“The little mermaid drew back the crimson curtain of the tent, and beheld the fair bride with her head resting on the prince’s breast. She bent down and kissed his fair brow, then looked at the sky on which the rosy dawn grew brighter and brighter; then she glanced at the sharp knife, and again fixed her eyes on the prince, who whispered the name of his bride in his dreams. She was in his thoughts, and the knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid: then she flung it far away from her into the waves; the water turned red where it fell, and the drops that spurted up looked like blood. She cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was dissolving into foam. The sun rose above the waves, and his warm rays fell on the cold foam of the little mermaid (...)”
(The Little Mermaid, Hans Christian Anderson)
Shaped like a mermaid’s heart and adorned with corals, starfish and other treasures from the sea, L smells nothing like the ocean. Yet just like the waves licking warm sands, it soothes a wounded human heart with its vapours of cinnamon buns immersed in vanilla milk and musk. Immortelle gives it the barest hint of saltiness, mostly in the extrait version. The array of notes is simple, perhaps so much as to be considered bold. If the potent as the (similar) Musc Ravageur (also by Maurice Roucel) is a lustful hug, L is a soft caress on the face.