiness.” But she said this because she loved romance. And secretly she always hoped that it might happen. She was always waiting for something to happen . . . But it never did.”¹⁶

Lilou Marquand, too, witnessed Gabrielle’s fantasies, her dreams of an ideal man, and heard stories about Gabrielle’s father as the personification of this ideal. On other occasions, he was a wastrel and drunkard. Lilou tells how “in some ways Chanel had remained very romantic. She liked handsome, tall strong men. When she saw one in the street she always said, “You see, he’s probably someone wonderful.” She had spent some of her best moments in their company and she couldn’t get used to their absence. “From time to time I need to rest my head on a shoulder. Too bad I don’t have that, too bad. It doesn’t matter.”¹⁷ But of course it did. Gabrielle would say, “When men were strong, they were chaste and gentle . . . Tenderness is strength watching over you.”¹⁸ And Claude Delay recalled an episode that had touched Gabrielle deeply when witnessing that tenderness she had lost and for which, above all, she longed. Returning to the Ritz one evening:

And Gabrielle confessed to Claude: “The only time I hear my heart now is on the stairs.”²⁰

In company with the few who took the trouble to see through the carapace of Gabrielle’s self-defense, Claude could not but be affected. As time passed, like Lilou Marquand, she was called upon more frequently to help relieve Gabrielle’s isolation. She hated dining alone. Having alienated a good many, she had brought on her own head this reminder of her pressing solitude, but lamented, “I cannot eat when I’m alone, when there’s no one across from me to talk to.” Claude Delay recalls the poignancy of managing Gabrielle’s suffering:

Indeed, if Gabrielle had not in many ways had a “healthy psychic attitude,” she could not have withstood her past. Nevertheless, each time she was “left,” it was revived and she collapsed. Lilou Marquand remembered an event highlighting Gabrielle’s disproportionate response. It took place on one of the regular visits to Switzerland with Lilou and François at the Grand Palace Hotel. (Gabrielle increasingly preferred the life of a hotel to the little house, Le Signal, she had bought beyond Lake Geneva and restored for her “retirement.”) François was almost always by Gabrielle’s side. She liked his sense of humor, appreciated his uncomplicated, unassuming presence. She gave him money, bought him an apartment, sent him to Switzerland for cures, took him ever more into her confidence. She would say of him, “Ah, how restful they are these ordinary people who are what they are, natural. Not at all like the Parisians, all those liars.”²²

As they sat in the hotel one day discussing the next collection, Gabrielle said to François, “You don’t understand a thing, my dear, I’ve asked you three times to abduct me to no avail. Are you pretending not to understand what I’m saying or are you deaf? I say it again in front of Lilou: will you marry me?” François got up immediately, left the table and checked out of the hotel. It took Lilou six days to find him, there in Lausanne, in another hotel, and she said:

In the absence of François, meanwhile, Gabrielle had been “distraught. Distraught at the rejection. Then, instead of her single dose of Sédol each day to sleep, she took more. Three, four of them. For days she didn’t go out. It was terrible, terrible. François was in her confidence, he was her support.”²⁴

Back in Paris, François and Lilou had acquired the habit of playing cards outside Gabrielle’s bedroom each evening, to be nearby as she went to sleep:

Gabrielle’s unstill mind meant that the sleepwalking from which she had suffered intermittently since childhood had grown worse. In her sleep, she cut up curtains, bedspreads, towels; making them into new designs carefully laid out upon the floor or hanging up on hangers. She was found sleepwalking naked in her rooms; on other occasions, she wandered through the Ritz and was gently guided back to her suite. Once, she was discovered hurrying along a corridor in her nightgown in the small hours with a wild expression on her face. Her maid, Céline (Gabrielle insisted on calling each new personal maid Jeanne, no matter what her real name might be), once watched as Gabrielle walked into her bathroom, broke a comb then turned on the water in the basin. To a friend, she would make a most revealing comment: “I’ve never known just what it was I wanted to forget. So, to forget, whatever it was—probably something that was haunting me—I threw myself into something else.”²⁶

In order to make a life, Gabrielle, when young, had re-created herself, and this had nourished and encouraged her for many years. In her heart, meanwhile, she knew the truth of what haunted her. But lacking that emotional resilience, with time her frantic attempts to throw herself “into something else” through work had grown ever less successful. Even in sleep, her need to forget no longer left Gabrielle, and she was obliged to fill that, too, with work. Finally, worried about embarrassing herself in sleep, Gabrielle told Céline and Lilou that she wanted to be tied down to her bed, leaving her unable to “stray” through the corridors of the Ritz at night.

But the sadness of Gabrielle’s trials was not to end there. One of her favorite models recently remembered that after dinner with Lilou and Gabrielle one evening, she came with them to Gabrielle’s rooms. The model was astonished at the ritual of Gabrielle’s preparations for the night, and watching Lilou and Céline strap her to her bed, she objected, “But are you mad, why are you tying her up, what’s going on?” And Gabrielle told her that recently she’d been found “cornering the elevator man . . . and dragging myself through the hotel.” The model continued:

Gabrielle began falling over. She injured her leg, cut her nose, hurt her hand. But she was terribly wary of being treated by the doctors, fearful they would disclose her weakness to the press. (Rumors of Gabrielle’s reduced health had indeed been going around the news offices for some time.) She had a minor stroke, was hospitalized, and felt humiliated at her infirmity. She was becoming very frail.

Her arthritis and rheumatism had made her less nimble; at work she would jab herself with pins. Sucking the injury, she would yell, “Ouch, what was that?” and while she was exhausted and would sometimes say, “There are days I want to drop everything,” the underlying theme was always the same: “I must think of my collection, because that’s the future.” And, of course, as long as there was the possibility of another collection, of working, there was always the possibility of avoiding death.

By 1970, while knowing that it drew nearer, Gabrielle often found the thought of not existing an impossibility. Yet in saying “I don’t believe much in death,” she was contemplating something further: “The soul departs: the ordeal has lasted long enough. For the Hindus it’s merely a transformation . . . “Give up one’s soul to God”—I like that expression . . . what remains of us is what we’ve thought and loved in life.”²⁸

She changed her mind constantly, one minute telling Claude she was going to give it all up, that she wouldn’t do it anymore; then, away from work, she was waiting only until it was time to go back to the rue Cambon. On her bedside table was Erlanger’s Richelieu; she told Claude it was “the best story there is in the history of France . . . it’s better than Alexander Dumas, but it hasn’t got so much passion.”

On that Sunday, January 10, Claude returned and lunched with Gabrielle, then accompanied her on her customary drive around the Longchamp racecourse. The sun shone pale through the wintry mist. Later as they drove back through the place de la Concorde—the great square through which Gabrielle had fled, almost sixty years before, from Arthur Capel’s truth about her business not making any profit—Gabrielle bowed, telling Claude she was saluting the moon. It was full. Bidding Claude farewell, Gabrielle told her, “I’ll be working tomorrow.”

In her suite, she told Céline that she was very tired and must lie down; Céline could only persuade her to remove her shoes. Gabrielle lay drowsing. Later, she told her maid she would eat in her rooms, read the restaurant menu, then cried out, “I’m suffocating . . . Jeanne . . . the window.” Céline rushed to her side; Gabrielle’s face was taut with pain and she held her hands over her chest. She was too weak to break the phial of morphine always by her bed, and taking the syringe, Céline injected her to relieve the pain. Gabrielle murmured, “So that’s the way one dies.” Celine immediately phoned the doctor, but when she returned, she saw that her mistress was quite still. She closed Gabrielle’s eyes.

On January 14, a funeral service was held for Gabrielle in the Madeleine, the great parish church of the Parisian elite, close by the rue Cambon. Gabrielle’s small coffin was covered in a mass of white flowers, with the exception of two wreaths of red roses, one from the Syndicat de la Couture, the other from Luchino Visconti.

Whatever the personal feelings of her fellow couturiers, virtually all of them were there to render her homage, including Balmain, Balenciaga (whose graciousness and forgiving nature sent him there “to pray for her” despite her having destroyed their close friendship with unkindness), Castillo, Marc Bohan and Yves Saint Laurent. Notwithstanding Gabrielle’s criticism of most of them at one time or another, they cannot but have been conscious that her remarkable life’s work had brought great credit to their profession. Gabrielle’s friend Michel Déon made a plea for compassion in one’s final judgment:

Meanwhile, standing in the front row for the entire funeral ceremony were Gabrielle’s models, all dressed in Chanel suits. Behind them were the forewomen and foremen, the seamstresses and numerous assistants who made up the team at rue Cambon, without whom Gabrielle’s ideas would have been impossible. A fascinated crowd joined Paris society, and Gabrielle’s friends, who included Salvador Dalí, Lady Abdy, Antoinette Bernstein, Serge Lifar, André-Louis Dubois, Robert Bresson, the Mille brothers, Jacques Chazot and Jeanne Moreau, whose friendship Gabrielle’s defensiveness had made her reject.

A much smaller group of mourners, including Gabrielle’s great-niece, François Mironnet and Lilou Marquand, later followed Gabrielle’s coffin to Switzerland, where she was laid to rest in the cemetery of Lausanne. Why Switzerland? While deeply French, Gabrielle was also ambivalent about her compatriots, just as some of them were about her. She had said, “The French don’t like me, it can’t be helped.” She had also said, “I have always needed security,” and in Switzerland, apparently, she felt secure. A marble headstone was raised to her, with the heads of five lions, her zodiac sign, carved in bas-relief. Below them is a cross, below that, simply:

However many words were written on Gabrielle in the weeks after her death, typically, in death as in life, she would manage her legacy. In that remarkable memoir she had given to Paul Morand just after the war, she had “written” her own epitaph: