La Presidente

"I do not think it altogether inappropriate for me to introduce myself," said the President of the U.S. to members of the Paris press. "I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris." President Kennedy was not exaggerating: in the eyes of the world, his talks with Charles de Gaulle might take on historic significance, but to the people of Paris their deliberations were secondary. From the moment of her smiling arrival at Orly Airport, the radiant young First Lady was the Kennedy who really mattered.

As the presidential motorcade made its way through the jammed, flag-draped streets, great crowds of people pressed close to her limousine for a glimpse. A 101-gun salute shook the city and was all but drowned out by the rousing cry, "Vive Jacqueline!''

Alexandre & Nathalie. Jackie's conquest of Paris was no haphazard campaign. No summit conference was more carefully planned than the First Lady's return to the city she had come to love as a student at the Sorbonne. In two truckloads of presidential luggage was a blinding array of gowns and jewels--and in making her plans. Jackie was keenly conscious of the fact that no tiny sag or hemline or stray strand of hair would escape the notice of the style-conscious people of Paris.

In May, Alexandre, the city's leading hairdresser, received a top-secret letter from the White House with a lock of Jackie's hair enclosed, and a request for his services during the forthcoming visit (see MODERN LIVING). To the Parisian branch of the cosmetician Harriet Hubbard Ayer went another urgent request, mustering out Europe's leading makeup expert, Nathalie, for the duration of the Kennedy trip.

On her first night in Paris, Jackie was dressed, coifed and made up as elaborately as any princess. When she emerged from her bedroom at the Palais des Affaires Etrangeres, she was magnificent in a narrow, pink-and-white straw-lace gown and a swooping 14th century hairdo with a fake topknot. Even John Kennedy, a man who is not notably attentive to the nuances of fashion, was frankly impressed. "Well," he said, "I'm dazzled."

So was everyone else. At an intimate luncheon for 40 at the Elysee Palace, President de Gaulle had only perfunctory greetings for Jean Gavin, wife of the

American ambassador, on his left, scarcely touched the elaborate lunch that was laid before him. Seated at his right, Jacqueline zeroed in with a flashing smile and began to speak in her low, slow French.

The glacial Charles de Gaulle promptly melted. It was not the first time Jackie had worked her magic on the French President; last year, during his trip to Washington. De Gaulle observed with a sigh: "If there were anything I could take back to France with me, it would be Mrs. Kennedy."

In its turn, Paris turned itself inside out for Jackie Kennedy. An escort of plumed horsemen clattered alongside her limousine as it drew up to the palace, and white-stockinged footmen, right out of a Mozart opera, lined the stairs. In the Chambre de la Reine, Jackie slept in a bed just vacated by Belgium's Queen Fabiola, bathed in a silver mosaic tub that had been installed for Britain's Queen Elizabeth II, and gazed up at a ceiling swarming with Napoleonic cherubs. At the first formal reception, more than 2,000 top-ranking Parisians sloshed through the rainy night for a glimpse of the porcelain princess from America. After shaking 1,000 hands, the First Lady's glove was stained and she was visibly wilted, but Paris was increasingly enchanted. With each new gown and each new edition of the press, reporters reached for new superlatives and the front-page pictures grew bigger.

While the two Presidents discussed affairs of state, Jackie raced through her favorite city in the firm tow of the grandmotherly Mme. de Gaulle. Trailing behind her black bubbletop Citroen were her mother-in-law, Rose Kennedy, her sister, Princess Radziwill, Sister-in-Law Eunice Shriver, and a bevy of lesser ladies in waiting. At the Jeu de Paume Museum, French Minister for Culture Andre Malraux whisked her past the collection of impressionist paintings in a breakneck 45 minutes. "I have just seen the most beautiful paintings in the world," gasped Jackie as she returned to the rain-splashed street. (Her favorite: Olympia, a reclining nude by Manet.)

At the Institut de Puericulture, a hospital for premature infants, she accepted a bouquet of sweet peas, admired the babies, and observed that her daughter Caroline detested flashbulbs. The president of the Paris Municipal Council presented her with a tiny wristwatch, was rewarded with a smile. Then there was a quick trip to flower-decked Malmaison, the Empress Josephine's country retreat, and a gourmet lunch (lobster thermidor, mousse aux fraises des bois, and three wines) at La Celle St. Cloud, the long-ago hideaway of Mme. de Pompadour. And capping it all was the gala evening at the Palace of Versailles, with illuminated fountains and gardens, an 18th century ballet in the glittering Louis XV theater, and a banquet in the Hall of Mirrors.

"I'm enjoying this trip terribly," murmured Jackie. But she also admitted wistfully that she would like to "walk around and look at the buildings and the streets and sit in the cafes."

Apotheosis at Versailles. Only once, at a reception for the ladies of the press at the American embassy, did the First Lady let her aplomb slip slightly for a moment. The controversy, as usual, was over clothes. A reporter from Women's Wear Daily, the U.S. garment industry's trade paper, asked if she ever read the publication. Jackie, sensitive to W.W.D.'s criticism of her preference for French clothiers, bridled. "Hardly ever--any more," she replied. The reporter persisted: Didn't she ever glance at Women's Wear Daily? Said Jackie, frost creeping into her voice: "I try not to."

That night Jackie abandoned her all-American wardrobe and appeared at Versailles in yet another awesome hairdo and a bell-skirted gown--the supreme creation of French Designer Hubert de Givenchy. The Parisian press was ecstatic. APOTHEOSIS AT VERSAILLES! said France-Soir, correctly. "Charmante! Ravissante!" chorused re porters.

The same thing happened all over again in Vienna. Jackie literally stopped traffic wherever she went. Nikita Khrushchev seemed smitten: at a banquet, he edged his chair closer to hers and, eyes twinkling, told her funny stories. Next day, as Jackie and motherly Nina Khrushchev lunched together in Pallavicini Palace, a crowd outside chanted, "Jacqueline, Jacqueline, Jacqueline."

Merely by being herself, Jacqueline Kennedy had sailed across thresholds that would have tripped most women. But, armed with her femininity and bold fashion instinct, she did not miss a step. Paris and Vienna had a new goddess. The U.S. had a queen, and not from Hollywood. And Jackie proved once more that, in any language, there is nothing like a dame--especially Jackie.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.