At the Grand Palais by Andrew O'Hagan.

Coco Chanel died in her suite at the Ritz Hotel on the 10th of January 1971.

Her funeral, held a few days later, caused a traffic jam on the Rue Royale,

with throngs in front of the Madeline desperate to catch a glimpse of the

departing coffin. The church had originally been conceived as a monument to the glories of Napoleon's

army, and remains a favourite with battle-scarred artists. Chopin had his funeral there, so did Johnny Halliday. Carl Lagerfeld, who died in February,

stipulated a much quieter send-off, a cremation in Nontr. He was the most famous person at

Chanel since its founder, and he wanted less fuss, though he did request that his ashes be mingled

with those of his beloved cat Chopet,

if she died before him.

Maybe he forgot that the cat had even more lives than he did.

Fuss, when it comes to fashion designers,

has a way of multiplying,

so it was inevitable that Lagerfeld's memorial, when it comes to fashion designers has a way of multiplying, so it was inevitable that Lagerfeld's

memorial, when it came, would be a fabulous study and overstated understatement. The sun was shining

on the key dorsay. Roses peeped from the gardens. Kids were going up and down on hired motorised scooters,

and a swimwear convention was going overboard on the right bank of the seine.

When I arrived at the Grand Palais, I had already gone 12 rounds with the black limousines,

trying to cross the road, so I was happy to encounter the young models willing

to show me inside. The gargoy current at Paris fashion events is always high, and that is

part of the entertainment. Before I'd even found my seat, I'd spotted Stella McCartney in a blue

net veil talking to Susie Menke's,

...