Planted under the Invalides, a cube strung with black shines the word "Celine". The thirty minute delay is reduced to 13, precisely. It is therefore 8:43 pm when the first silhouette - and the first skirt of a long series - appears a few meters above the ground. Several seconds pass, the woman Celine and her foot of esale approach the catwalk by the force of a mechanical arm ... Her boot on the ground, the girl - in blazer, skirt-pants and square of silk - determined advance on a parisian-electro litany. "I have a plan to keep you," says the woman Celine, a sort of Bovary lost in the 7th arrondissement, in this out-time that shares the 1960s 1970s. "Control freak" in appearance, beatnik in the soul, this woman would have left her left bank only on the condition of a one-way trip to Kathmandu (for proof, the woolen skins, waders of seven assorted leagues and ponchos cashmere) ... or a weekend in the countryside , eventually. Six months after a controversial debut, Hedi Slimane has everyone in agreement. The DNA of the house is identifiable, the paw of the creator too. Here and there, the Celine campaigns of the 1970s, very "Chabroliennes", memories, also, of a Largerfeld at Chloé at the same time, cross the Californian rock-psychedelic energy passed by Dior and Saint Laurent. Yet, ultimately, fashion will be able to enjoy a new archetype. The bourgeois 3.0, like spring, has arrived.