In the heart of Paris, l'Odéon remembers the literary and jazzy vertigo that enlivened its clubs and cafés. An air vibrating with the essence of patchouli. Under the dome of the Pantheon, exceptional men and women ensure that this creative fire lives on. Its amber glow, stirred by candied date and sandalwood. The desire for art rustles between the folds of the curtain of the theatre that bears its name. We salute the performance of the rose essence, the tonka bean before regaining the charm of old stones and silver roofs, to be invaded by the presence of musks. Like in a novel. A neighbourhood woven of fictions, pages to devour, moments to live, waiting in the booksellers' boxes for the early morning, when the Odeon awakes. Again, forever.