Bernard Arnault Open Letter to Le Monde. Introduction by Eleonora de Gray, Editor-in-Chief of RUNWAY MAGAZINE “The Price of Transparency: The Gulf Between Gossip and True Savoir-Faire.”
A serious journalistic investigation into an industrial superpower has one primary objective: to analyze how the engine actually functions. It examines how an enterprise of 220,000 people operates on a generational timeline, how legacy brands navigate brutal global economic shifts, and how centuries of artisanal savoir-faire are meticulously preserved and commercialized.
For six full months, LVMH granted rare, unprecedented transparency. Executives, family members, and key leaders opened their doors to explain the complex realities of operating the world’s leading luxury group. Yet, what was delivered at the end of this half-year effort was a Soap Opera with Hermes ties. Presented with an industrial masterclass, the investigation completely abandoned market analysis in favor of personal gossip, wardrobe inventories, and manufactured stereotypes.
When a legacy press trades economic rigor for domestic melodrama, it raises a serious question about the state of media investigation and public interest of today.
In response, Bernard Arnault delivered a rare and fabulous piece of satire—a razor-sharp masterclass in executive wit that neatly dismantles the caricature while reminding us of the true weight, responsibility, and long-term vision of French luxury.
Below is the complete English translation of Bernard Arnault’s open letter.
Merci
It seems I am the head of “the last royal family of France.“
I discovered this while reading Le Monde, somewhere between my first and second cup of tea. My children, alerted via WhatsApp, immediately asked if this meant they now had to curtsy to me. I told them a simple “Good morning, Sir” would do, just as it always has. They burst out laughing. It was, I think, the highlight of my week.
Le Monde has clearly decided to roll out the heavy artillery: a six-month investigation, two full-time journalists, six double-page spreads, and a grand finale published this Friday. This level of effort deserves a brief acknowledgment. So… thank you.
I haven’t been treated to such a spectacle since I took over Boussac in 1984. Back then, they called me “The Terminator.” I much prefer “the last royal family”—it is infinitely more elegant, and quite frankly, far better for sales at Dior.
I am well aware that by responding, I am handing this serial exactly the spotlight it was likely hoping for: a final episode, penned by my own hand. So be it.
May it serve at least one purpose: sparing the energy of anyone else currently betting on the fracture of a family just to sell newspapers. They are going to be waiting a very long time.
Let us review the findings.
First, I learned that my staff is impeccably tailored and that none of them are overweight. I sincerely apologize to your readers for this grave oversight in body diversity, and I will be sure to raise the issue with the corporate cafeteria on Monday. I also learned that we apparently confiscate Hermès ties from our visitors. Completely false—we let them keep them. We merely offer a second, slightly more discreet option for the elevator ride. It is simply a matter of good manners. I will add, strictly between us, that I happen to own quite a few myself.
Next, I am accused of whispering into the ears of presidents. I plead guilty: Mitterrand, Chirac, Sarkozy, Hollande, Macron. I suppose I should have stayed confined to Avenue Montaigne, speaking only to my dog. For the sake of exhaustive journalism, I should add that beyond five American presidents, I have also whispered to three British prime ministers, two German chancellors, and the Emperor of Japan. Not a single line was dedicated to those whispers. Must we conclude that only French whispers are scandalous? For a luxury group that generates 75% of its revenue entirely outside of Europe, your editorial priorities escape me.
Then we have the shocking revelation of our “business first” strategy. The fact that a group exporting the vast majority of its French-made products dares to factor commerce into its strategy is, apparently, a journalistic scoop. I am on the edge of my seat for your next breakthroughs: L’Oréal sells cosmetics, Danone is interested in yogurt, Renault makes cars. That should easily keep your front pages full until Christmas.
But wait—it is perfectly fine for LVMH to sell its products, just not everywhere! Out of all the massive corporations exporting to China, only one, it seems, must answer for the nature of the regime: the one exporting French luxury. Curiously, Airbus and the 2,200 planes it delivered to Chinese airlines—along with countless other French exporters—did not seem to trigger this same profound moral vigilance from your desk. I eagerly await the sequel!
Further along, I supposedly exert pressure on my media properties. I read this particular section with immense fascination. It was published in a daily newspaper where one of the individual shareholders happens to be, in his private life, my “son-in-law.” Someone will have to explain to me one day, very calmly and without a hint of irony, the precise geometry of French editorial independence. I find it entirely captivating. In fact, I would gladly fund the masterclass.
And now for my absolute favorite: “lover of the arts and tax write-offs.” I personally contributed 200 million euros to the reconstruction of Notre-Dame. I am financing a mathematics research institute at Polytechnique to the tune of 50 million. I gifted Paris, and France, the Fondation Louis Vuitton, which welcomes 1.5 million visitors annually. Yes, I financed the Fondation Louis Vuitton precisely within the legal framework voted on by the French Parliament in 2003, proposed by the Minister of Culture. In plain English: the laws of the Republic encourage companies and individuals to donate to the public interest; I donated, and somehow, this makes me highly suspicious. If this legal mechanism causes you such deep distress, I suggest you convince the legislature to repeal it. Until then, I stand by it entirely. No one forced my hand.
Finally, the grand finale: the family. You don’t spend six months writing about a man without eventually inviting yourself, in your own mind, to his dinner table. There, you discovered my five children, my wife, my nephews. I would have appreciated at least a shred of nuance—perhaps acknowledging how five highly driven personalities manage to work under the same roof without the entire enterprise dissolving into a tragic Italian soap opera. But apparently, in the Arnault household, we do not discuss; we plot. We do not deliberate; we battle for the throne. It makes for excellent fiction. In the real world, my children manage massive Houses, build incredible teams, make hard decisions, and—absolute sacrilege—actually call each other on Sundays. What ordinary people call a family Sunday, your writers call a corporate conspiracy. It is clearly just a matter of vocabulary. We prefer Sundays.
On a more serious note, if you will allow it.
Luxury is one of the very few industries on earth that thinks in generations, not financial quarters. A cognac sleeps for anywhere from 10 to 50 years before it is ever sold. A vineyard’s legacy is passed down over eighty years. The unparalleled savoir-faire of a master trunk-maker or glassblower takes two decades to build, and only three years to completely destroy. You do not manage this heritage like a Silicon Valley tech platform: you cultivate it, you protect it, you pass it on. It is a long game, and an immense responsibility—one made even heavier by the fact that it does not actually belong to me. It belongs to the hands and minds of our 220,000 employees worldwide, the 40,000 working right here in France, the families who depend on us, and the historic Houses for which we are merely the temporary custodians.
Of all this—of the hundreds of manufacturing workshops thriving on French soil, of the thousands of young apprentices we train every single year in the artisanal arts—your investigative series could not spare a single sentence. You preferred to take inventory of our wardrobes and X-ray a family dinner. That is an editorial choice, and I respect it. In a free country, you are perfectly entitled to prefer cheap gossip over the reality of the workshops. It is far juicier, I will easily grant you that.
One final, very sincere remark for Mesdames Bacqué and Schneider. Your previous investigative series ended with the Wertheimers, the owners of Chanel, describing them as: “discreet,” “patrons of the arts,” “quietly guiding their fourth generation, far from the spotlight.” This current series on the Arnaults ends with: “the court,” “terror,” and “rivalries.” Would you like to know the real difference between our two families? The Wertheimers refused to speak with you. We opened our doors.
For six straight months, at your own request, multiple top executives took the time to sit with you, to walk you through their life’s work, and to explain exactly what it takes to operate a global luxury empire. My family did the exact same thing: my five children and my wife gave you their time, their dedication, and their attention. I did as well. We were all present, all completely available, and all entirely united.
It is quite clear to me that you have actively chosen to punish us for our transparency. Let that be a lesson for whoever you decide to target next.
One final question for you, asked with a smile. In 1984, when I took over Boussac, would your prestigious newspaper have bet a single, symbolic franc that forty years later, France would be home to the undisputed global leader in luxury? A company flying the flag of French excellence in nearly 100 countries, having contributed over 40 billion euros to the public treasury?
Please, take your time answering that. In the meantime, I invite you for a drink at the Foundation. The wines will be strictly French. You might even bump into a few of the “characters” from your little soap opera. You will quickly find they are far better company than you imagined.
As for me, rest assured: I will continue to enjoy Le Monde’s crossword puzzles. Those, at least, are consistently excellent.
Bernard Arnault
