La Ville Lumière

Only a few weeks later, by mid-March, I was beginning to feel as if I might survive and thrive in Paris. I was still terribly sad to have been so abruptly parted from Franz. Undeniably, I missed his hands and other parts of him, in bed. But he had warned me—and he had helped me, too, as much as he could, and for that I was endlessly grateful. I was taking charge of my rekindled confidence. If Countess Marie d’Agoult tried to disparage me in public, I told myself, I would put up a good fight, and I guessed that I was a more under-handed scrapper than she had ever learned to be.

That spring in Paris, everything was bubbling and stewing with unrest and a kind of excited agitation. Politics were in the air, everywhere—and whispers of possible civil war, should things continue as they were headed. The government of Louis Philippe, the Citizen King, was becoming increasingly repressive as artists and others grew loud in their questioning of authority. Members of the rising middle class were spinning their newly earned wealth in bold, new directions, while the entitled hid behind their gated walls, and the poor still waited—restlessly, impatiently—for the long-promised liberté, equalité, et fraternité. Ferment, indeed.

Plenty of room for me to join the fray!

After debating with myself (whose to use first?), I sent George’s letter to Eugène Sue’s address, with a note letting him know where I could be found. I’d taken residence in a tiny hotel near Montmartre, had purchased a new velvet hat to go with my amazon riding jacket, and there I awaited developments.

Monsieur Sue was indeed the poised and debonair dandy George had described. We met at a coffee house.

“Mademoiselle Montez? Please, sit here with me.”

I could tell, from his small grin, that he liked what he saw. He was quite handsome, I was happy to note, and slim; he’d been a successful military surgeon serving the navy on the Spanish campaign in 1830, prior to inheriting his family’s wealth (so George had told me). He held himself as a doctor should—very upright, very observant.

“Coffee? Or chocolate?”

“Black coffee, por favor,” I told him. “I am not partial to sweets.”

“Good, I will remember that.”

What followed was a whirlwind week of theatre, ballet, musical plays, suppers and other social events, with me on his arm. Interestingly, there was no quick invitation to his bedroom. Eugène Sue was unusual, in that way, and I wondered when and if that would change. Truthfully, I was glad—it gave me breathing space; I wasn’t ready to embark once more into the sexual arena. At the time we met, he’d just begun planning the second of what were being dubbed his anti-Catholic novels. The first, Les Mystères de Paris, had been serialized in one of the papers during all of the previous year.

“It was so popular that even those who can’t read would stand outside the shops begging others to read aloud the latest installment so that they could hear it,” he told me. “It pleased the common people, vilified religion and the élite. Alors, it made me a lot of money, and one can’t say no to that.”

Recently published in book form, he gave me a copy.

“I’ve never read so much fiction before—and so quickly!” I enthused.

“One after the other, like downing ripe cherries: it’s sweet and addictive.”

“Yes, it is. Merci, Monsieur Sue.”

I sat down with the novel that very evening. An adventure tale, it was terrifying, suspenseful, and gory, featuring a mysterious Duke disguised as a Parisian worker, a black doctor who’d formerly been a slave, a prostitute, and a murdering butcher! In the dark of the night (unable to put it down), candle burning at my side while tucked up in bed, Les Mystères made me relive once again (dear God!) the mournful images branded behind my eyes: a pitch-dark night on the flat, frozen Spanish plains, in the clutches of the vile Jesuit priest. Pistol to my head, he’d revealed the kind of rapture that signals true depravity. Through thin, spittle-covered lips, he’d hissed of his spying upon Diego and me in the stable, where we’d lain, naked, loving each other—ecstatically pleasuring each other, for hours. The Jesuit had watched. Oh God, how my soul still shuddered…

Clawing my way out, I closed Eugène Sue’s book.

I left the bed and moved to the window, looking down into the street at the lamps winking and glimmering through the soft new leafing of the trees. I cannot stay in this dark place, I whispered to my trembling self, and made another vow: I am not ruled by pessimism—I refuse! I’ve been loved by an amazing man, I told myself: death doesn’t change that. By two amazing men, in fact—neither of whom could be mine for long. I will find love again, and it will be a love that lasts. And then, above and beyond my hope for love: I can shoot, I rarely miss, and I vow to get better; I can ride like a Cossack, and dance until dawn. I’ve come through terror, I am strong. My new life is just beginning: nothing will hold me back. No more regrets, Lola, and—definitely—no more fear.

Outside the window, Paris lay at rest, impassive, majestic, and unmoved.

Never mind. It was all true—or so I wanted to believe. I would believe.

*

I began putting things in place. With a word from Eugène, I talked my way into dancing lessons with Hippolyte Barrez, choreographer at the Paris Opéra, to work on my technique (for I knew that I needed it). On my own merits, I also signed up—the first woman to be allowed to do so—for target practice at Lepage’s famous shooting gallery. They remembered me there from my first time in Paris, when Juan de Grimaldi had been teaching me.

On the afternoon I inquired about membership, master instructor Grisier was in attendance, watching my aim. Though I hadn’t before used the particular pistol they gave me, I was delighted to handle its welcome weight, and I hit a bull’s-eye, almost first off.

“Good shot, young woman,” he said, stroking his mustache. Turning to the manager, he remarked, “Extremely good. Let her come. Should be interesting, make them jump.”

¡Hola!

Next I took myself to the newspaper office of Jules Janin at the Journal des Débats, with Franz’s letter. A good friend of Liszt’s, Janin was powerful and greatly feared as a critic.

I found him growling behind a large desk covered in piles of paper. “What do you want?” he demanded with a scowl.

“I have a letter of introduction addressed to you, señor. From Franz Liszt?”

When I passed over the letter, he grunted and waved me to sit. He was a very stout forty or so, hair greying, and deeply solemn. Dear God, I thought, keep your courage, girl, and deploy the luscious Spanish sibilance you’ve honed to perfection.

“Well,” he said, looking up with impatient eyes, “I don’t understand what you think I can do for you.”

I hitched myself to the edge of the chair, kept my voice soft and silky, my French words polite. “Monsieur Janin, I simply wonder whether you could put in a good word, in your paper, whenever you see fit. I am a Spanish dancer with some fame, widowed during the Carlist War. I seek to dance in France, in order to make my living away from my sorrows. I can never return to Spain, after all that has happened.” I laid it on, but not too thick.

He listened carefully, rubbing his bristly chin, and then he nodded. “I understand now. But—”

I flattered him a bit. “Your articles are so perceptive, so intelligent.” (And influential as all get out.) I smiled and placed my hand on top of his, as it lay upon his desk (a bit daring, but what the hell). He turned his hand over and grasped mine lightly. What now? I tried a joke, with a Spanish flavour—that might be amusing, I thought. I couldn’t really remember one, but decided to make it up as I went along.

“Do you know what the donkey said to the Jesuit?”

Who knows why, but with those words, my mind was suddenly alight with inspiration. There was something wonderful about ridiculing the detestable tribe of the Society of Jesus! I don’t know why I’d never thought of it before.

Janin looked bemused while I improvised, as if he’d never heard a woman tell a joke before, but at the final punchline—a little bit racy, but not going too far—he spluttered and guffawed, then patted my hand. “I’ve read about you in the papers, Mademoiselle Montez. There is no doubt that Franz needed some fun in his life—I can see at least part of the attraction. And the other parts I can guess at.” His hairy eyebrows wiggled slightly, and he patted his belly. “I will see what can be arranged.”

Huzzah!

On the strength of this, I moved on to the Paris Opéra (aim high, why not?) to meet its director, Leon Pillet—the man to whom Franz’s second letter was addressed.

Again I pulled out all the stops. “I am the grieving widow of General Diego de Léon, Spanish war hero, unjustly executed—ah, I see you’ve heard of this?”

The little fellow’s eyebrows had jumped to the top of his narrow head. “Indeed, madame. You have my sympathy. That was a terrible injustice, quite unbelievable. And you—?”

“I must make my way now, alone, for I will never return to the land of my birth, a land that could murder such a heroic and wonderful man.” And oh, that was true. The unexpected but honest tears spilled hotly onto my bosom.

He leapt to his feet, whisking a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Madame, s’il vous plâit… Oh, mon Dieu…”

After a bit of mopping up and some rueful smiles, we were speaking animatedly together. “And what is your forte?” he asked.

“I dance cachuchas and boleros.” I described them to him.

“There was a cartoon I seem to remember…”

“Yes, that was me in the press—with the whip and the Prussians, ha ha!”

Pillet was a ditherer, though. After a half hour’s discussion, he said, “I am not sure you would go over well here, madame. The Opéra is a hallowed stage. Such an act as you describe…”—et cetera, et cetera. It made me tired just listening to his excuses.

But I made sure he wouldn’t forget me completely. I rose. “Well, muchas gracias for your indulgence, señor. I can only hope that you might reconsider.” Leaning forwards to thank him, a deep flash of my décolletage caught his eye and I heard him hitch his breath.

Gotcha.

By the end of that first week, Janin had written a nice little article about me and my talents. I also heard back from Pillet, who’d decided to give me a spot entr’actes at the end of the month, where I would dance El Oleano—me and my Spider Dance, at the Paris Opéra! Who would believe!

*

So—riding high, riding proud—I headed off to the Jockey Club on Eugène Sue’s arm. It didn’t matter to me that he seemed to prefer the next conquest to the one he was with. We were all looking around, scanning the horizon, and I could give as good as I got in that regard. Eugène was fun, a jolly companion; George had done me a real favour there. I trust him somehow, I told myself. He was taking me to meet the rest of the Parisian lions, the writer-critics and journalists who dominated the landscape.

The Jockey Club de Paris was already famous and infamous. Established ten years earlier by one of the influential newspapermen for the mutual benefit of les gentilhommes sportifs, it was subtitled, ‘The Society for the Encouragement of the Improvement of Horse Breeding in France.’ I think the sub-subtitle could have been something along the lines of, ‘As well as the Promotion of Carefree Beauty for the Unspoken Allocation of Courtesans in Paris.’ Admittedly I’m speaking from hindsight and with the weight of everything I’ve gone through since. Certainly at the time—in March of 1844—I was delighted to join that prosperous crowd.

On the steps outside, we ran into Théophile Gautier, the man to whom Franz’s final letter was addressed. In his early thirties, wild-haired and wild-hearted, he was from a modest background, becoming a journalist in Paris because he wanted to travel and to make a good living—he told me so himself. He was a bit affected, in that he wore a monocle, which he never really needed, and had a high, giggly laugh which he put to use often. Gautier worked at La Presse for an editor Franz had mentioned in connection with Marie d’Agoult: Émile de Girardin. As we went in, Eugène whispered that Gautier could be important to me because he was a dance critic who enthused about a dancer’s physical form and vital energy more than her technique. Hey, bingo, I thought—sign him up for the end of the month!

Also in attendance, handing the valet his overcoat, was Pier-Angelo Fiorentino, an Italian. He’d been an actor in his country of birth and escaped to Paris after a duel gone wrong in which he’d killed the other duellist. Eugène told me this just before the Italian swirled around, eyes crinkled with mirth, to greet his friend and to meet me. Pier-Angelo was thirty-eight, somewhat good-looking except for very thick, red lips which he covered with a large mustache. He wrote for the papers too, he told me, and had at one time been part of Alexandre Dumas’ play factory. As I was to discover, Pier-Angelo (like many Italians) loved to give and receive all sorts of gossip.

“Play factory?” I asked, over the rising din of excitable voices.

“Oh, yes! He doesn’t write them all by himself; he’s got a stable of collaborators, young hopeful scribblers—but he takes all the credit!”

Eugène was standing by, a wry grin on his face.

“Really?” I said. “His plays for the theatre?”

“And probably his new stuff, in the feuilletons, oh yes,” Pier-Angelo continued. “How else could one explain the unreasonable output? He’s writing novels for five different papers at the same time. He’s unstoppable, soaking up cash, taking all the work from everyone else!”

“What’s the trouble now, Pier?” asked Eugène. “There’s something behind this.”

“Sure. He’s just turned down one of my plot ideas for a novel, the bastard—and it was terrific.”

There, in a nutshell, the ever-present enormity of Alexandre Dumas was confirmed yet again. He had ascended to the throne of Fame; the dragon lay at his feet, conquered. The week I’d arrived, two of the main newspapers were just beginning two separate novels in serialization. One was called The Three Musketeers, and the other, The Count of Monte Cristo. I’d begun reading them, thinking I’d be able to throw them down in high dudgeon—but was disgusted to find myself becoming undeniably addicted to the characters and their adventures. Musketeers was hilarious, Monte Cristo deeply dramatic and suspenseful—how appalling! It was like a secret vice, and I had to have my fix of them, daily, like every other Parisian. How was he doing it?

“Come along, Lulu,” said Eugène. “Time to crawl deeper into the bowels of the beast.” He took my arm again and we moved on, leaving the Italian arguing with the valet over the treatment of his overcoat.

The Jockey Club was a lavishly appointed building full of smaller rooms where different circles of men (and women) could gather. There was, of course, a race track outside, as well as stables and housing for jockeys and trainers, but the main business of the Club seemed to be the talk afterwards, and the drinking, smoking, canoodling and gambling that usually surrounds gentlemen of leisure who follow the sporting life.

One main room—a very large one, like a ballroom—was at the heart of it, and that is where Eugène steered me. Here I could see a number of brightly dressed women laughing and sipping at garishly coloured liquids. They reminded me of hummingbirds, flitting quickly about the room, stopping to speak with someone and then someone else.

“Paris’ finest,” Eugène said, “all in one place. Very convenient, don’t you agree?” “Finest?”

“Les lorettes,” he said, “and a few of the newer filles en carte. Courtesans, my darling—your direct competition, don’t you think?”

I was outraged. “I certainly do not! I am a working dancer—”

“I know, and a grieving widow. But widows are better than virgins, anyway. They know what they’re missing, and sooner or later they come back, starved for it.”

I whacked him with my fan, hard.

“There’s money to be made here, too, Lulu. Lots of it.”

“I have an engagement at the Paris Opéra. I don’t need to stoop so low.”

“Look around—do these women look as if they are unhappy? Or stooping low?”

Each and every one was gorgeously attired. In fact, on closer inspection, I have to say that I have never been in a room so literally stuffed with incredibly beautiful young females. Eugène began to point them out for me. “That one is named Olympe Pelissier, the reigning queen—so gorgeous and so in demand that she can actually make her own choices. She was mine for a while—not exclusively, but… Well, we’re adrift. Over there is Anäis Lievenne—she’s a crazy thing, an actress in musical plays of sorts and a terrible cheat at cards, but fun in bed. Or so they say. And the thin, pale girl—see over there?—Marie Duplessis. We call her Merci. Kind and sweet.”

The girl he was pointing out was coughing delicately, fingers on her lips, as she listened to a rumple-haired young chap who was speaking at her in an agitated fashion.

I suppose I was very naïve. “Do they do anything?” I asked. “I mean, other than…”

“Some act, some dance. A lot like you.”

I hit him again. He seemed to like it. Then he bought me a drink and we moved through the crowd, chatting and flirting; many of the men were ones I’d met the previous week at the theatres and supper clubs Eugène had taken me to, so I smiled and vamped ingenuously. There was something about the highly-charged atmosphere that was making me nervous, so unfortunately I probably began to accept one or two drinks more than I should have. I don’t really remember.

The large room was still filling up and it was long past midnight. Some of the women and a few of the men began disappearing upstairs. One fellow had sat himself down at the upright piano in the corner and started playing, not very well, but with plenty of fervour. Eugène’s amused face swam closer as he asked, “Isn’t this the kind of thing you like to dance to?” I listened and shook my head, then listened again. Maybe it was. In fact, very much like it, I decided. Perhaps I should just…

And before I knew it, I was up and twirling. I sashayed over to the man at the piano and placed my drink down. There was a riding crop sitting there, across the top of the instrument. “Do you know a cachucha, perchance?” I asked, picking up the crop, just on a whim.

“I know what they are. I’ll give it a whirl.”

He did, and so did I—whirl, that is. People moved away, clearing a space, and as the notes continued (though haphazard and not very Spanish in flavour), I was becoming inspired. I’d been quiet too long, docile and toadying for favours even longer—I needed to move, to fling, to kick! And stamp! And swish with the whip! I followed my instinct and (so Eugène told me later) did something quite unique in the history of the Jockey Club. Taking aim, I made a mighty leap—like an antelope—into the centre of the cleared space, before rising up on my toes, almost en pointe. Balancing there, with a movement of great agility, I then raised the other leg high into the air and stayed in that difficult pose for quite some time, while with my free hand I flashed the crop about and made it whistle through the air (the brightly-coloured women regarding me with confusion, while some of the gentleman jostled for a better position). Somewhere, in my imagination, the whip was punishing a certain countess with a blanched almond complexion, I seem to recall… Then I got bored of that. So I brought my leg down, detached my garter and flung it at the closest gent, a dark-skinned, chestnut-haired fellow with an insolent appearance. He snatched it up, brandishing it with a laugh and a flash of his eyes at me. A short, fat individual with tiny hands began clapping loudly, gazing at me with the kind of fixed intensity that I abhor—I ignored him pointedly and turned away. There, off in a corner, was another fellow, and it’s odd but through all the haze I do remember him: medium height, slim build, dark hair and whiskers, and a revealing pair of tight, buff-coloured breeches, with a thin cigar in hand and a lovely laugh pealing from between his lips as he watched me…

Then—well, there’s a blank. I’m not sure how Eugène got me home. In fact, when I woke I realized I wasn’t at home, I was at Eugène’s. In his bed. For the first time. He was lying beside me, smoking thoughtfully. It seemed to be morning. And my head was pounding like a bugger.

“Oh, merde.”

He looked over. “Hurts, does it? I’m sure it does.”

I realized I was naked. “Did we—?”

“Oh yes.”

“Was I—?”

“Very much so. The inspiration continued, believe me. You are extremely flexible, Lola Montez.”

I lay there, silent, for a few moments. “Did I make a fool of myself, at the Club?”

“Certainly not. You did get yourself noticed, that’s all. Great advance publicity for your dancing next week, is my bet. Dancing like that? And at the Opéra, too… Mon Dieu, the grey hairs won’t know what hit them—if they don’t collapse first, from the stimulation. Management had better have the medics standing by. The throwing of the garter was a nice touch.”

“The what?”

“You threw your garter—the ever-pompous Rosemond de Beauvallon was the lucky recipient. He’ll add it to his collection. He’s drama critic at Le Globe and one of the city’s finest marksmen. You don’t get into an argument with that young duellist if you know what’s good for you. Quite the womanizer, as well.”

“Hmpf. More than you?”

“I am an innocent lamb in comparison, believe me. Anyway, never mind all that. I need to get you up because I’ve got work to do.”

“Did you like it? I mean, me?” What an idiot, why did I ask that?

“’Course I did.” He threw back the covers and surged to his feet. “But that was then; now it’s today. What’s ahead?”

I sat up carefully. “Was there a man, over in the corner, dark hair and whiskers…?”

“He noticed you, too. That’s Dujarier, co-editor of La Presse. One of Olympe’s current inamoratos. The one she bumped me for, in fact.” He looked up from pulling on his trousers. “You remember him, do you? Why?”

I lay back down, holding my head. “I … Don’t know. I made him laugh.” My temples throbbed abominably, and I was sure I would soon be sick. “Is there a basin handy anywhere?”

*

On the evening of the 27^th of March, I made my French dancing début—at the Paris Opéra! I was scheduled to appear after the evening’s regular performance of Der Freischütz and—thanks to some more advance press by my new friends Gautier and Fiorentino, who mentioned my beauty, charismatic spirit and gypsy energy—the house was packed to the rafters. In the crowd were plenty of Jockey Club patrons and the women they knew, as well as ballet devotees and the critics.

I’d rehearsed once with the orchestra in the afternoon, and had a light supper with Eugène after that. Thrilled and agitated, I asked his advice.

“So now you’ve seen El Oleano—am I good? Will it be everything I wish?”

Cool as a river trout, as always, he said, “It will astonish and delight, never fear.”

“Should I add something, do you think? Is there anything missing?”

“Just follow your instincts—as you yourself say, you’re inspired by the moment and carry on, regardless.”

There was something in the way he said that… “But—”

“Remember the garter. And the whip. At the Club? Have those be your recourse, if you get into difficulties.”

I checked his face carefully to see whether he was serious. He seemed to be.

So, two hours later, I was standing backstage, waiting impatiently for the German opera to come to an end, then being jostled and pushed about by the singers as they came off, following their curtain calls. I was flushed and excited, and perhaps a tad over-strung. One tubby soprano half-crashed into me; I gave her a little surreptitious cut with the riding crop, just below the elbow on her bulging red flesh. She couldn’t discern where the sting had come from and stumped off, cursing in German. Touché! In another heartbeat, here it came: my turn on the boards! The music began, and with the opening bars, my heart suddenly lurched with fear (a never-before-experienced, and unwelcome, phenomenon!—oh fuckity, merde, what do I do now?) Then—¡santo cielo, gracias a Dios!—inspiration seemed to indeed kick in, and I let it rip. I rushed on stage, made a mighty antelope leap for the centre, and repeated the move that apparently I’d performed at the Jockey Club: rise up on my toes, raise one leg high in the air, and—hold! Swish the crop, swish, swish! The enormous applause that had greeted my entrance began to dissipate somewhat. They’re just waiting, I told myself, don’t lose your nerve now. I whipped off the garter on my raised leg and flung it at a gentleman in the front row. This provoked some loud whistles and cheers from masculine throats. Good, that’s done it, then! That’s loosened them up!

I began El Oleano in earnest. As always, it passed in a blur of concentration and exertion: the young girl frisking about in a meadow, stooping to pick flowers. She steps unbeknownst on the hairy tarantula’s nest, and then—the twirling and stamping. Get them out, the tickly spiders crawling up my legs! And now I had a riding crop, too—so I used the whip to sting them out, lightly—ankles to knee, flick, flick!—flashing my skirts, higher and higher! From the audience’s angle, glimpses of frothy crinolines were being revealed, as well as the garter on the other thigh, and—wait!—is she whipping her own legs, her thighs? Does that hurt? Is that—ethical? And ever higher it goes, the whip, the skirts! Are they simply imagining, or is there…?—a glimpse of black lace, beautiful, black Spanish lace, between those thighs. The kind the widow ladies use on their heads when they enter a church, but for this dance? Oh, there are other uses for lace than going to church! A kind of strangled, masculine roar erupts, then recedes. ¡Deliciosa! And now—aha!—the innocent girl pauses, breasts heaving, before spying the hideous, demonic spider protecting its lair. Rush towards it, and stamp! And stamp! It is dead, it is vanquished, and the girl at last is free.

I came to a breathless halt and curtseyed deeply. In front of me, a sea of Parisian faces—and silence. Then my journalist friends seemed to remember themselves and led the charge, clapping and hollering. I curtseyed again before being signaled offstage by the bossy stage manager, gesturing at me madly from the wings. Underscoring my new friends’ hollers I could hear—mon Dieu, what was it?—a frightening “Boo!” followed by other sounds of the same nature, swelling and becoming meaner. As I nimbly skipped off, a belligerent couple rushed on. The orchestra kicked up again and the two began dancing frenetically in circles to a kind of organ-grinder melody. This was the avant-garde (and supposedly sensational) polka, the other “new” billing of the evening. I stood backstage, watching them, not sure what had just happened.

The rest of that night—as always, after performance—was also a blur, due to excitement, nerves, cheek-and-air kisses with dozens of well-wishers and jealous types, and too much to drink too quickly. George Sand had come, I noticed, along with her Chopinsky and children. “Did you like it?” I called, and she smiled, nodded and waved through the sea of bodies between us, and they moved on.

Then I caught a glimpse of the slim young man in the buff-coloured breeches. I was sure it was him, though at that moment he was just slipping into an evening coat and hat. Beneath the expensive overcoat, I could see well-cut and close-fitting dark trousers set off by a dashing violet-coloured waistcoat. My heart gave a bounce, and there was a quick, involuntary thrill in another area as well. He was by far the handsomest man in the room—in the whole of Paris, perhaps?

“Who is that man?” I nudged Eugène with urgency.

“Dujarier again,” he said, and added, “I told you, he’s taken.”

All the pushing and pulling, as the crowd ebbed and flowed. I strained to gaze one last time at the finest-looking stranger I’d ever seen, in the violet-coloured waistcoat—the angel in tight trousers who had laughed a beautiful peal of laughter as I danced at the Club and had come, tonight, to see me again. Perhaps he would seek me out, perhaps he was thinking of me as a black-haired vision of femininity, and whatever is she doing with Eugène Sue? Perhaps…! But off he went, into the street and gone.

Eugène seemed largely amused by the whole crazy melée and had the idea that we carry on to the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin to take in the last of the events there before the night was truly over, so that’s what we did. We gave a lift to the short, fat, balding man who—it seemed—had also been at the Club on that sketchily-remembered evening.

“Come with us, Doctor,” Eugène drawled, holding the cab’s door open.

“Don’t mind if I do,” as he lurched up and in. He threw himself down beside me, close against my skirts, and looked up into my face. He was very wide and squat. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, taking my hand in his own short, fat fingers. “I am Dr. David-Ferdinand Koreff.”

“Society doctor to all the ladies,” Eugène added. “Originally from Berlin, held a chair at the University in animal magnetism. Now, in Paris, he’s keeper of all the secrets—am I right, doctor? It must be maddening, to be so relied upon and yet so ignored.”

“Oh, believe me, Monsieur Sue, I am never ignored.” The short man turned again to me. I judged him to be in his early sixties, perhaps, but full of a rather frightening vital force, and possessing a thick German accent. “You were intoxicating, mademoiselle. Congratulations.” He brushed his lips against the back of my hand. They were very wet, and I could swear he gave it a bit of tongue, too. I pulled my hand away—graciously, I hoped—then wiped it surreptitiously against the seat.

“So what did you make of the dancing that followed our fair one?” Eugène asked.

“The polka,” the doctor nodded. “Well, it’s a wonder they haven’t excited morality charges yet, those two.”

“Listen up, Lulu,” Eugène said languidly. Why, I had no idea.

The doctor continued. “The Sixth Court of the Correctional Police of the Seine is on the march against indecency. I know the judge, he’s a martinet—sentenced one young girl to six months’ prison just recently, for profound corruption.”

I was aghast. “What, for dancing?”

“In a public dance hall, yes.” The doctor’s thick thigh, pressed tightly against my own, was making me sweat, and I was hugely relieved as I saw the cab pulling in front of the Porte Saint-Martin.

As we were getting out, the doctor said softly into my ear, “If you ever have need of me medically—for anything at all, or even if you are simply not feeling perfectly well—I am at your disposal. In fact, I would be delighted.”

Eugène whisked me away—on our longer legs we could move much more swiftly—and asked, with a smirk, “So, has he added you to his stable yet?”

“Not on your life,” I retorted.

“Now, now. A good man to know in a fix, surely. Every young woman in your position needs a Dr. Koreff.”

“Ugh.”

“Exactly.”

And we were inside the foyer. Another crush of bodies—we’d just missed the last of the entertainments, but Eugène wasn’t concerned. “I’m here more for the libations. Can I get you another?”

Just then I felt a large, hot presence over my left shoulder and, suddenly, an uncomfortably sharp pinch of my posterior—almost as bad as the pinch-twist combination for which I was known and feared as a boarding school girl in Bath.

“Ouch!” I shrieked, as the man who’d accosted me surged past and drew Eugène into an enormous bear-hug.

“Good fellow, well met!” the man enthused, embarking upon a long-winded story about everything he’d seen that night on the stage, during which Eugène laughed immoderately, looked over at me with an amused shrug and carried on listening. I had full opportunity, therefore, to study the giant with the crusher pinch. It was Alexandre Dumas himself. He was immensely large as well as tall, with the habit of leaning into the person to whom he was speaking, almost resting his chest and stomach upon them in exuberant fellowship.

“And what are you working on at the moment, mon bon ami?”

Eugène ducked his head, dissembling a bit. “Oh, I’m readying something new for Le Siècle, but not prepared to talk about it.”

“Ah,” cried Dumas, “but I’m running in Le Siècle, as you know, and don’t plan to be finished for months! You’ll have to wait!” And he was off again, gesticulating, laughing and bragging about his infernal Musketeers and their adventures.

Finally Eugène managed to turn off the tap of the other writer’s overflowing words and direct his attention to me. “Alex, stop a moment. We’ve just come from a big success of our own. My charming companion’s success—at the Opéra. Do you know our dear Lulu?”

“Don’t call me that,” I remonstrated, squeezing Eugène’s arm and giving it a shake. “Call me my proper name.” To the narcissistic giant I said, in Spanish, “Me llama Lola Montez.”

Dumas’ large head was weaving a bit, trying to focus, then his eyes caressed my body lasciviously. I thought, ha, this should be good—the monster of self will see that the young girl he insulted is now a young woman of substance. A success. I drew myself up to my full, and full-bodied, height.

“Never seen her before.” Clapping Eugène upon the back, “But that’s why we write for the theatre, isn’t it? Easier access to the latest young pieces.” He guffawed and moved off.

Once again, Alexandre Dumas had left me speechless. And maddened beyond belief.

I don’t remember what time it was when Eugène and I left the Porte, but it was very late and many drinks later. There was some rather coldly detached sexual congress in my bed afterwards, I seem to recall. Eugène, when tired, was abrupt and unwilling to look out for my needs and wishes. Perhaps it was his training as a surgeon—having viewed too many bodies on a slab or coming off the field of battle sporting bloody stumps where limbs had been—and he no longer gave a damn. I don’t know what it was, but kisses and caresses were of little interest to him. Perhaps because I was drunk and unsatisfied, I do remember some angry blubbering, followed by indignant fury at the memory of Dumas’ latest slight. That bum-pinch, plus the crass snub, set me off on a jag—I got into a state!—of railing and ranting against the large writer, then against all men who were cads, or selfish beasts—or depraved monsters. I ended by pouring forth my final encounter with the Jesuit madman, Father Miguel de la Vega. It just spewed out, amid violent tears and thumps of the mattress. When I finally stopped, depleted (as well as regretful for having said so much), Eugène looked more thoughtful than usual. There seemed to be a certain new something in the back of his mind.

Lying on his back, smoking and staring upwards, he said almost tonelessly, “But you’re all right now?”

“Well,” I began and took a deep breath, but he cut me off.

“Count your blessings. And don’t read the reviews.” He sat up quickly, then stubbed out his cheroot. “Now I must work—I’ve had some ideas, need to get them down. Adieu.” That man could dress more quickly than a trout slipping upstream.

Jesús! Would I never be given the credit that is due me? Must I always play second-fiddle to some man and his great deeds? Time for some heavy-duty target practice, I thought with a huff, then turned over and fell to sleep like a stone.

*

Later that day, I was poring over the newspapers and holding my head—for several reasons. First, I was beginning to think that Eugène Sue might be bad for my health. This was only one of many days on which I’d woken with pounding noggin and tongue like a sock. Really, he was too smooth for words, and everyone seemed to be part of his own personal hypothesis test: how much will she drink? Will she really do such and so? Let’s see what happens then, if she does. In the light of day, I suspected the garter episode had not done me any good before the Opéra audience of Parisian snobs.

Second, that pompous shit Théophile Gautier had written some dreadful things about my dancing! “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has nothing Andalusian about her except a pair of magnificent black eyes,” I read in La Presse. “What country is she really from?” he asked in the next line. Dammit! I jumped ahead. “We could say that Mademoiselle Lola has very pretty legs—as for the way she uses them, that’s another matter.” Merde! The turd babbled on about my run-ins with the police (how on earth—!) and my “horsewhip discourse” with Prussian officers (that damned cartoon) and the closing line: “Having heard of her equine achievements, we suspect Mademoiselle Lola is more at home on a horse than on the boards.” Fuck! I wanted to rip his wild, flowing hair from his head.

The other papers followed similar themes. None of them were kind to my dancing, though many flattered my personal attributes. This alleviated the hurt to a small degree, but not for long. I suddenly realized it was of paramount importance that I scoot off to Leon Pillet’s office at the Opéra to confirm my second appearance, scheduled for that Friday evening. I rushed around my tiny appartement, getting prettied, wearing my finest and then hailing a cab—head dully throbbing the whole time.

At Pillet’s office, my fears were confirmed. “I am sorry, mademoiselle,” he shrugged, “but I have canceled that performance. Your services will not be required.” I could see the morning’s papers lay scattered across his desk. “I will arrange for the payment we owe you, if you will be so good as to wait in the hall.”

Triple merde! The gobshite! The snotty lump of unsavoury pooh!

So then I found myself at Lepage’s shooting gallery, clasping a Smith and Wesson pistol and discharging it, reloading, then discharging it repeatedly into the target fifty yards away—an evil concentration having taken hold of my mind, and uncaring of anything else that might be going on around me. I remember thinking that this was the most satisfying thing I’d done in weeks. And—bull’s-eye!

Clapping and low whistles followed this display of accuracy. I came to and glanced about: the gallery had gained another six or seven shooters since I’d begun.

“Lovely. Deadly,” said one of the gentlemen, stepping forth and coming to preen in front of me. It was the chestnut-haired fellow I vaguely recalled from the Jockey Club, the one who’d caught my garter that night. “Rosemond de Beauvallon,” he intoned, reaching for the hand that wasn’t holding the smoking pistol, and bowing over it.

“Try to beat that one, right off,” another of the gents said, waving his pistol at the target I’d hit.

“We dare you, Beauvallon,” added a second.

Beauvallon dropped my hand, whipped around and delivered a bullet directly into the heart of the circles. “Done!”

More low whistles and commendations. “Why don’t the two of you have a contest?” one of the wags said, proud of himself for such an audacious suggestion, and looking around at his chums like a large water spaniel that’s just dropped a duck at its master’s feet.

Oh, my, this wasn’t what I’d expected—I’d simply wanted to come, be alone, and blast several dozen bullets at something inert that, in my mind’s eye, had acquired an unnecessary monocle and a high, giggly laugh. The other sportsmen, however, were very excited by this new idea and clapped Beauvallon (whose dark face began looking decidedly stormy) on the back several times.

“I will not fight a woman,” he said finally, “and that’s an end to it.”

“I will fight you, if you like,” I rejoined, before I even knew that the words were forming. The others hurrahed, and one of them dashed off to find a fresh target.

“This is absurd, gentlemen,” growled Beauvallon, before turning to me. “Forgive them their crassness, mademoiselle. I am the best shot in Paris, everyone knows this. They are simply setting you up for laughter later.”

“Is that so?” I wondered whether this might be true—and perhaps they’d all been there the night before, at the Opéra? Perhaps, too, they’d all read and snickered at the reviews that cut me to ribbons, that insulted my very soul. I tossed my hair away from my shoulders, then straightened them. “Let us put it to the test.”

“I can’t advise it,” said another man, stepping up. “Do you remember me, Mademoiselle Lola? At the Jockey Club that night? We spoke for a little bit—you were with Eugène Sue.”

“Of course,” I said, recalling that the red lips and the mustache belonged to the Italian, Pier-Angelo.

“Fiorentino,” he nodded, with a shy smile. “I enjoyed your performance last night. Never mind what they say, it’s just to sell papers.”

My brain fizzed suddenly. He meant well, I’m sure, but I could feel it coming, that rising surge that occasionally overtakes me. I never know when it will happen. It’s been the same ever since I was a little girl. A surfeit of restlessness?—a lack of familial care or reprimand when young? I have no idea. I fight against it, but most often to no avail. It is an uncontrollable phenomenon borne out of a concatenation of conflicting emotions: a volcanic eruption of molten fire, and I must follow where it leads me or I will burst. I bent my head and reloaded, swiftly. To my left, I could feel Beauvallon’s indignation mounting. Bueno.

Ready, I raised my head and my arm. “I like a challenge. Do you?”

And I fired into the target, just as the weedy sportsman who’d retrieved the new one was setting it in place. The bullet went true, straight to a bull’s-eye; the man leaped to safety, tumbling as he went.

“Parbleu,” Beauvallon muttered under his breath. I looked over in time to see him reload at speed, aim and fire again. The weedy fellow stood up, dusting off his knees, and raised his hands in the air.

“Shall I check, Beauvallon? For God’s sake, don’t either of you shoot me.” He loped across to the target, peered at the centre, then turned and cried, “Yours followed hers! No second hole!”

Incredulous whistles and murmurs from all the others, who raced over to examine the thing for themselves. Beauvallon gave me a smile from his very brown face; his teeth sparkled white, his tongue very red, where I could see the tip of it sticking out between those teeth. “Satisfied?”

“Not quite,” I answered, then called, “a fresh one, if you please.” The weedy chap and another dashed around, searching. I could see someone else joining us at this point; it was Grisier, the master marksman and instructor, the one who’d given the nod to my membership.

“What’s this then, Beauvallon? Is the lady giving you a run for the money?” And then there were new hoots and hollers, as everyone else realized they could be betting on this, and the wagers began flying around the room at top speed.

“A change of pistols, I think,” Beauvallon said.

“Do you agree?” Grisier asked me.

“Very well.”

“I shall bring two,” Grisier promised, “and they shall be fine ones. Duelling pistols.”

This gave me pause. I hadn’t often handled large ones such as those the duellists used, and didn’t think this fresh test was terribly fair. I hadn’t counted on the gentlemanly nature of Master Grisier, however. He did indeed bring duelling pistols, but they were smaller and lighter than I’d expected. “Choose the one you want, Mademoiselle Montez,” as he held them out for me, in their case. I indicated the one on the left. “I shall load the two, and you shall see me do so,” Grisier told us. “Of course,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and a glance at us both, “you are firing at the target, not at each other.”

During the loading, Beauvallon and I regarded one another. Beneath the dark colour of his skin, I could sense that he was blushing—with anger, I assumed. No matter. I squared my shoulders again; everyone was watching me with great attention, and I drank that in. They didn’t believe I could do this and were wishing me well—but I believed I could, and then they’d see. Grisier handed me the pistol I’d chosen, and gave the second one to my opponent.

Then I said, “Monsieur Beauvallon goes first, if you please.”

Absolute silence, absolute shock!

Fast as a striking snake, his arm shot out and the target was despoiled.

“Bull’s-eye!” the weedy one chirped with glee.

I raised my arm, took aim. Beside me, Beauvallon cleared his throat loudly. I dropped my arm, glared at him coldly. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, I do.” Very softly, under his breath.

I took aim swiftly then, and shot. Weedy one dashed forth and peered, searching in and around the centre, then—unbelievably! The cheek of him!—his head dipped and darted, checking the outer rings, and finally the sawdust-covered floor and paneled walls. Some of the others began to titter and mutter behind their hands. Fiorentino called, “What are you doing, man?”

“I’m just making absolutely certain,” El Weedo reported, then turned to face us with face ablaze. “That shot followed Beauvallon’s, as well. The lady aced Beauvallon’s bull’s-eye, if you can credit it!”

Men rushed in from all directions, and I found myself lifted into the air and galloped around the shooting gallery upon their shoulders, Fiorentino following and yelling at me, “Never fear, all of Paris shall soon hear of this! I’ll sell the story to the highest bidder, and make us all happy!”

By the time the jolly sportsmen had set me down, apologizing and patting my crumpled skirts, my chestnut-haired opponent had vanished.

*

Eugène thought that my spree in the shooting gallery had been a stupid thing to do, but I told him I didn’t need his opinion, thank you ever so. Pier-Angelo had penned a snappy little piece for the Corsaire the next morning, and I was pleased with it: “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has outdone herself at the Shooting Gallery of Lepage. Her first practice session left a card entirely perforated from firing rapid double coups. To top it off, the Andalusian’s astonishing prowess then vanquished Paris’ most famous shot, Rosemond de Beauvallon, in a double bull’s-eye.” I crowed about that when I took it to show Eugène.

“Doubly stupid, Lulu,” he said, throwing the paper down. “Now you’ve made an enemy.”

“Pooh on that,” I retorted. “He’ll get over it soon enough.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“And don’t call me Lulu.”

That afternoon we were heading, together, to an important event: I was going as Eugène’s guest to Olympe Pelissier’s Saturday salon, where artists, writers and courtesans mingled, read out loud to each other, and discussed issues of the day. In honour of the occasion I had bought myself a felt hat with blue feathers (to augment the sapphire blue of my eyes, though it had depleted my purse sadly), and Eugène had stumped up for a pearl-grey velvet jacket and a skirt of corresponding blue satin (bless him).

“You need to outshine the queen today, and I want to be there to see you do it.” His eyes glittered as he added, “Revenge is a dish best served cold—and I’ve been waiting for this one a long time.”

“That’s a line from Les Mystères, isn’t it?” I laughed.

“Indeed it is; well spotted. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Let’s go get her.”

I suddenly had a thought. “Who else comes to these things? Will George Sand be there?”

“Oh, George might come, you never know.”

“What about—I don’t know—Countess d’Agoult?”

“Marie? Shouldn’t think so, no. She holds her own salons. All the same men attend hers as Olympe’s, but Madame d’Agoult wouldn’t be caught dead with courtesans and lowly lorettes. Why, do you know her?”

“No,” I said, quickly.

“Ah!” he rejoined, grinning suddenly. “Of course! How could I be forgetting…”

“Forgetting what?”

“My little not-so-innocent, you’ve been in all the papers, as you so love to brag. Could this—? No, wait—Oh! I know! Is that how you met her?” A sly grin creased his face. “Nasty. Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I had promised Franz, and I had meant it.

“Everyone knows you were on Liszt’s arm for at least three weeks, in far off Dresden. And haven’t you heard? The god of music and his lady have just had a fatal falling-out. How did you miss that story?” I must have looked shocked, which prompted another grin. “Very acrimonious, yes indeed. Apparently the children are being used in a tug-of-war. Serves them right, of course—the adults, not the children. For years, Marie’s been obnoxious about the blissful love she engenders in the man. Her goal in life? To be admired.”

I regarded Eugène thoughtfully. He was rather nasty, himself, I realized. I should be careful, once our friendship cooled—as I knew it would, and perhaps already was. If he was saying that kind of thing about them, and they were supposedly all pals together in this free-flowing artistic milieu, then what would he be saying about me? The gossip and the back-biting were real, and quite lethal. Talk about enemies! When friends turn into them, count on true pain.

I also felt very sorry for Franz at this news, knowing how much the love of his children meant to him and the patient devotion he’d felt for their mother. Surely this breakup wasn’t all on account of me? The timing was certainly unfortunate—and the fury of a countess must never be overlooked, I told myself solemnly.

However: the salon. Off we went to it. I see clearly, in hindsight, how everything—my head spins, remembering—which was churned up before, during and after Olympe’s salon that afternoon, turned out to be just the opening volley of the turmoil to come. The event heralded the future: intense joy, unutterable anguish, appalling fear.

And there we were. Eugène led me through the mob at the second-floor apartment’s entrance. He’d spotted the hostess, the queen bee herself, Olympe Pellisier—a gorgeous, blonde confection in the fairest flowering of youth. She’d dressed elaborately in the most delicate shade of pink imaginable, highlighted lovingly with a deeper pink, as if she was a rose, at the centre of which lay a delectable, darker secret ready to be pillaged. As we approached, she looked me up and down haughtily. Oho, I thought, Eugène is right: this one can’t stand any rivals, and in me she sees a definite possibility. Fine! “You’re Eugène’s new amie, aren’t you? You are welcome,” she told me, obviously lying through her teeth. As she turned away to greet the next person, Eugène gave my arm a delighted jog at the elbow—“Well done, Lola! A palpable hit!” So I’d accomplished what he’d hoped for, right off the bat.

Olympe’s apartment was impressive: paid for, no doubt, by some of her admiring male patrons. It was as if one was stepping into a warm, gentle womb—the outer, public rooms decorated in soft pinks and greens; the inner chambers and the bed linens displayed shades of deeper carmine and vermilion. People of both sexes milled around throughout, looking and touching as if quite at home. There were tassels and cushions galore, as well as footstools, love seats and courting chairs. In one of the corners was a grand piano, and in another, a raised dais, which held a music stand and nothing else.

“For the writers who wish to read aloud,” Eugène said, noting my curiosity. “We can try out new ideas here, see the reaction. Poets, dramatists, even journalists. They all come and test themselves.”

“Alexandre Dumas?” I asked.

“Mais qui. Right over there. And his son, see? With Marie Duplessis, known as Merci—for obvious reasons. The son is besotted with her.”

From across the room, a graceful figure rose and moved towards us. It was the thin courtesan Eugène had pointed out at the Jockey Club. She came over, straight to me, placing her gloved hand upon my shoulder. “Come join me and Alexandre fils. He’s longing to be amused. You can call me Merci, everyone does—come.” She led me back to where the young man was languishing; Eugène turned away and began happily mingling.

Merci snuggled up against Dumas’ son, who seemed spoiled and rather churlish. “It’s irksome to Alex deuxième to watch his father lap up the praise,” she told me. “Is that not so, chérie?”

The youth nodded with a gloomy air, before giving vent to a splatter of words, which spilled forth in a high-pitched, frantic manner. “In actual fact, my soul is that of an ascetic; I observe, rather than indulge in, this turbulent existence. Oh, the paganism of modern life.” His eyes were now fixed upon his father, across the room: the big writer was holding forth with his usual bluster.

“Oh, God, look at her,” young Dumas moaned, pointing out his stepmother, Ida Ferrier, who was standing behind Dumas père and reaching for a glass of champagne.

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear heart,” Merci coaxed, before turning to a silent girl sitting in the corner nearby. “Pierrette, cheer up, can’t you?” When no response came, Merci sighed and flashed me a dazzling smile. Alex fils stood abruptly and slouched off into the throng. “Lola Montez,” Merci then said, leaning in to me with a weary laugh, “you are so welcome in our midst! Tell me all about yourself!”

Cigar and cigarette smoke billowed about in the air, as we two spoke and laughed and began to share confidences. Almost immediately, I could tell Merci-Marie Duplessis everything. She gasped in the right places, holding her heart and applying a handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. In turn, she gave me the outline of her life, and a surprising life it was, so far. Yes, she was a courtesan, mistress to a number of prominent and wealthy men, and hoping one day to have an apartment as beautiful as Olympe’s. She was barely twenty, as was Alex fils. (Mon Dieu, I was the dowager of the group! How could that be?)

“Because I was pretty, my father knew I could help the family,” she said. “He became my pimp when I was twelve. But then he wanted every centime of my wages, and that wasn’t fair, n’est pas? I left Normandy and moved to Paris at fifteen, starting work in a dress shop. The following year, I began the career I enjoy now. My little sister here took on my role in the family—and now she too needs to escape to Paris.”

As Merci said this, she nodded over at Pierrette, and I understood. Such a bedraggled thing, with her shattered expression and lank hair. I guessed she couldn’t be more than fourteen.

“If she can bring herself to it, Pierrette will do well here, and I’ll help her,” Merci went on, quietly. “The men I associate with prefer women like myself to be tiny and pale. The mothers and fiancées of these men are robust, with sturdy child-bearing hips. From me, les gentilshommes want something else. They want to believe they are handling a breakable object.” Just then Merci began to cough, waving her handkerchief up and down vigorously. “Oh, this smoke! It shall be the death of me!”

I glanced again at the girl-shadow who obviously lived in terror of her father—the sort of man who’d come to find her and drag her back to Normandy? Even if she managed to evade him, she would not take to Parisian life as Merci had done. The father had ruined her, and everyone could see it. The girl was gnawing on her fingernails, one after the other, like a mouse at its paws.

Just then I was startled by another voice, a kind of thick treacle dripping into my ear: “Mademoiselle Montez, we meet again. I knew it would not be long before I had the pleasure.” Beside me stood the short in stature, wide in girth Dr. Koreff.

“Oh, doctor,” breathed Merci, “you’re just the man I need to see! I take it you’ve met Lola?” She turned her gamine face back to me to say, “Dr. Koreff is a genius, a darling, we’d never survive without him!” And then, “Please, doctor, let me ask you about my dear sister. I’m so concerned…” She led him off to one side to whisper earnestly at him.

I smiled at the scared mouse in the corner. “Bonjour, Pierrette, I’m Lola. I’m new here, too.” She seemed close to panicking. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” a breathy voice quavered. “I feel—very ill. And frightened.”

I looked more closely. “You are quite pale, perhaps…”

“Please don’t look at me. I must just sit here—but I can’t seem to stop moving…”

It was true, the poor thing was twitching with nerves.

“Perhaps if you ate something?”

“No!” She almost jerked with revulsion. “I—I can’t.” And she began rocking back and forth, back and forth. It was a distressing sight, and I didn’t know what else to do.

“C’est dommage,” I sighed, turning away, telling myself that at least I had tried. Needing cheering, I searched the room for something else of interest.

And there it was.

A beautiful man in a violet waistcoat and close-fitting trousers. I stopped breathing. He had just arrived, was handing his coat to the maid, pulling off a pair of soft leather gloves, and finally his hat. Would he notice me? Would he come over?

Merci returned just then and sat down, before noting the object of my gaze.

“That man is Henri Dujarier.”

“You know him?” I asked, and then with a pang, “And in that way?”

She pouted out her lips and made a pardonnez-moi gesture. “Of course, but.”

“Is he yours?” I could barely get it out.

“None of them are mine,” she smiled. “They are—passing through.”

What a peculiar thing to say, and so casually. I’ve remembered it always—and partly because of what became of her, not so long thereafter.

“Dujarier interests you?” she asked. “Do you know about him?”

“Not at all.”

I could feel Dr. Koreff leaking our way again, with his eyes on Pierrette in a professional manner, but his ears tuned towards us.

“Dujarier’s brilliant,” Merci told me quietly. “He’s a writer and businessman, with the newspapers. From a modest background, and an honest one. He’s become part owner of La Presse, along with the equally brilliant Émile de Girardin. Girardin is taking care of news and politics, Dujarier of business, culture and subscriptions. It’s an incredible combination of talents. Dumas père considers Dujarier almost a second son—which of course does not please his real one.” She squeezed my hand. “He’s a new style of man, Lola. Made his money in private banking and was rich at twenty-four. He’s one of Olympe’s, of course. I doubt you can budge him; he’s in very deep.”

My God. I was surprised to realize that my face was flushed. Did Merci have any idea what kind of tigress she was encouraging with these bits and scraps? A voracious hunger had suddenly leapt into my belly at this third sighting of the stranger whose name I knew and not much else.

He’d turned back to the maid and taken from her a large bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne. Another turn, and then he stood facing us in the gorgeous flush of young male pride: Henri Dujarier. I can never say that name often enough; it purrs off my tongue with a sensuous, heartbreaking moan… Henri Dujarier. Everything and everyone else fell away.

Henri Dujarier, on that fateful day, was twenty-eight years of age. Tall and well-built, with black hair which fell over his collar in thick, waving chunks, as if startled out of his head and trying to spring free. His eyes, ringed with dark lashes, were a warm toffee colour. Strong wrists and arms were clad at that moment in a Parisian frockcoat of great beauty, a kind of chartreuse shade with dark green lapels. His trousers were well cut and dashing, hugging dreamy, long thighs. The cut of a well-made man’s trousers is a wonderful thing… Oh, just thinking of them makes me wet…

His handsome face lit up when he saw me with Merci, across the room. Then Olympe Pelissier hurried over to him, gushing and preening; he kissed her lips, presented her with the champagne and roses, and spoke softly. She laughed gaily and flounced off again with her trophies. Even before he turned back to look at me, I think I knew—I knew even then. Henri Dujarier is the one. He will always be the one. How do we know these things? It’s one of the great mysteries, but somewhere, deep in our bodies and inside our souls, we know.

Merci, giggling, took my hand and led me through bodies across to where he stood, watching us come. I could feel a flush moving up from my breasts, onto my neck, and across my cheeks. Oh mon Dieu.

“Henri, may I introduce—”

“The Spanish dancer, at last,” he said, and my knees went watery. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Montez,” he breathed, taking my hand and kissing it with warm, steady lips, then smiling into my face before kissing it again. “I enjoyed your audacious performance at the Opéra. You gave us something to think about.”

“Did I really?”

“Oh, yes.” Toffee eyes… Scrumptious…

Several other pairs of eyes were fastened on this encounter: Olympe, looking daggers; Eugène, supremely amused; Dr. Koreff, who should take his fat, old nose out of other people’s business—and one other set of eyes, I could feel them. At that precise second, Olympe rushed up, grabbed Henri’s arm and whisked him away, and I turned to see… George. Gazing at me with her incomparable smile.

Olympe began making a lot of noise over by the table at the entrance, urging Henri to open the champagne. He did so with a mighty pop and a cascade of foam and liquid onto the priceless carpet, causing more tinkly laughter from the courtesan.

George gestured at me to come to her, and Merci murmured, “Do you know the great Sand?”

“I do, a little bit.”

“I will see you later, perhaps. She frightens me.” Merci gave a small wave with her fingers and moved off.

Trying to keep one eye on Dujarier and the hostess, I headed over to George. She seemed very thrilled as I drew near—or perhaps disturbed, I couldn’t tell. “At last, sweets,” she gushed. “And how are you faring? Is Eugène being good to you? Did the money hold out?”

I thanked her again and said that, for the moment at least, I was not ‘skint’.

“Did you hear?” she then asked, clasping my wrist. “Franzi’s in a mess. The consecrated wafer has got his balls in a vice—he’s done for, as far as I can tell. He’s heading out on a six-month tour of the Iberian Peninsula as soon as Belloni can pull final details together. Will meet the new young Queen, apparently—Isabel the Second.”

My God, I thought, as my mind hurtled back: Bella, the little porker princess with the itchy skin, already Queen of Spain? But of course she was—she’d now be fourteen. Images of her flashed through my head: scratching herself, listening to the grotesque tutor in the palace in Madrid. Age twelve going on thirty, awaiting her courses and therefore a husband. And her sweet sister, Infanta Luisa Fernanda, adorable eleven… The failed kidnapping… Diego… Oh God.

George’s wry voice was rattling on, “Reminds me. I had a good laugh the other day, couldn’t help it. I’d written Franz and asked—delicately, of course—about the affair. You know the one. He wrote back, ‘The Spanish lady was like the eye of a storm that whips up a sea of sand and dirt on the plains of Castile, and leaves one red-eyed and spent when it has passed.’” She pulled back to look at me, her cat lips all curled. “Isn’t he witty, isn’t that fun?”

Sometimes the woman made me want to hit her! But perhaps (I consoled myself) the stiff, formal words actually meant that he’d cried when it ended.

“The upshot is, Madame d’A now has the field to herself,” George went on again at full volume. “And she’s got a plan—oh my, does she have a plan!”

I suddenly wondered, with Liszt out of the way, would the countess come after me, to punish me? I swallowed my chagrin at George’s gossip and listened intently.

“She’s given herself a nom de plume, and the silly cow now thinks she’s a writer!” George dropped her voice again, conspiratorially. “She was worried that using her own name might make someone—her long-suffering husband, Count d’Agoult, perhaps?—have to defend her in a duel, if her views in print were criticised. Girardin at La Presse suggested, ‘why not take a pseudonym?’ So Madame d’A wrote down the first given name that came into her mind: the name of her little son, Daniel. No doubt she feels she’s about to enter the lions’ den. For the surname, she chose the German for ‘lucky star’—and so now she’s Daniel Stern, can you believe? She’s headed off to the country to pen her masterpiece. I’m guessing it’s going to be a juicy exposé of her years with Franz, a roman à clef, and likely sensational!”

I’d never seen George Sand so aroused—with venom? Could it be? Was she jealous?

“But never mind all that!” she declared, landing a plump kiss upon my cheek. “You’re looking luscious, darling. Is that a new jacket from Eugène?”

And so was she, looking luscious, that is, in an interesting way. She had on the ever-present trousers, of course, but also a most becoming dark green frockcoat, with a frothy neckerchief in cream-coloured silk. It made me wonder what it would be like to be able to wear men’s trousers every day. What would I look like in them? Quite the stunner, I bet, my tight little buttocks roundly defined. Would Henri Dujarier think so? And where was he now?

These musings were interrupted by George again. “Here, have some wine” (as a waiter floated past). “And Eugène? How’s his mood?” At this, I shrugged, and she nodded. “The secret to Eugène, Lola?—ordinary life’s too dull. All that surgeon’s gore, and sawing off of limbs at the Battle of Navarino, is my guess. He admires horror, goes searching for it—writes it, too.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “Les Mystères petrified me.”

“So beware.” Linking her arm through mine, George began guiding me towards the pompous planet at the centre of the apartment: Alexandre Dumas. “Now, have you met our prodigious, exceptional—?”

“I have. Several times. Not that he knows it.”

Pulling back, I dug in my heels. I’d also just spotted Rosemond de Beauvallon, leering away at Dumas’ latest long-winded story and fingering his watch chain. I didn’t think I should antagonize the best shot in Paris again, not so soon at any rate. “I’m not going over there to be humiliated again. I don’t like Alexandre Dumas.”

“Oh come, come!” George retorted. “How could anyone dislike our big bear? He’s simply ebullient.”

“He’s a boor.”

“And maybe that. But good-hearted. Come along.” And she dragged me onwards.

As we approached the boorish bear, he was (of course) still holding forth—at that moment, about the splendour of his patron, an aristocratic-looking gent at his side.

“The duke has invited me to attend his wedding in Madrid, should he be lucky enough to pull it off next year!” Dumas crowed. “If only they can get the other one married because, certainment, the youngest princess can’t marry first, that would never do.”

My ears had pricked up. Princess—the youngest—Madrid.

“Which Spanish princess is he speaking of?” I asked George.

“Infanta Luisa Fernanda of Spain. Pretty thing, I hear—only thirteen years old, but Alex says the Duc de Montpensier thinks she’ll scrub up well.”

I examined the tall aristocrat with interest at this news. I wished little Nanda all the very best: sweet child, now approaching womanhood. When I’d been in Madrid, she’d nearly been dragged from a masquerade ball, but I’d interrupted her assailant—the Jesuit fiend—and she’d fled back to safety, gracias a Dios.

How very peculiar, the way the circles were aligning, on this strange afternoon! The Spanish princesses… Who’d have thought I’d be reminded of them, in this Parisian salon? Then—more pressingly, as I looked about again—where had Henri Dujarier gone?

“Where’s d’Artagnan headed next, Alex?” someone asked Dumas.

George, looking wryly amused, called out, “Why don’t you write a female protagonist for a change, my friend?”

Dumas swung his big head, his face lighting up as she approached. “George! A vision, as always.” Then to the others, “A woman main character? No one would read it! Everything must be geared to make the money fountain gush!”

“Why not a female antagonist, then, for a change?” someone else asked.

“That would certainly spice things up,” said Beauvallon, looking me up and down before letting his gaze linger upon my décolletage. “Not every woman has to be virtuous, surely?”

A burst of merriment from everyone.

Dumas’ little eyes were also resting on me, for some reason. Our eyes locked, and I saw something pass through his. I wouldn’t stand for it this time, I vowed, preparing to fight back with choice words or whatever else seemed required.

Instead, he broke his gaze and turned back to the duke. “A woman antagonist,” he said thoughtfully. “Une vrai possibilité…”

My blazing heart had to settle again. At least I’d been ready this time, I told myself. George was now cheek-kissing Dumas’ fat wife, Ida, and then Beauvallon. I was forgotten.

With an upsurge of tigress energy, freshly ignited by Dumas and Beauvallon, I resolved to move through the apartment, actively seeking. A tigress on the prowl. I would find the handsome Dujarier, and Olympe would have a harder time pulling him away. She wouldn’t succeed, I would see to that.

Armed with this resolution, the apartment suddenly felt too hot. Although every window was open, the spring breezes couldn’t penetrate through the fug of smoke and sweating humanity. I pushed my way between bodies, murmuring, “Pardonnez-moi… je m’excuse…” All these strangers, important artists and writers, all focused intently upon themselves: tall, thin, fat, beautiful, ugly, long hair, bald heads, and everything in between. Even a man with one leg and a crutch, at the far side of the room. How many of them, I wondered, had gone to the Opéra and seen El Oleano? Already it was yesterday’s news. It was so unfair. When would I ever dance again? Part of me longed to hire a horse, gallop off and forget about the ambition and undeniable envy that had begun eating away at my insides. Was this what a craving for Fame did to one? I didn’t like it, if so. It was giving a nasty biliousness to my whole outlook. And what if—oh horror!—what if my search revealed Henri Dujarier in flagrante delicto with the hostess, in one of the inner rooms? My heart would shatter. But surely he wouldn’t, he couldn’t…? Surely fate had something else in store?

I moved along, squeezing between people holding wine glasses aloft. Near the vermilion bedroom, with its womb-like linens and fancy pouffes, there was a closed door on the left. The water closet, it must be. Now that was a good thought. At least I could be alone for a moment in there, as well as accomplish a rather pressing requirement—and also I could see just how classy our hostess really was. A water closet is the be-all and end-all of advanced sophistication or smelly dilapidation, and I’d soon find out which.

And then. It’s hard to remember everything that happened and in what order at this point. I opened the door, about to slip inside, before realizing that someone was in there ahead of me. On the commode, but slumped against the side wall, was a small female figure with its eyes open—its eyes popping, in fact, and its tongue hanging out, covered in froth! Just then the figure thrashed out an arm, groaned loudly as if choking or trying to speak, and then—painfully, unbelievably!—her eyes rolled, her head flew back and hit the wall. Then she flopped over on her side, crashing off the commode and onto the floor. There, the torso straightened with a dreadful jerk before the legs, too, arched horribly backwards, as if now trying to meet the head! I let out a mighty scream; everyone turned towards the sounds, some of the wine glasses smashing as people collided and began screaming, too, though they didn’t yet know what they were screaming about. Dumas was there first and shoved me aside. “Sacrebleu!” he swore, staring in, then, “Docteur! Where in Christ’s name is the doctor?”

Tubby Dr. Koreff showed up out of nowhere and pushed his way past the enormous writer. He knelt down as the poor thing continued to batter herself against the walls of the tiny room, making horrible sounds but no sense. There was another awful spasm of the body, backwards, a gargling gasp, then all was still. Dr. Koreff put his fingers against the small throat, feeling for the pulse, before turning to look out at the rest of us. He shook his head, turned back and gently tried to close the bulging eyes. At that moment, I recognized who it was: the pale girl from Normandy—Pierrette. Merci Duplessis’ sister. Mon Dieu.

Over the next few minutes, many things happened. The majority of guests slipped away quickly, horror-struck and fearing implications. The police were summoned, the girl’s body removed from the water closet and covered with a blanket, though still in its frightening bow-shape, and her mouth in gaping rictus. Olympe Pelissier was sobbing hysterically in Henri Dujarier’s arms; Merci knelt beside her sister’s body, crying quietly. The two Alexes, père et fils, as well as Beauvallon, were drinking steadily, while George looked on, dry-eyed. Dr. Koreff stood ready, short arms folded over his chest.

“Poison, I believe,” he had told the assembly. “We won’t be sure, of course, until later—but it has all the signs.”

The police came, and hours went by as everyone answered questions and put forth theories. By the time it was over, I felt completely wrung out. The girl’s body left in a police wagon to go to the morgue, Merci and Dr. Koreff with it. Eugène was nowhere to be found, so as soon as I was released, I went down the stairs and into the street to hail a cab and take to my bed. I was as shaken up as anyone and craved only quiet.

By then it was dusk. The apartment building was on a corner, and as I was stepping to the curb, about to raise my arm, I was violently shoved from behind by something hard thrust against me. I went hurtling into the middle of the road, sprawling face down onto the cobbles. Completely winded, I was trying desperately to catch my breath—when suddenly, behind me again, I heard a male cry of alarm, along with the sound of galloping hooves and jangling harness, swiftly approaching from the left. Yanked to my feet by strong hands, I was dragged to safety in the nick of time as a cabriolet rushed past in the exact place where my head had been only seconds before. The driver hadn’t seen me there because I’d been just out of sight, round the corner from his view. I sagged into the arms of my saviour, as he let me down gently onto the pavement.

“Here now, you’re safe,” he said. “Can you talk to me? Are you hurt?”

I looked up and—yes, it was! It was Henri Dujarier. I melted into his toffee gaze and never wanted to come back out.

*

Of course it wasn’t as easy as that—falling in love, I mean. There are always complications. Many people and events kept barging in between.

The entire artistic community was dreadfully shaken by the death of the girl—from poison, no less! Where had it come from? Who had it been meant for? Because, the rumours went, that little thing couldn’t possibly have been the intended target. It was a classic case of fatal strychnine poisoning, Dr. Koreff reported to the press. This sent shivers down many spines, and sold many thousands of papers, too. A few conservative enthusiasts even claimed that someone—or more than one—had obviously decided to clean up the sordid mess of artists currently polluting Paris with their filth.

Henri hadn’t seen anyone else in the street when he’d come to my rescue. He’d escorted me home, gallantly. All the way in the cab, we’d locked eyes, as a kind of silent pact began to move through us. We spoke quietly of the horror we’d just witnessed, of our sorrow on behalf of Merci. Our hands sought each other’s, and our fingers entwined… I knew that he felt it too, that shivery quickening at the core of one’s being that signals emotional and carnal attraction. By mutual accord, though, we seemed to believe that we could take our time—that it would ripen, if we let it. If we made it a priority. Was I sure this was a mutual intention? I wasn’t absolutely positive, to be honest. And yet I sensed that this was not the time nor the place to bring him back to my rooms, that he would not react well to such forwardness. How dastardly. How could I find out what he felt and not ruin the possibilities with unbridled enthusiasm? The cab pulled up to my building.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine now on your own?” he asked.

“I will. I’ll rest. And you?”

“I’ll return to the office. Many things to arrange and to put in place. Changes to be made, some of them difficult.” He’d been looking out the cab’s window with these words; now he turned back to me. “But necessary, suddenly—for future delight. I must disentangle myself, so that I am free. Do you understand me, Mademoiselle Montez? I hope you do?” Those warm brown eyes regarded me intently.

“Lola—call me Lola.”

“Lola, yes—merveilleuse. Henri.”

“Henri, yes. I… Think I do understand, and I feel the same. I will do the same.”

“Wonderful. Well, then. Á bientôt, chérie.”

He opened the door for me, and helped me descend, then his lips against my fingers sealed my desire. We parted almost shyly, standing there in the street. He stepped up, the cabby cracked his whip and the horse clip-clopped off, taking the handsome Henri away.

This time, for the first time, I would have to wait.

Did this mean that I was growing up?

Undressing that evening, I discovered a bruise the size of a large coin in the centre of my back from whatever it was that had shoved me into the street.

*

Two days later, a note arrived from Henri. It said, ‘My dear Lola, I have been warned against you.’ My heart skipped several beats in consternation as I leapt to my feet with a gasp. Reading on, I saw, ‘However, I am not one to listen to anonymous letters. Do you have an enemy? If so, be circumspect. But do not doubt me. If your mind has changed, send this back by return post. If I do not receive it, I will know that you feel as I do, and I will be filled with joy. HD.’

I danced about, excited and thrilled. I read it a hundred times to be sure I was doing exactly right by doing nothing. Henri is a gentleman, I told myself. His ethical code is a chivalrous one. He cannot make me any promises until he is unencumbered, in whatever sense such a state means to him. But waiting? Dammit! So challenging, and such an unknown accomplishment, for me. I vowed that if it all worked out—if I waited patiently, and Henri was mine—I would make sure he realized what a trial and a difficulty this had been for my spirit, and beg the darling never to torture me thus in the future!

Days passed as I paced and fretted, then a week. And then two. I tried to keep busy. Merci Duplessis, understandably, had fallen into a sad slump, and was being treated by Dr. Koreff. “I trust his kind touch and gentle words,” she told me, when I visited to offer what comfort I could. I still thought the doctor was horrible, but, one morning shortly thereafter, I did have urgent need of his services.

I had woken with tell-tale symptoms. During my unfortunate early marriage, while living in India, I’d contracted the disease and still occasionally suffer from sudden bouts of it. I knew what I needed, so I dragged myself off to Merci’s, thinking she would be able to direct me to Dr. Koreff’s office.

When I arrived, he was there, and consented to see me at once. Merci let us use her bedroom while the dwarfish doctor examined me, gloatingly and lingeringly, wiggling his little fingers and passing them across my body in a strange manner. He also made me remove more clothing than I thought was strictly necessary. Ugh.

“I know exactly what it is,” I told him. “Malaria. I need quinine immediately.”

His sycophantic voice murmured, “And I believe that it may be something else. Something more—womanly.”

Gag! “No, it is not.”

“You have been quite—active—with the men in our circle, have you not? There is a great deal of energy in this room, I can feel it. Lie back and let me take a good look.”

I sat bolt upright, straightening my bodice and covering myself. “No! You’ve handled me and listened to my heart, and I tell you, I need quinine!”

“My dear, calm yourself. How can I put this? I don’t wish to alarm you, but—you may be pregnant.”

Oh! What would I tell him? I knew he was wrong and I knew exactly why—but did I want to put that secret knowledge into his smarmy head? Not on your life.

It had happened in India. My erstwhile husband, Thomas James, had been given a posting in Karnal. It was a tiny post near a wetland, and I didn’t know this to be a threat (I was at first glad of the relative coolness).

India had seemed different than I’d remembered it from my days there as a child. Of course, I’d returned as a respectable nineteen-year-old, married woman, expected to behave, to set an example. No more running barefoot. But it was more than that. There was a new feeling of repression, of fear almost, as if the English were no longer enjoying themselves in India, no longer sure of their footing. I was instructed by the memsahibs not to let on that I knew several dialects, not to become “chummy” with the servants, that such a thing was “bad form.” One of the wives told me early on, “Learning the ropes is the only safety. Ignore them at your peril, Betty.” Oh, yes, they called me Betty—my hated childhood name. Imagine continuing to call someone a name she cannot bear simply because it is “more English.” I tried to ignore them. I lived inside my own head a lot of the time, and my ears would listen for the lovely sounds of the ayahs singing, their bangles jingling. What they wore, I felt, was as sensible as it was beautiful—whereas we, in our stays, looked and felt as stiff as lobsters in their shells.

Then all of a sudden I’d been taken ill with chills and fever and the kind of intense headache that makes you long to die. I didn’t understand until the doctor had prescribed a large dose of quinine. “Malaria?” I’d groaned.

“Indeed. You must be very careful, Mrs. James, particularly now. You are expecting a baby. Did you not know?”

I did know. I was about five months gone. I’d been hiding it as much as I could, enduring Thomas’ comments about my growing belly by claiming I couldn’t help myself at the table. Why did I hide it from him? Oh, why not? We were so terribly incompatible as husband and wife; we’d understood nothing about each other’s souls and had never tried to do so. He felt I’d tricked him into eloping with me, and it was true—I had.

At first it had seemed like a fine adventure, leaving my scheming mother behind, imagining her chagrin at having to explain to the old judge she’d tried to marry me off to that her wicked daughter had already run off. In the middle of the night, I had crept down the stairs and into a waiting carriage with Thomas inside it. We’d headed out of Bath towards Bristol and traveled for several hours. I’d chattered away about my excitement and the honour he was doing me; he’d sat ramrod straight. Eventually we pulled up at an inn. He was beginning to seem troubled in earnest, so I’d gabbled on with all my might as we’d signed the register (Mr. and Mrs. Smith, if you please), as we’d climbed the stairs, as we’d closed the door behind us. Immediately, he’d thrown me onto the bed and it happened very quickly, with all of my layers still upon me. There was one piece of luck: my courses were just finishing for the month, and Thomas James was the sort of man who checked his handiwork. He was satisfied, he thought I was virginal. I wasn’t. I’d already (secretly) given birth to Emma years earlier, three months after I’d turned fifteen.

When I’d woken in the morning, Thomas had been sitting in a chair, staring at me with creased brow. He was considering his options, but I knew that he didn’t really have any. I had not yet come of age; I was the step-daughter of a highly ranked officer. He would have to marry me. I think he was also imagining my mother, back in Bath—a woman he had flirted with, now a woman he had insulted in the highest degree.

By the end of that day, we were traveling again, headed for Ireland. He had proposed and I had accepted. We were married in Rathbeggen, near Dublin. His older brother officiated (I lied about my age), and we sent out the news. We were received at Ballycrystal, the family home, and settled in there until Thomas’ leave was up and we would head back to India.

His father was the local squire, Protestant gentry. It was the first time I’d lived in the country of my birth (that I could remember), and I was not impressed with it. The village people were superstitious and full of malice towards the “big house.” The Irish women I saw in the village, in the kitchens, were lively, fresh-faced, vicious things, quarreling like banshees and jealous over their men: I could sense my lineage. At least there was life there. I’d imagined the world of the gentry to be one long round of fun, but in fact, it was tedious in the extreme—certainly for the women. Rich, and idle. Plump bottoms, spreading across their chairs. Tea. Cakes and other sweets. More tea. I’d suddenly understood why the entire population of the British Isles have no teeth. The endless cups of sweetened, lukewarm swill, drunk with methodical conscientiousness in the same quantities, in the same rooms—taken as if replete with sacred or medicinal properties—became immediately repellant to me. I haven’t been able to stomach the stuff since. I wanted to ride: the family wouldn’t allow it. My sisters-in-law had chided me unctuously for my tiny rebellions. Their long English faces, whispered cautions, folded hands—dreadful. I had complained to Thomas, at night, about his family. That’s when he’d first struck me. The second time, I’d struck back, and we had stared at each other, aghast. By the time we’d reached India, the situation had become quite appalling. And dangerous, in fact. We hated each other with mutual distrust; feared each other, too, I believe. A baby with that man? A child who’d grow up like him? Who would hate me like him? No wonder I’d been trying to hide my pregnancy from Thomas.

“The mosquitoes in the wetlands,” the Karnal doctor had explained, as I lay there sweating and shivering, “are dreadful this year. Malaria comes and goes, Mrs. James. Once you’ve been infected, it never completely leaves you. You must be very careful; you have a delicate constitution.”

Balls, I’d thought! Why was everyone trying to turn me into a piece of bone china? I would not have it! I did not wish to be a brood mare!

Had I hoped it would all just go away, or something ridiculous? I don’t know what I was thinking. I believe now that I was suffering from a deep-seated though fiercely suppressed despair. Certainly, even after his warning, I did my best to ignore the doctor’s advice. I rode, fast and furious. I ignored the women’s reproaches and played badminton, pulled with the best in archery contests and badgered the men about letting me try the newest craze, kanjai-banzee, or as it was nicknamed, ‘pulu’, wherein you chased a wooden ball with a mallet on horseback (“Sport is sound, not enjoying sport is unsound”—it was a fetish with them). I’m sure that all of this, along with the recurrent bouts of fever, did in fact precipitate events.

I’d just received news that my mother had invited me to the hill station of Simla for the hot months, August and September. Simla’s a fashionable British resort in the Himalayan foothills, at a cool altitude, surrounded by pine forests. It appeared that I had groveled sufficiently and she had agreed. I could get away from Thomas, see my beloved step-father, Craigie, and be in a safer place—with them—when I’d grown huge and ready to deliver. Surely, afterwards, I told myself, they would help me find a way to live, away from the terrible marriage. The fact that there would be a baby, too, was still somehow unreal to me—awful as I’m sure that must seem.

So, longing for Simla, and as a final lark in Karnal, I took part in a treasure hunt on horseback. Though by that time I was rather ungainly, I cinched myself tight (or my servant woman did, shaking her head and muttering) and headed out to the fray.

A foolhardy decision. I had managed to organize my partner, an older woman named Mrs. Lord, into helping me find the first two treasures—a bangle and a black feather (not ostrich). The third took some agility and I was in hot pursuit. The treasure was a long red hair, and there was only one woman in the garrison who boasted such a colour. Poor little Mrs. Henley was also taking part in the hunt, and when she (belatedly) realized what the third item called for and saw me swooping down upon her, she squealed loudly and clapped her heels into her pony’s sides. Off we charged across the dusty plain. Mrs. H was giving it a good try, to-ing and fro-ing like a jackrabbit. We must have made quite a sight, both of us in our voluminous skirts, balancing in side-saddles—an idiotic invention that is notoriously difficult. You can’t get a grip; it’s as if it was designed that way on purpose to keep women slow and careful. Anyway, Mrs. H fro-ed when I to-ed, I hit the ground hard—and began writhing in pain. I was carried at the run to the infirmary by four native bearers, my husband was fetched, the doctor came from his dinner.

At first it was hoped that I would be able to keep the baby. There was a period of lull and Thomas was attempting to come to grips with the astonishing fact that he was soon to be a father. He was beginning to admonish me for my willful secrecy when the tide turned again and the horror began. I can’t really describe it in any other way. There were the frantic faces above me, my heaving, straining self, and one quite big baby, not old enough to enter the world. Ready or not, it was being catapulted forth. I gripped Thomas’ finger so hard I broke it and he was requested to leave. It was a wonder he’d been there at all; it was not the ‘sound’ thing, but this emergency was also a wonder and a shock, and I was unaware of everything and anything except the agony of pushing and waves of pain.

The baby was dead. I was alive, but barely. It had been a boy. Thomas wept obscenely, and I was terribly sorry. Sorry for everything that had happened to that guiltless creature, and for what I had done to Thomas, and for myself. How had I become so… Hardhearted? That question terrified me, and I didn’t know the answer. It was not until a few days later, when I was slightly stronger, that the doctor gave me the rest of the news.

“You must prepare yourself, Mrs. James,” he told me.

“Oh, God, what more?”

“Your insides—have been damaged. You will be able to live a normal life, but… There will be no more children. It is not only inadvisable, it is—impossible. It will never happen. I am most sincerely sorry, Mrs. James.”

Now, I have never pretended to be a steady woman who knows her own mind and is solidly comfortable with all of her choices, but when it was gone—and all possibility gone—well. It was a profound, a dismaying shock. I’d always seen myself as a creature with time on her side, as resilient and supple as a fish or an otter, going about its daily business, with tomorrow always ahead and no regrets for the day before. This news forced me to revise that opinion.

When finally I was well enough to travel to Simla, I told my mother that I had made a great mistake. I begged her forgiveness, and pleaded that she and dear Craigie help me untangle myself from the miserable marriage. Craigie did so with tact and forbearance; she joined in, as her conscience allowed.

As time went on—once I’d left India, and had begun to enjoy life and its adult passions—I’d learned to love my secret. The truth is, I realized that it made me free, free in a way that most women could only dream about. No fear of endless pregnancies and childbirths, nor of dying from them. I no longer mourned my childless state—and of course, in point of fact, I wasn’t childless. Though Emma only knew about me as a distant aunt through marriage, and one who never visited or sent her gifts (Aunt Catherine discouraged it), she was blood. She was mine, though she didn’t know it. How I had longed to reveal myself to her in the early days! Now—in my new life in Paris—I was not so sure. Would it harm her if the world knew that I was her mother? Possibly. Very likely.

All of these memories had raced like a fork of lightning through my brain, as I sat there upon Merci’s bed, with my unlaced corset and Dr. Koreff’s little fat fingers poised to strike. I opened my mouth to tell Koreff, once again, that he was mistaken in his diagnosis—but just then Merci hurried in, whispering at us to get up, and looking quite alarmed. She got out a little squeak of a gasp: “Alexandre!”

“What?” Dr. Koreff asked. “Your latest? The bébé?”

“Not fils, doctor, père! Through the key-hole, I could see him!”

In the other room, we heard the door suddenly booming as if a rhino had run at it.

“Before he breaks it down!” Merci pleaded, then called out, “Wait just a moment, I am coming!”

I laced myself up quickly and followed her, while Merci unlocked and was about to open the outer door. Before she could do so, the handle was violently turned and the writer burst through, his grizzled hair all wild and unkempt.

Alexandre père stood four-square in the centre of the room, stirring his hair about with one distracted fist, while examining us, moodily. “It was a bad night,” he mumbled, “for my Musketeers. I am coming to the climax—and it is treacherous, slippery. Never been done before.” His gaze flicked up and down me abstractedly, then fixed finally upon Dr. Koreff. “I came looking for you this morning, doctor, and your servant said you had come here. I’ve been up since midnight—other deadlines and goddammit! I stopped in at the pâtisserie for a jolt of café and realized I was nearby… I need pills, I need something… I need…”

“Ah, I see,” Dr. Koreff nodded.

Dumas’ glance had shot across to Merci and stayed there. “Have you finished, doctor?”

“Not quite, perhaps, but the climate has changed. A storm cloud hovers,” the short man replied.

“For me as well,” Dumas intoned heavily, eyes fastened upon Merci. No one now existed in his one-track mind except the pale young woman standing before him, her face welcoming and unafraid before this mountain of a man, so wound up with his inner turmoil. “Nothing would come,” he said, as if the sky had fallen and there was no hope for mankind ever again. “Nothing. All night long. I had a block.” His head was moving slightly from side to side, like a bull trying to focus on a matador’s cape.

Dr. Koreff put a hand on my back and began to steer me to the door. As he did so, the writer gave a great grunt, grabbed Merci’s tiny wrist with a grip which I was sure must have immediately caused a painful bruise on that delicate skin, and began to drag her away towards the bedroom, mumbling, “Then, sir, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Lola,” Merci called softly to me, “not a word to le deuxième! Promise!”

Well, the upshot was that I did manage to convince Dr. Koreff to give me some quinine, and tried not to worry about Merci as we made our way to his office. I waited while the little gnome prepared the powder himself. Thank God, for by then I was extremely feverish.

Emerging from the back room, he directed, “Two teaspoons in a glass of liquid and stir well—wine helps to disguise the bitter taste.” Then he handed over the large sachet of medicine. “Take one teaspoon every day even when you feel better, for—as you’re aware—the malaria sits in your system, waiting.” I turned to go. “Did you know?” he added, as I paused, clutching the doorknob. “Quinine is the ground bark of the cinchona trees, in South America.” What’s he going on about, I thought, head spinning. “Known as Jesuit’s bark; they first brought it to Europe. Luckily for you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, doctor?”

I managed to get myself back to my apartment, take the medicine and fall into bed, where I had the most nauseating dreams. One moment I was in the arms of my new beloved, Henri Dujarier, as he cradled me in the street, and the next, that great selfish lump of a famous man was mumbling that he had a block. And what’s the remedy? To scratch his itch on the woman he knows is his son’s favourite! “I had a block”—so Merci is to be crumpled and ravaged—no, worse!—to be used, like an enema, to get the shit moving again! Blood boiling, I tossed and turned against the pillows. I was worried for her. How dared he believe this was a reasonable way to behave, to either Merci Duplessis, or to his son. Oh, Dumas was vile in my eyes!

When I finally woke, hours later, feeling a little better but very shaky, I opened the papers to get my latest fix—of The Count of Monte Cristo. Damn him.

*

During this whole time, although I’d been trying very hard, there were no dancing gigs for me on the horizon. The bad press I’d received at the Paris Opéra had closed those doors. What else could I do to make some money? I wracked my brains, I wrote lists and scratched them out. As a whole month passed, as spring began to turn into summer, I felt as if I was being lulled, in a sense, into the decadent world of the courtesan, and I adamantly didn’t want that. Eugène had been sponsoring me, yes, and I was grateful, but I knew I must end it, for Henri’s sake. I had ended it, in fact, and Eugène had shrugged, “Whatever you wish,” but why had I still not heard from Henri? I had no idea what might have gone wrong. Just thinking about it, my headstrong anger would rise—oh, I should give him a blast!—and I’d quell it again. I didn’t dare to risk losing a chance for Henri to be mine: I wanted it more than anything. I could wait, I told myself. I would wait. Though as time continued to slip sideways and still I didn’t hear from him… Eugène would spot me a dinner, and…

Well, I was young and, I admit, very foolish. We didn’t sleep together often, just sometimes—usually when the wine had flowed more than usual. One night I had the shock I needed to wake me up to what I’d been doing by just doing nothing. Eugène had gotten me quite drunk on champagne and we’d been laughing about the Parisian snobs who’d disapproved of my dancing. I was feeling larkish, and at one point, kicked my leg into the air, grasped the heel, and repeated the pose I’d performed at the Opéra.

“Do it naked,” Eugène had drawled, sucking on his cigar.

Well, I suppose I did. I flung off my chemise and everything else, then threw up the leg to the level of my shoulder, put the tip of my toes against the wall and inclined my torso down towards the floor, balancing, with palm flat on the carpet.

“What a sight,” he exclaimed, getting on his knees to take a closer look. I could hardly claim to have felt shy, but at this, I did begin to wonder. The evening was taking a different turn; what was he up to?

“Can you stand again and turn, round and round, with your leg up?”

“I might fall over,” I laughed.

“Try.”

I managed a few turns, I think. He had a large mirror in the bedroom, standing against the wall, and we then took various attitudes in front of it, as men holding female dancers in ballets, and so on—with Eugène, also naked, and stiff as a broomstick all the while, coldly observational throughout. I wasn’t very keen on that, and tried to make him more playful, but he was regarding our reflections in an intensely serious manner, almost chillingly so. I didn’t know what he wanted; I’d drunk too much champagne to be able to stop him or shift his mood.

When he got bored, he went to the wardrobe and pulled out a leather belt with fifty or so peacock feathers attached to it. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but he seemed insistent, so I let him strap it around my hips. Then I really did feel like a peacock: it was heavy, and it rattled, and only looked fine if I was kneeling on the bed and the feathers stood high. I did so, and then he had more fun than I did, even though I usually like this position almost more than any other. On this night, though, I disliked both Eugène and myself. Intensely. He’d reached through the fan of feathers to twist my hair into a rope, and using this as reins, he rode me hard, centaur-fashion. It was rough—not in a sensually rough way, by consensus, but in the way of a man enjoying erotic sensations at the expense of the other.

“Get this thing off me, Eugène, will you?” I said, finally, once he’d come with a bellow, released my hair, and pulled away.

After a moment, he undid the buckle and the belt dropped to the sheets. “You look splendid in them,” he said. “Better than the bird.”

“I should hope so, since they’re bloody prickly.”

“Here I’d hoped that I’d be the one with the bloody prick. You certainly yelled your head off—didn’t you like it?”

“No, as a matter of fact.” I was almost spitting. “Couldn’t you tell? Or didn’t you care?”

It was like two tigers clashing, and I was surprised to find myself vibrating with barely-repressed fury.

“God, I’m exhausted,” he laughed, falling back upon the mattress, throwing his arms behind his head and shaking the rails of the bed in sudden jubilation. “My story’s finally up and running, Lulu, in serialization—have you seen it?”

I began pulling on my chemise. “Don’t call me that; it’s demeaning and stupid. And it’s not who I am.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, it’s a sign of affection.”

“I disagree.”

He reached under the bed and pulled out a newspaper, opened to the page. “It started today. I’ll run it for months.”

I read the title, Le Juif Errant. “I’m happy for you,” I said. “Why hadn’t you told me about it?”

“I was busy, it slipped my mind. What does it matter?” He slumped back and lay flat.

I read and read. Beside me, Eugène fell asleep, his breathing slow and regular, not a care in the world. There were several chapters. The candle began burning down, and I read on. I couldn’t believe it; my mouth was dropping open. Finally, I threw the paper onto the floor and jabbed him violently in the ribs.

“You’ve stolen this!”

“What the—?” His eyes flew open, bewildered.

“You’ve stolen my life!” I punched his chest, and it wasn’t a love slap.

“Are you crazy?” As he rolled away, “what the hell are you—?”

“Your villain’s a Jesuit!”

“All Jesuits are villains, don’t be ridiculous!” He was shaking his head to clear the sleep.

“You stole it, you stole the ideas!”

“Nobody owns the Jesuits, Lola, and certainly not you. I can do what I want.”

“You bastard, you fucker!”

By this point I was back on my feet, realizing that words couldn’t hurt him—he’d simply deflect them. So I strode to the fireplace, picked up and threw one of his precious objets d’art. It struck the wall, broke with a clatter.

“Jesus! What the fuck—?”

I threw another one, which shattered in a satisfying cascade of shards.

“Stop it, you—! Merde, I don’t have a sweet clue what you think I’ve done!”

“¡Cabrón! ¡Bastardo!”

He launched himself off the bed and grabbed my upper arm, hard. We stared into each other’s eyes, teeth bared.

“Break one more thing, you vixen, and I’ll break you.”

He’d do it, too, I thought.

“Let me tell you something,” he added, with more passion than at any other point in the evening, “Alex Dumas wouldn’t be having the fucking success he’s having if he hadn’t stolen from me. Les Mystères de Paris inspired his publisher to say to Alex, ‘Turn the drab, historical manuscript you’re labouring over into a sensational adventure tale, like Eugène Sue’s.’ He’d never done it before, wasn’t sure he could. But look at him now! Count of fucking Monte Cristo himself—king of the fairy tales!” He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, hard. “We all do it. Steal like magpies. It’s part of the game, dear, didn’t you know?”

He shoved me away, turned his naked back and grabbed up his wine glass, still half full. Then, glancing over at the clock on the mantel, he took me completely unaware.

“I’ve another woman waiting downstairs, told her to come up at midnight. That’s now. I’m celebrating—two at once is my favourite treat, and she’s game. She’s very game. I’ve got a number of little things planned. Handfuls of coins are a feature: what a capacious woman can do with them. You don’t mind, do you? You can keep what you manage to keep inside. Are you game?”

I just looked at him.

“It’s over, Eugène.”

“It certainly is.”

*

By then, the summer was sizzling, and poised to begin its tumble into fall. I couldn’t believe it. My life seemed, once again, to be moving in useless, treacly circles. Paris, beautiful in springtime and early summer, becomes hot and cranky in the intense heat. Tempers flare, jealousies are stoked and burn with quiet ferocity. I was feeling again such a sense of despair, not eating much—not able to afford much, truth be told. I feared my swiftly-ignited love for Henri Dujarier would never be returned. I feared that perhaps he’d heard I’d still been with Eugène after we’d made our pledge in the carriage, and I cursed myself with tearful lamentation. What kind of morally flabby, stupid young woman was I, anyway? But Henri had a courtesan, so wasn’t that…? I’m not a courtesan, my thoughts would protest—and besides, he was breaking it off with Olympe so that he could come to me! But where is he, after all this time—what has happened? The waiting was truly killing me. I decided that somehow, even if it proved me to be too bold, I had to take matters into my own hands, find out once and for all how things stood. Had he changed his mind? Was I—after all this time—only imagining his love?

Merci, meanwhile, was becoming thinner and more transparent with each week’s passing. In my opinion, she was relying on Dr. Koreff far too much, and drinking far too much as well. She wouldn’t consider going to another specialist—Koreff was a kind of god to her. She told me his medicines gave her courage. Alex fils had found out about his father’s dalliance with Merci on the “I have a block” afternoon and had gone insane about it, raving and pushing his beloved around, even landing a blow which left a black eye and caused her to hide out for over a week while the mark went away. As if she didn’t have enough woes without that. I was beginning to wonder whether all men were brutes at the core, but couldn’t bear to dwell on this possibility.

And, as if to underscore that conjecture, Dumas’ Musketeers finished up with a bang: the trio of Musketeers and D’Artagnan brought about the death of the female antagonist, the beautiful Milady—by having her beheaded! Beheaded? My God, it was vindictive, and shocking. And sold out immediately. It gave me the shudders. What was the world coming to, I wondered.

To settle my jitters over the silence of Henri (and my dreadfully lean pocketbook), at the beginning of August I asked Monsieur Grisier whether he’d consider giving me private instruction in the use of the rapier and the use of the sabre. I imagined it would be fun, and good exercise—and, well, why not? I needed to burn off some steam. Pier-Angelo, the Italian journalist, was becoming a friend and, when I mentioned the idea to him, said he’d “adore” to stand in as my opponent in practice sessions. I warned him I wouldn’t go to bed with him, at which he laughed and shrugged.

“Once you see my willingness and agility, Lola, who knows? Oh, yes, and my excellent thrusts and parries.”

“I’m serious, Pier. I’m just telling you, that’s not part of it.”

“Very well.” A big pout of his big lips. “But once you realize—”

“And you’d better be careful,” I smiled in return. “I always have this.” Small enough to remain unnoticed, for each dress I had made or altered, a slim pocket was created in the waistband for me to hide my little switchblade in. I drew it forth for him, then slipped it back.

“How frightfully Italian of you!” Pier-Angelo joked. “Actually, you know, I’ve never used a knife nor a rapier in my life, only pistols. As a Parisian hack, though, paid to have opinions, perhaps I’d better become proficient with all possible weapons, and let it be known. I don’t wish to be called to the field again, early one morning.” He shivered. “Dreadful thing, duelling. It’s why I left Italy, why I left acting. Don’t know what comes over one… Leaving a man dead as a stoat, for some sort of twisted male pride, or trophy-keeping. It’s crazy.” Then he flashed me a red-lipped grin. “Ah well.”

So Grisier instructed us in the back room of Lepage’s Shooting Gallery. We parried and thrust on Wednesday mornings and had a grand time. Pier-Angelo was gentleman enough, too, to pay for my lessons—and Grisier gave us a discount, because I was game and (I suppose) it was a novelty to be teaching a young woman, whose bodice was low and whose legs and arms were strong and shapely.

On one of our mornings, the door opened and jaunty Beauvallon came in to see what was happening. He considered himself a good friend of master Grisier, and he’d heard a rumour that there was a woman within who was learning another of the skills at which he excelled. A second challenge to his arrogance? I certainly didn’t intend it to be, so I decided to ignore the fellow.

“Of course,” he called out, “I should have known it would be you, Mademoiselle Montez.”

Grisier smiled, his small greying mustache bristling as he did so. “She’s getting quite good.”

Pier-Angelo had stopped our practice and was very still. “Don’t be drawn, Lola,” he murmured.

Beauvallon stepped towards me, twirling a lock of his long, chestnut hair between his fingers and licking me from head to toe with his eyes. “Last time we met here I said I would never fight a woman. I believe that, now, I’ve changed my mind. Will you fight me?”

“I’m not ready yet,” I told him, chin high. This barefaced aggression had taken me by surprise. Why was he doing this?

“Why aren’t you dancing anymore, mademoiselle?” he continued. “I’ve been waiting to see you again on the boards. As you may know, I’m drama critic for Le Globe—and I need some drama to critique. Can you not supply me with a little drama?”

Pier-Angelo was shifting nervously beside me. “Rosemond,” he admonished, “why don’t you stop now? You’ve made your point, whatever it is.”

“No, I know what it is,” Beauvallon said, coming very close and tilting my chin up with an index finger so that I had to look directly into his dark brown eyes. “You can’t get another gig; no one will take you. Pity. But I will—take you, that is. No time like the present—what about coming off with me now? A steamy afternoon between the sheets? I hear you’re good for it.”

Eugène, the bastard—what else had he been blabbing? I dropped my weapon to the floor and slapped Beauvallon hard. “I will not. Now leave me alone.”

His eyes blazed with fury, before settling again into an insolent stare. He didn’t react to the welt that I could see coming up on his cheekbone. Oh merde en double, I thought. These men, so touchy!—how can I defuse it?

“That’s enough, Rosemond,” Grisier said. “I will not allow this in my gallery; you know the rules better than anyone. Shame on you, man.”

“I’ll go,” the fighting cock replied. But before he did, he leaned towards me and added deliberately, “Didn’t you know? Dujarier’s been warned by everyone to break off his interest in you. So if you’re saving yourself for him—” (what an ugly sneer!) “—then you’re wasting your time. And mine. Á bientôt.”

He swirled away, the door banged behind him, and Pier-Angelo let out a pent-up whistle of relief. Grisier picked up my rapier, shaking his head, and with some reluctance he finished our lesson. I left that day, furious about everything—God dammit! Bunch of turd-balls, the stinking sack of them! Am I always to be some little pawn in their infernal chess game of aggrandisement, of sexual gratification? Leave me alone! And Dujarier? Was he such a coward that he’d left me dangling instead of telling me directly? I’d find him, I decided, and give the handsome, heartless gentleman a piece of my mind!

As we parted at the door of my building, Pier-Angelo told me that Henri Dujarier went riding in the early morning hours every day of his life, and that his favourite route was through the Bois de Boulogne. For that, I gave Pier’s apple-red cheek a kiss and headed inside. Behind me, I knew that a vivid blush would be climbing into his receding hairline.

*

The next day at dawn, I made my way to the nearest stables, hired their most spirited saddle-horse and had him accoutred in their showiest tackle. Then the grey gelding and I headed out at a gallop.

The Bois de Boulogne is an enormous forest on the western edge of Paris near the 16^th arrondissement. It contains riding allées and luxurious fields, and although in the not-so-recent past it had been the haunt of bandits and therefore not a safe forest to find oneself in, by the time I was living in the city, the Bois had become both a favourite place to ride, and the usual spot for duelling at dawn. Because of its immensity, duellists could choose a particular field from dozens of options and get their business over with before the police could find them. Duelling, after all, was illegal—though unfortunately this hadn’t stopped it from happening with alarming regularity. The edge of the Bois was also the site of the Jockey Club and its race track, so sporting gentlemen and others were very familiar with its amenities.

Once inside the forest, I cantered along the wide packed-dirt path, enjoying the relative coolness of the leafy canopy. It was a fine morning, I was on a fine horse and knew I was looking in peak condition in my form-fitting amazon riding outfit and jaunty hat with its veil. I am coming, Henri Dujarier, I thought. We will meet ‘accidentally’—and you’d better give me an adequate explanation.

I wasn’t sure exactly what path he might take, and was growing a bit apprehensive after a half hour’s ride. What if I missed him? What if he was on exactly the opposite trajectory through the trees? Occasionally I stopped to listen for hoof-beats, but there were very few other horsemen around. An amiably rotund gent paused to try to engage me in conversation and flirtation, but I simply smiled at him and cantered onwards.

There was one particular grove of trees that seemed to repel all of the light that sparkled and glistened through the other glades. I remembered having passed it once before, and realized I must have ridden in a full circle. My usual lack of direction, at work as always, I thought. I always joked that I couldn’t find my way out of a hatbox, but it is a very annoying trait, in truth. As I rode towards the dark grove this second time, a part of my mind noted its murk and wondered why that might be. My horse became skittish suddenly, bouncing and bucking with nerves. I pulled him up short, stroking his neck. “Never mind, my beauty, let’s carry on, shall we?” As I urged him onwards, I spied another horse—a black one—standing in the centre of the grove, harnessed to a black cabriolet with its hood up. The occupant or occupants could not be seen. I rode past, trying not to stare into the interior: was it a courting couple, wishing for privacy? Or something else? At that very moment, a hand encased in a black glove and with a black sleeve shot into view, cracking a whip. As the whip touched its flank, the black horse snorted and charged out of the undergrowth, straight towards me. Completely startled, I yelled, “Have a care, do you not see me here?” My horse reared and took off, racing ahead of the vehicle. We galloped along at breakneck speed, and, although not frightened exactly, I was angry at the brainless driver’s negligence, and determined to tell him off severely! I was urging my horse towards the side of the path, about to let loose a string of salty reprimands, when—off in the distance, but drawing steadily nearer—I caught a glimpse of the one I’d been searching for on a white horse.

What is it about the particular shape of the one you crave that you can recognize from afar—even when you haven’t seen him for ages and he’s astride a mount that you don’t yet know? He was sauntering along on horseback, enjoying the morning sun.

Just as I registered who and what I was seeing, the black horse and cab passed at a mad pace! It almost clipped us, causing my horse to rear again and myself to brace energetically to stay aboard the cursed side-saddle. I could see the shape of two figures inside; one seemed to be struggling to take the reins away from the other. The horse and vehicle with its battling occupants tore off down the road past the approaching rider, then disappeared around the corner through another grove of trees.

Henri, looking alarmed, had ridden towards me to help—and then was relieved to see me bringing my horse under control; he reined his lovely mount a few feet away, and touched his hat, gallantly. And there we were, at last. It was as if time stopped; I forgot immediately about the reckless half-wits in the black cab. In the middle of the Bois, with the sun burning the last wisps of mist from the ground, there was Henri Dujarier, before my eyes: handsome, real, and longed for.

At first he seemed flustered, and very formal. “Mademoiselle Montez, you are an excellent horsewoman—are you quite unhurt?”

“Indeed, Monsieur Dujarier.” I matched his formality with my own, heart in my throat with dread. My horse continued to skitter and dance and I danced along with him, reining him gently but firmly. Finally, both of the animals nodded their heads, pulling at their reins and snorting, then my grey gelding settled.

We made comments about this and that, and then—I couldn’t help it—I simply had to know.

“You were warned away from me again, and this time you listened to them—is that what has happened?” My heart was hammering now like a drum.

“Yes,” Henri said, “it is.” And oh! I was devastated! How could he have told me that he wasn’t one to listen to what others say! He had lied!

“My mother…” he added, then paused. “Finally, it is because of my mother. Well, this is the way it has gone, mademoiselle… Lola… Please, let me try to explain.” He looked away, I suppose to gather his thoughts, and my eyes raked his beautiful appearance, from his sculpted cheeks to his form-fitting trousers, on this day a vivid mustard colour, oh God…

“I have been engaged to a young woman for half a year,” he finally said. “It is public knowledge, the banns were published… She is the daughter of my father’s colleague. It is awkward; my mother wishes the marriage very much. I do not.” His face became filled with sorrow. “I cause my mother great pain. We lost my father to illness last year, and…”

“Oh! Oh, no…” This I hadn’t known. But I could imagine how difficult it would be to go against the wishes of a beloved relative, and one who has just recently lost the love of her own life. This was terrible…

“Yes, it is very unfortunate.”

I reached out to touch his cheek, softly. What was I going to do? I couldn’t imagine life stretching ahead without knowing this lovely man. He took my hand in his and kissed the palm—such a sensuous feeling! Perhaps all was not lost? Then our horses moved apart a bit further and he had to let go of me. I’m certain we both had the same unhappy look on our faces, filtering through our bones and into our spirits, as our hands parted. That’s when—thinking as one and without further words—we suddenly turned the horses off the track and rode deeper into the woods. Over a small rise and into a hollow we went; there we dismounted, dropped the reins, and fell together into an embrace, kissing and murmuring sad endearments. I didn’t know what was going to happen; in truth, I was terrified. Was he about to tell me goodbye forever? I couldn’t bear it. His arms felt so good, his body so warm, and his kisses were completely enthralling. I have no idea how much time passed in that embrace, but inevitably—merci to our instincts, gracias for our bodies—the sadness began to shift to another emotion. Our breath came more rapidly, our mouths opened wider as we drank each other in. He drew me over to a massive oak, and we sat beneath it. There, we found our voices again, in contemplation of each other’s perfection; we spoke sweet words of wonderment.

“You are so beautiful, Lola. So splendid…”

“And you—oh, at last, at last.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking—I suppose I was trying not to think.”

“I’ve been waiting so long, Henri—I knew something must have gone wrong. I had to come to find you.”

“Yes, you did. I would have kept away.”

“Why, oh why?”

Soon enough we were clasped in each other’s arms again, there on the ground. Then somehow I was in his lap, and his lips were kissing my throat; I could feel his excitement hard and insistent and beckoning through those well-cut trousers and, oh God, I was in a state of absolute melt. But, though delirium was approaching, there was still too much that needed to be said. Our words rushed headlong:

“I promised, Lola. I would have to break a promise. Several promises.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“You are right, I do not.”

It was like speaking in code.

“Do you love me?” I asked him. It popped out before I could restrain the words, I just had to know.

“I adore you,” he answered. “I cannot stop thinking of you; you are under my skin like no woman I’ve ever dreamt of.”

Oh mon Dieu, what glory, thank God!

Amid another storm of kisses and fondlings, we learned more about each other, about what he had been going through. His family had arranged for him to be engaged, earlier that year, to this young woman he didn’t love, and so, after intense and on-going arguments, he had finally broken with them—his mother, his sister and brother-in-law. That was what he’d told me he had to do, to put in order, before we met again. He hoped there could be a reconciliation with his family in the future, but in spite of their pressure, he’d held firm to his resolve.

“I could never marry without true love.”

And now, I wondered fearfully—will he believe that he can find it, with me?

“Then I heard the rumours,” he said. “And I wondered whether you’d been playing with me. Whether I was just another admirer to you. Whether you’d become an Olympe Pelissier—Olympe, whom I have also abandoned, and who hates me for it.”

Oh my God, I cried inside, why haven’t I lived like a nun these past months, instead of fretting and drinking and whoring—yes, whoring—with the blasted Eugène! What a fool, what a colossal boba. Without a doubt, this could be the most hideous mistake of my misbehaved youth! Is there always a reckoning? Was I to lose the love of my life because I’d been slow to untangle myself, because I’d been anxious over money—how callow of me!—or selfishly lonesome—and loose? An immoral being? Like the third-rate Angel, scrabbling naked across the parquet? And for what? For nothing—not even for pleasure. For worse than nothing. How dreadful. How—sobering.

I took a deep breath. I knew that on my next words rested all of my hopes—but at the same time, I wished to tell him only the truth: a new and daunting experience for me. I admit (in my heart of hearts) that I’m a practised liar. I prefer to call it prevarication, or augmentation of truth—it’s storytelling, with set-up, build up and then the pay off: usually laughter. It’s as natural as breathing to me. But Henri is the one, and I can’t lie to the man who I know is the one! I wanted him to love me as I am, not fall in love with some pale or seemingly innocent semblance of myself which I’d then have to try to live up to, and which might forever blunt me—and then, inevitably, blunt our love.

So I spoke slowly and truthfully, terrified all the while. I told him of my ambition to dance on the world’s best stages and my increasing worry that I would not be successful. I said a lot about my desire for freedom and to make my own way, and a tiny bit about my year in Spain, when I’d faced danger, confronted evil. I held his hands as I finished with the hardest part, “And I haven’t been an entire innocent. You know that, you’ve seen that, Henri. And yet, I’ve never been so immediately in love with a man as I know I am with you. I will never do anything to harm that, ever again. I promise you.”

In turn—and as the early morning sun turned into the brilliant heat of the day—he gazed into the distance, thinking. He told me that most of the women he knew were either simpering, girlish creatures or bold strumpets who made their way by bedding rich men, and that because he was rich, he’d become a target for both. (Fear rose again with these truthful words: did he really regard me as one of the second kind? I supposed he’d been burnt once too often, and so of course I’d appear that way to him.) On the other hand, he said, there was something about a woman who’d travel to another country on her own that made him happy, that filled him with curiosity. He admired the unusual. Oh yes, my adventurous spirit was part of the attraction, that’s what he told me. And—thank God—he didn’t think less of me for that recklessness, that ambition, he felt more. This was a revelation, and a colossal relief.

“And as far as your experiences with other men go…”

My heart stopped. “Yes?”

“I’d heard all the rumours about you and Franz Liszt, long before Eugène Sue. Didn’t Liszt break it off and lock you into a hotel room so that he could steal away before you woke?”

“What?” I pulled back to look at him.

“And when you did wake up, you broke the furniture?”

“I did what?”

Henri began to laugh. “That’s what I’d read—some story from Dresden. How much did you break? Did Liszt have to pay for it?”

“It’s a complete fabrication!” I retorted hotly. “I left him!” Then I kissed Henri all over his lovely cheeks and upon his eyelids.

Before too long, we were so engrossed with each other’s charms again that we’d become entangled by my stocking garter and I couldn’t help him disengage us, having been reduced to the state of a pat of melted butter in a warming dish. Mon Dieu, Henri was so beautiful that—!

All at once, he pulled himself together, rubbed his hand over his whiskers and said, “Come home with me, Lola. Let us do this up in style, not on the ground like desperate adolescents. I have silk sheets and a bedroom with a breeze. Champagne, caviar. Whatever you wish.” He kissed me ardently. “What do you think?”

“I think, yes!”

*

And now began the most glorious time of my life, to date. It was as if Henri and I had been starving, and in each other’s form and face we at last found our banquet. It was a feast that we both wished to go on and on—food that was sustaining, that would calm the restless hunger pangs that had plagued us both and had made us choose badly in the past. Everything now was in the present. I longed to stay there, forever.

He took me to his apartment at 39 rue Lafitte, and our lovemaking was a new kind of revelation. He was very skilled and at the same time rather shy. I supposed his skill came from a good deal of practice—with Olympe, and others of her ilk—but I couldn’t very well feel offended by the knowledge, since I had my own history of former lovers. I suppose, too, that my appetite had been reawakened by Franz, and though I still privately mourned the death of Diego, there was nothing I could do about that; I was quite sure Diego would have understood my fierce desire to live fully and joyfully with whatever time I had. He would have done the same, I knew, if our fates had changed places.

Henri’s bedroom was as lovely as he’d intimated. Fresh, white sheets, and a breeze wafting through; we stood in the doorway, admiring. Flowers provided a heavenly scent. The shutters stood wide open, letting in the sounds of the street below. He took me by the hand, leading me into the bedroom and away from the luxurious outer rooms, which had also caused my jaw to drop. They were filled with incredible antiques, in furniture and upholstered items, with deluxe oil paintings and small marble sculptures. He really was rich, as well as adorable. A sudden troubling thought assailed me: what will people think? That I’m an opportunist? An unprincipled, money-hungry piece of goods? I threw these inner harpies out of my mind resolutely. Pooh on them all!

Standing together, still holding hands, and gazing at the calm beauty of everything that lay within, he turned to me.

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Would you like—?”

I kissed him, hard, to let him know that what I wanted at that precise moment was nothing more nor less than all of him.

What we had begun in the Bois de Boulogne was soon matched and eclipsed in his lovely bedroom. My amazon riding jacket was unbuttoned first. As each button was slipped free, Henri paused to slide his palm inside, at first to gently cup my breast, then my ribs, then waist—at which point he passed his arm around me, inside the open jacket, and pulled me against his chest.

“I’ve been dreaming of this for weeks,” he breathed.

“As have I.” Mon Dieu, I had.

I unbuttoned him next—first his riding jacket, which I slid off his arms, placing it on a chair nearby. Then his necktie, kissing the Adam’s apple thereby revealed beneath his dark, whiskered chin. His linen shirt was open at the neck; a slender but strong chest, not hairy, but not naked. Just right. I pulled the shirt off over his head, which rumpled his mass of thick, springy hair in an incredibly appealing way, and I laughed; I couldn’t help it.

“What is it?” he asked, looking concerned.

“Just you,” I answered. “Just this! You’re wonderful!”

And then we were kissing, deeply, for many more minutes. His lips were firm and gentle; there was no crashing and mashing of teeth or lips, even though we were both so aroused. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he kisses. Some are voracious, some too wet and your lips feel immediately chapped. Some are too dry, and it’s like kissing an autumn leaf. But Henri’s kisses were… perfection, his breath sweet and warm like honey.

Little by little, we undressed each other, and then stood naked in the bright light of day. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about that—most often, I’d been comfortable in more subdued light, with shutters closed for privacy, or fire and candles glowing at night. But somehow on this glorious day I wanted Henri to see all of me, all the good and the bad, without augmentation. I was proud of my body—I’ve always been taut, with good legs and high, firm breasts—so that wasn’t at issue. No, I wanted him to see the truth: that I was very much in love, and falling more so with every passing minute. I had never allowed anyone to clearly see that much truthfulness in me, completely naked and open. I’d sooner laugh, and make a joke—or use my body energetically to feel or create pleasure. No lies with this man, I vowed to myself. Henri is the one. I wanted it so much.

And I loved what I saw. He, too, was taut—all that riding, I suppose. Although he sat all day at a desk, none of that showed on him. He was the sort of man who will look his lover straight in the eyes, and his eyes were remarkable. As I came to know them, their colour deepened and lightened at different times, depending upon his moods. When angry, they resembled mahogany; when languorous, the softening effect turned them almost golden. Magical eyes, I would drown in their sweetness forever if I could… His warm arms hugging me, skin to skin, felt heavenly; when he gently reached his hand between my legs, stroking me, he too moaned with pleasure to learn that I was equally excited. I unbuttoned his trousers, and gently slid them over his hips and down. His prick was standing straight as a flagpole and it gave a knock, up against his belly. I admit, as he sat upon the bed to remove his trousers and boots, I noted that the appearance of his member was another item of satisfaction—it was a good length, straight and circumcised. Later I found that he had one of those fascinating ones which appear very modest and discreet when unaroused, but which grow and lengthen and harden amazingly—it’s like a Christmas gift, the best kind, with many, many happy returns.

This first afternoon of lovemaking, though saturated with passion, was also marked by a sweet gentleness. My recent (and bitterly regretted) final encounter with Eugène had made me think that men secretly crave coercion, and force. Perhaps, even, to inflict pain. But no, from that first time and always, Henri put my pleasure first and was careful. He asked me what I preferred, he spoke openly about it—and because of his solicitude, strangely, I felt incredibly shy. I’d never really talked about what I liked, or tried to describe it—I just liked it. But he really wanted to know. So I tried. I think I blushed a deep crimson. And he laughed, very sweetly, hand propping his chin and brown eyes regarding me steadily.

“Does this make you uncomfortable, Lola? Talking about it?”

“A little. I’m surprised, too.”

“By what?”

“By your… I don’t know. Ability to wait?”

He nodded. “So am I. I don’t want to. Truthfully, I want to ravage and tear.”

I turned then, to look at him questioningly. “Really?”

He laughed again. “Not at all. But it’s a delight to glory in your splendour… to feel your lovely skin, your silky hair. The look in your eyes, their sapphire glow…” He took my hand again and guided it to his stiffness; he pulsed against my grip. “Let me give you some of what you like—may I? I’m simply overjoyed to be here, in my bed with you, Lola. I want it to continue on and on.”

“But can’t we…? I mean, can’t you…?”

Smiling, he said, “No fears. Lie back.”

Oh, what intensity in the anticipation. I lay back against the mattress, with my legs hanging down and Henri kneeling on the floor. Again, shyness (who, me?)—blushing and overheated. I covered my face with my hands, to cool my cheeks and, perhaps, to hide my widening grin. As the sensations began to move through me, I had a sudden fear of not being able to relax, or of taking too long. Then I forgot all that; I simply became one with the rhythms that Henri was invoking. “Isn’t it pleasure, love?” “Oh yes,” I breathed. Such soft devouring, going on and on—should I be embarrassed? Should I stop him? Oh God, no… “So salty, love—let go, trust me, let go in my mouth.” Should I?—never mind that, I will! The tide turns, the ripples grow wider, a kind of desperation takes hold and the need for satisfaction is the only thing in the world—ripples turning into waves, and on into the surging rhythms of a great sea. “Oh—o-ha!” A quick explosion behind my eyes and through my sex, the voluptuous pulsing and quivering which follows. “My God… Oh, love… Oh, ah…” A merry fatigue, limbs splayed, unashamed. Henri rose upon the mattress, smiling, his mustache and beard all wet with me, and I think I cried. I know I did. We hugged fiercely, and kissed, mingling our essences.

Then it was his turn. He was very close, and had to keep stopping me from what I was doing, “so that it won’t be over so soon,” he said. When we both were unbearably ready-randy, Henri turned onto his side and then on to me; his prick glided up me, slowly and deliciously, until it filled me completely. We soon upped the tempo, under siege from inner promptings. The quicker his thrusts, the more my muscles responded and gripped, until with short, deep thrusts from Henri, I felt myself coming once more. First I, then he, were roaring our satisfaction into the hot Paris afternoon: “Ah!—oho—darling, yes—hoha!” We lay panting then, laughing, wet with sweat and other salty effusions, amused by the imagined notion of some innocent passer-by down below looking up, startled, at the loud sounds that had emanated so suddenly from above.

That afternoon was a delicious beginning, with the promise of much more to come. By the time evening had rolled around we had made some important decisions, as well as several additional hollers and roars. The decisions: I would move in with him, to 39 rue Lafitte in the 9^th arrondissement, to an adjoining apartment that he also owned, which had connecting doors. And—by my moving in with him—Henri was declaring that he was no longer at liberty to see other women.

“Lola? Do you know what I’m telling you? I am yours.”

Bliss.