I remember a blonde figure, wearing an officer’s uniform with braided trousers, her hair loose. She entered the Élysée Palace under the astonished and bemused gaze of President Charles de Gaulle, who said to her, “How amusing. You are dressed as a soldier and I am in civilian clothes.” His wife, Yvonne wrinkled her nose at this outfit that did not comply with any code of protocol; de Gaulle concluded, sarcastically yet kindly, “she is dressed with a simplicity that is quite appropriate.”
I remember a small fishing village called Saint-Tropez, where Brigitte spent her childhood and which, after her, would become the world capital of jet setters.
I remember the parties, the debauchery, the boats, the beaches, and the orgies, about which we knew nothing but guessed everything.
I remember the song, “Je n’ai besoin de personne en Harley-Davidson” (“I don’t need any-one on a Harley David-son”).
I remember the initials BB, whose eternal owner died this week.