Mirabeau, what a pretty word, peculiarly Parisian, suspended above the Seine. It composes a memory, joins another bank, and returns by following its trail of sandalwood, pink bay and cedar. In the heart of the City of Light, on the way to the twilight of the day, there is a bridge, a poem and a perfume. The perfume which will bear the name of the Mirabeau Bridge had to translate its force, because it resists the flow of the Seine and time, it is the impassive witness as it underlines the final resumption of the first verse; but the delicacy of the fragrance, mixed with this base, conveys the melancholy of lost loves, while also imposing a sharp note suitable for testifying to the " violent hope. "