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Valedictory. "We don't have to worry about her kidneys," wrote Hemingway. "She comes from Burgundy, where they make these things better than they do in Illinois or Massachusetts." But the era was over, and Hemingway's tribute was a valedictory: "She was wonderful to look at. Having a fine face to start with, she made of it a work of art. She had a wonderfully beautiful body and a fine voice."
Kiki, as mascots have an awkward habit of doing, lived on. After World War II she reappeared in her old haunts, a plump woman, rather heavily made up. Last year she began to show signs of liver cirrhosis, and she spent a couple of months in the hospital. Last week, at 51, she was dead. There was no room for her in Montparnasse Cemetery, so her friends buried her at Thiais, out beyond the Porte d'ltalie. Foujita was there, his fringed hair now white. One by one the old Bohemians dropped their bouquets on the coffin, and then an old lady, clearly no Montparnassian, stepped forward with her floral tribute. She had been in the same hospital as Kiki, and had loved her gay talk. Cheerily Kiki had said: "When I die, bring me violets."