The maidenhair ferns ripple from the touch of an invisible presence. Who goes there? Sherwood. A botanical palace in which each root hides a tender shoot, each variety of tree surprises by its skin-like bark. Smooth and sweet like orange blossom absolute. Like rose. The treetops whisper Robin’s name, swap secrets of pink pepper and carrot seed oil. Only the cedar knows them. Where is the coveted treasure hidden? Suddenly an arrow flies down the middle of a path lined with blackcurrant buds. It skims past the birch and leaves a pervading trail of sandalwood oil that slips between the leaves, hugs the trunks, takes advantage of every ounce of quivering air to make its presence known. It points to the destination, leads the way to a fragrance: as generously discreet, as gloriously alive as the forest host.

Memo Paris will keep the wake of your loved one with you for a long time.