Tristesse exquise.

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Sundays. They offer sometimes an overdose of tranquility and calm. Coco Chanel died on a Sunday, on the one day in the week she couldn’t work. What are we to do on a Sunday? To read and rest, to stroll through parks, museums and art galleries, I guess, or in case of rain, through our apartment. I did just that and stopped at my bedroom Regency table, with some letters on it, letters I haven’t answered yet. I could do that now. I smiled at Casimir, my crystal turtle by Daum, while putting on my Hermès Étrivière Double Tour bracelet, and as it’s pointless to style up when you’re alone in the privacy of your home, I took it off again, took a sniff of the white rose in my vase by René Lalique, and sighed. Le travail, c’est la vie, a French girl once said to me. She was right.