L’Almanach
Once, every household kept an almanac: a book of seasons and stars, of harvests, customs, and passing days. My grandmother always had hers, the Almanach Savoyard: filled with lunar cycles, village fêtes, forgotten trades, songs, and stories.
Here, I reimagine that tradition for today. L’Almanach is a seasonal compendium, a quiet collection of inspirations, readings, flavors, exhibitions, words, and celestial notes. Each edition appears with the rhythm of the year, like a volume in a library of seasons. Some things are practical, like fruits and flowers of the moment. Others are poetic: a poem by candlelight, a painting, a French word to savor. And always, a sense of time passing, the beauty of what is now, and will never return.
To leaf through L’Almanach is to follow the thread of the seasons: autumn into winter, winter into spring, spring into summer. Each page, a fragment of a larger whole, a Maison of time, collected slowly, to be revisited whenever you wish.
Crépuscule d’Automne
· Autumn 2025 ·
An autumnal chapter: twilight tones, rituals of the season, and the quiet beauty of what the year yields. One volume in the library of L’Almanach.
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Notes for autumn’s passage: twilight, shadow, and memory.
A shadow passes over autumn’s twilight. In 1845, Edgar Allan Poe gave it a voice: the tapping at the door, the rustle of curtains, the descent of a single word that echoes still: “Nevermore.” Here, I have gathered The Raven in full, accompanied by the haunted grace of Édouard Manet’s illustrations. A poem to read by candlelight, as October draws its veil of mystery and the season turns toward All Hallows.
Le Corbeau · The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Mots & Atmosphères
After Poe’s shadowed midnight, the French, too, have given names to that suspended hour when day dissolves into night. Entre chien et loup (between dog and wolf) when outlines blur and the world slips into uncertainty. À la brune, the dusky moment when the light begins to dim. The heure bleue, beloved by painters, when the sky turns velvet and colors deepen. And à la tombée de la nuit, as darkness finally settles. Each phrase, a small poem in itself, a reminder that twilight is never just an absence of light, but a passage of mystery, beauty, and quiet reverie.
A small bookshelf for October nights…
Books to be read by candlelight, as the days grow shorter, stories where shadows lengthen and the familiar grows strange. There is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, that nocturnal meditation on creation and solitude; Proust’s Swann’s Way, where memory drifts like smoke in the half-light; and Kafka’s Metamorphosis, with its unsettling dawn of transformation. Bram Stoker’s Dracula haunts the margins, while Wilde’s Dorian Gray reveals the fatal beauty of a portrait that darkens with time. On the moors of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, voices echo through the night; Irving’s Sleepy Hollow carries the rustle of autumn leaves and ghostly riders; Baudelaire’s Flowers of Evil gathers shadows into verse; and Maupassant’s Le Horla whispers of madness, possession, and unseen presences. A seasonal bookshelf, each volume a lantern in the dusk.
Art & Exhibitions
This autumn, the Musée d’Orsay opens its doors to Sargent. Dazzling Paris, (23 September 2025 – 11 January 2026), the first monographic exhibition devoted to John Singer Sargent in France. Known in America and England as the portraitist of dazzling society, Sargent was trained and first celebrated in Paris, where he painted some of his most enduring works. Among them, the scandalous Madame X (1884), whose bare shoulder and cool detachment provoked outrage at the Salon, yet which today is considered one of the masterpieces of modern portraiture. With more than ninety works gathered, including rare loans, the exhibition traces Sargent’s meteoric rise in the crucible of Paris, when he unsettled the public with the brilliance of his touch and the provocative assurance of his style. For those de passage à Paris, it is an occasion to see the infamous Madame X, shown in France for the first time since 1884, and to encounter an artist who, as Henry James once observed, offered “the uncanny spectacle of a talent which on the very threshold of its career has nothing more to learn.”
Goûts de Saison
October arrives with its own harvest basket, brimming with the colors and flavors of autumn. There is the sweetness of figs, grapes, quinces, and pomegranates; the quiet radiance of persimmons and golden apples—perfect for my apple tart, which perfumes the house with a delicious autumn scent, best baked on a Sunday when one has the leisure to linger. The earthiness of mushrooms (ceps, boletes, and girolles) gathered in the forest mist. From the garden come pumpkins, leeks, beets, and carrots, alongside the bitter elegance of endives and kale. Chestnuts, walnuts, and hazelnuts round out the season, ready to be roasted or folded into cakes (and a recipe for my walnut tart is coming soon).
To this table, add the richness of autumn’s cheeses: a creamy Vacherin Mont-d’Or, spooned from its spruce-bound round; the rustic depth of Saint-Nectaire, with its nutty, supple pâte; or a delicate Cancoillotte, melted into warmth on the simplest bread. Each one a reminder that the season nourishes with both comfort and character.
And for the vase, flowers of the moment: chrysanthemums in their noble abundance, dahlias in their last blaze of color, and the lingering stems of asters and heather, bringing a quiet brightness to the shortening days.
My forestière sauce recipe
Finely chop 1 shallot and slice 150 g (about 1¾ to 2 cups sliced) of mushrooms, button mushrooms (champignons de Paris) or chanterelles (girolles) work beautifully. In a saucepan, melt 1 tablespoon of butter, then sauté the shallot and mushrooms together until they’re golden and tender. Remove the mushrooms from the pan and set aside. In the same pan, pour in 1/3 cup (80 ml) of hot water and dissolve 1 chicken bouillon cube in it. Let it reduce slightly. Then add 1 cup (240 ml) of heavy cream and stir in 2 teaspoons of poultry or veal stock concentrate, diluted in a splash of warm water. Return the mushrooms to the pan and simmer gently, stirring often, until the sauce thickens to your liking. Finish with a twist of freshly ground black pepper and serve warm.
Léonce’s Poire Belle-Hélène
The origins of Poire Belle-Hélène are as charming as the dessert itself. Created in Paris in the 1860s and attributed to the legendary Auguste Escoffier, it was a culinary homage to Offenbach’s opéra bouffe La Belle Hélène, which triumphed on stage in 1864. The combination was disarmingly simple yet decadent: pears gently poached, paired with vanilla ice cream, draped in hot chocolate sauce, and sometimes crowned with slivered almonds. A creation at once theatrical and restrained, much like the belle époque that inspired it.
Ingredients (serves 4)
4 firm pears (Comice or Williams are ideal)
1 vanilla bean (or high-quality vanilla extract)
½ cup (100 g) sugar
2 cups (500 ml) water
1 strip of lemon peel
1 small piece of cinnamon stick (optional, for autumn depth)
For the sauce:
5 oz (150 g) dark chocolate (70% cocoa)
⅔ cup heavy cream (150 ml crème fleurette)
1½ tbsp (20 g) butter
A small splash of Poire Williams or cognac (about 1 tbsp, optional)
To serve:
4 scoops of good-quality vanilla ice cream
A handful of toasted flaked almonds (optional, for texture)
Preparation
Poach the pears.
Peel the pears, keeping the stems intact. In a saucepan, bring the water, sugar, vanilla bean (split), lemon peel, and cinnamon to a simmer. Lower the pears gently into the syrup and poach over low heat for about 20 minutes, until tender but not collapsing. Leave to cool in the syrup, allowing the flavors to deepen.
Prepare the chocolate sauce.
In a small pan, warm the cream until it trembles, then remove from heat. Add the chopped chocolate, stirring slowly until melted and glossy. Whisk in the butter, and if you wish, a dash of Poire Williams or cognac. The sauce should be dark, silken, and pourable.
Assemble.
Place a pear, still glistening from its syrup, into a small coupe or shallow bowl. Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream, then pour the hot chocolate sauce in a generous cascade. Scatter with toasted almonds if you like.
The memory of Poire Belle-Hélène lingers beyond taste: pear, vanilla, chocolate. In perfume it finds an echo: La Belle Hélène by MDCI, where fruit and shadow are transposed into scent. Not a gourmand, but a reverie.
Parfums & Lumières
This autumn, I have chosen to bring a little poetry indoors. A ritual in several steps (soon to arrive in your inbox) but for now, I turn to light and scent to guide me through the season’s deepening shadows. On my table, the glow of Trudon’s Gabriel: roasted chestnuts mingled with woodsmoke, a fire caught in wax. Nearby, an empty place waits for the return of Mary (cedar and guaiac), a candle in homage to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, burned through October as a vigil for Halloween.
For those who share my impatience for the season’s darker festivities, last year’s reflections may amuse: Halloween Chic Décor? Oui, Merci!
And if your preference is for perfumes of skin rather than of interiors, my autumn fragrance selection waits for you here: potions that carry the scent of orchards, pine forests, damp soil, and woodsmoke. One last secret for the home: Balmoral. Strike a match, and suddenly you are walking the grounds of a château after rain; mist lifting from meadows, damp ferns rising, a haze of humus and wet stone.
Les Phénomènes Célestes
When twilight deepens and the nights grow long, the heavens begin their own quiet theatre.
On the 6th of October, the Harvest Moon will rise in uncommon radiance, a supermoon casting silver over fields and rooftops, drifting close to Saturn in the autumn sky. Later in the month, as autumn reaches its heart, the heavens scatter fire: the Orionids return on the night of October 21, tracing swift arcs of light across the darkness, remnants of Halley’s comet burning in the atmosphere. And as November wanes, another page turns in the sky: on November 17, the Leonids fall, bright and quick, flashing beneath the thin crescent moon.
Above the harvest, above the fading leaves, these celestial signs remind us that the season is written not only in orchards and forests, but also in the vast, unhurried script of the stars.
Échappées · Prague
If, by chance, you are seeking an autumn escape, gothic, timeworn, filled with legends and stories, I would send you to Prague, a city dear to my heart.
Cross the Charles Bridge at dawn or dusk, when statues watch as much as they are watched. Stand before the Astronomical Clock, its macabre automaton still marking the hours as it has since the fifteenth century. Wander into Malá Strana, the narrow streets glimmering under lamplight at the foot of the castle, or through Josefov, the Jewish Quarter, where old synagogues and the cemetery whisper their histories.
Pause for a Viennese chocolate at the Grand Café Orient, a jewel of Cubist architecture, then step into the quiet magnificence of the Klementinum. Taste a Trdelník, sugared and warm, the scent of cinnamon rising into the evening air. And always, look upward: Prague’s skyline is a tapestry of Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque, a theatre of stone, staged against the shifting autumn sky.
Épilogue
And here I leave you. With these fragments, fleeting though they are, gathered and kept, like pressed leaves beneath glass, as in a herbarium. A poem of shadowed beauty, books opened at twilight, the perfume of candied pears, and candles that keep their vigil through October’s dark nights. May this Almanach accompany your passage through autumn, to savor the season before it drifts away. When winter comes, another volume will open; but this one remains, a chapter in the library of time.
Léonce.
