Rose 4 Reines Eau des 4 Reines L'Occitane en Provence

The bergamot arrives first, bright and almost citric, immediately joined by the green prickle of currant leaf and violet leaf—think crushed stems and garden greenery rather than powdered florals. Within moments, it feels less like a fragrance is being applied and more like you've brushed past a climbing rose covered in morning dew, that initial freshness suggesting something far more elaborate beneath.

The four roses gradually swell into prominence, their powdery sweetness now undeniable, creating a soft halo around the skin that's neither heavy nor particularly projecting. The heliotrope emerges with a gentle almond sweetness, and the ensemble becomes almost skin-scent intimate—you're acutely aware of it, but anyone beyond arm's length would struggle to detect it. There's a creamy, slightly dusted quality, as if you've walked through an eighteenth-century rose garden where everything has been gently powdered with rice starch.

By the fourth hour, the composition has become almost ethereal—a faint whisper of heliotrope, musk, and sandalwood lingering like perfume transferred from a lover's wrist to your own. The white cedar lends a cool, slightly austere quality, preventing the base from turning into soapy abstraction. What remains is essentially a memory of florality, a fragrance that seems to fade not through poor longevity but through sheer delicate intention, as if it was never meant to persist but simply to exist briefly, perfectly, then dissolve.