For the remainder of that summer and on through the autumn, Henri and I revelled in our new-found love. We told each other everything: I heard about his previous mistresses; I told him about my failed marriage, and Diego. About the unjust execution of that wonderful man, and the terror of that time—but only a tiny bit about the mad Jesuit. It was like a superstition, suddenly; I didn’t want to bring that decadence anywhere near my newfound love. That abhorrence has nothing to do with us, I said to myself. Henri told me of his youth, in Paris, of his early prowess in banking, and about some of his own youthful dalliances and mistakes. I even confided (in strictest confidence) that I was not actually born in Spain, that my ancestors were Irish—but reiterated that this was an absolute secret and that I was perfectly Spanish by nature. We were full of the wonder of fate that had taken all of these previous experiences, shaken them, and brought us together.
“Teach me Spanish, darling,” Henri whispered into the curve of my neck, “and I will help you improve your French. You know you need it.”
“I admit nothing, rien de tout,” I laughed and nipped at his chin.
As far as the two of us were concerned, there were few complications, only enjoyment. We rode in the Bois every morning at dawn, loving the fact that we were both horse enthusiasts. He had a fantastic stable of gorgeous steeds, and he let me pick one for myself. I chose a spirited gelding called Magnifique—a gleaming chestnut coat with shiny black mane and tail, no white markings; a horse that loved to run, but also listened to instructions like a professional soldier. A wonderful horse. Henri’s current favourite was the pure white, named Enchanté, a mare who was very swift and light on her feet, whose mane and tail were shot through, naturally but highly decoratively, with strands of grey; she had a matching soft grey muzzle. Truly lovely.
After our early morning ride, Henri would wash and dress—always impeccably—and walk to his office at La Presse. He would be gone the entire day, returning quite exhausted every evening at about seven. Sometimes we would go out to a piece of theatre or a concert; often we would stay in and make love. He had a very good chef who would make us whatever we fancied, and we drank superb wine, enjoyed mellow ports and cognacs afterwards. Life was very, very good—and I could easily have gotten used to such a pampered existence.
But I’m a restless soul, I need action as well as love. I want to use my body, to do something with it, energetically, enthusiastically—above and beyond what I can do with it in bed with an adored lover. I can’t help but crave independence, a certain kind of freedom, and I still longed to be good at something, to make my mark. All around me, the ferment of the Parisian artistic world banged and trumpeted away. Surely there was something that I could do that I would become known for, that would be admired, applauded? And paid. That was crucial. A woman crack shot or sabre-rattler would never be considered a respectable career—not in a million years—though I knew I had the interest and propensity for it. Neither would I be able to make a living as a female equestrian—far too immodest! Only in a carnival or animal side-show might one find a woman rider, and she’d be living a hard life as a kind of lower caste freak. Perhaps I’d do best to keep these talents under wraps, I thought to myself, save them for when I truly needed them.
Although I continued to seek dancing engagements and kept up with my private dance lessons, I confess I was extremely frustrated that I’d been unable to secure another engagement. It troubled me. In fact, it pissed me off severely, and I ranted and railed to Henri about it, quite stormily. Oh, God, in hindsight how I wish, in that particular instance, that I had not pushed and shoved my restless spirit onwards in my usual manner. Perhaps the dangers and ultimate terrors that were about to be unleashed, unbeknownst to us all, could have been avoided; fate might have lifted its sharp finger from our throats and been coaxed on to someone else, and I would still be cuddled up in our bed, safe and warm, with Henri’s arms around me, nose to nose in sleep, breathing in each other’s scent throughout the dark, still, peaceful hours.
But no. The change, the beginning of everything that ultimately unravelled my new life, in love and in Paris, began with Alexandre Dumas, père. I might have known that he would be there to interfere with my happiness; his presence in my life had always meant turmoil.
It started innocently enough, and that was part of the problem. It happened like this:
Each night after work, darling Henri told me everything that he’d been up to that day, his involvements with writers, the news he’d picked up. As soon as word had spread about the two of us, tout le monde de Paris was instantly agog; speculation was rife about his infatuation with the Spanish danseuse who’d been trashed in the press. Who is this woman who’s come out of nowhere, they wondered, and how has she snagged the most eligible bachelor in the entire Ville de Lumière? We hooted with laughter over that one.
From Henri I was learning all the inside details about the serialization wars and how much money was involved, for the writers, for the publishers; it was a huge and lucrative business. Newspaper subscribers devoured the daily feuilletons, and every paper jostled violently to secure the favoured authors. This I already knew, of course—secretly and shamefacedly having partaken in The Three Musketeers, and ongoing with The Count of Monte Cristo, in my role as addicted reader. I’d now also added Eugène’s Le Juif Errant to the mix, blast him, though I continued to feel violated by the man himself, as well as by his snatching part of my story. He’d woven a duo of Jesuit villains into his fiction. But never mind, I told myself. Look where you are and what luck you’ve found, with Henri. You’re safe; you’re loved! And you’re in love, with the sweetest, smartest man in the world!
And he really was smart. I was actually in awe of Henri’s mind, his abilities. Just at that time, he’d had the brilliant idea of lowering La Presse’s subscription rates and upping the amount the advertisers paid. This increased revenues substantially on both sides—for La Presse, and for the advertisers—because subscribers leapt in great numbers to sign up at the lower price. Everyone was a winner! Of course, Henri’s banking background helped, but it was more than that. Henri was truly a virtuoso of finance.
And how he loved his work! He was level-headed and very organized. He had just instigated a larger format for the paper, too, so it was easier to read. There were exclusive contracts to negotiate with writers, there were jealousies and rivalries on almost every front—to say nothing of the huge vanities he had to deal with, some of them belonging to his closest friends.
“I don’t know what you’ve got against him, Lola,” Henri remarked one evening, after seeing me throw the latest installment of Monte Cristo against the wall. We were sitting all cosy in front of a fire; my feet were tucked under me, Henri’s rested on a footstool in his stocking feet. Very domestic of us. “That crazy quartet in Musketeers was hilarious. He makes us laugh, on the one hand, and with Monte Cristo, he has us on the edge of our seats.”
“I’ve told you the things he’s said to me,” I answered.
“But, sweetheart, he’s brilliant! Perhaps at times he speaks harshly or off the cuff, but when you get to know him, he’s the dearest fellow.”
“Everyone says that! I’ve never seen it.”
“He’ll grow to love you, when he knows that you’re mine and I’m yours. He’ll behave himself then. I agree he can be naughty to beautiful young women.”
“Naughty? Nasty.” I flung my hair back over my shoulder and let out a huff.
“Lola, listen to me in my capacity as a businessman.”
That made me smile, as he knew it would.
He leaned towards me confidingly, the glow from the fire brightening his features. “Alexandre Dumas has discovered the secret formula to cranking out stories, day in and day out, and those stories are not just pap. They’re intensely gripping, or truly diverting—and sometimes both. That is unbelievably difficult to sustain and undeniably a sign of genius, in my mind. I only wish that Girardin had allowed me to secure him, for one or the other of those books, for La Presse. But—and I shouldn’t be telling you this, because it’s not quite set in stone yet—I think I’ve managed to get him for us, for a new one—say nothing to anyone!” He seemed very excited, agitating his hair so that it stood up in mad crescents.
“Hmph.” (Again.)
“I tell you, on a personal note, Alex would do anything pour un ami; he is generous and sentimental, lovingly kind. I consider him my best friend, Lola.”
Oh, merde. I wanted to get off this subject; I was sick of it.
“His temper is quick, it’s true,” Henri continued. “I think he suffers sometimes from slurs against his background—he’s mixed race, you know. His paternal grandmother was from San Domingo. His soldier father died when Alex was only four—some miscarriage of justice from his military days in Napoleon’s army, I believe—and Alex was raised by his seamstress mother. He’s dragged himself up by his own bootstraps and it’s made him somewhat prickly.”
Now this I found interesting. It made me wonder about the big swashbuckling character, Porthos, in Musketeers. Was it a portrait of a father Dumas had never known? Did he write in order to remember, and was it comforting? Did the irritating man actually have a soft spot, a place where he too was vulnerable?
Henri added softly, “He’s been called many names in the press, not all of them kind. You must understand how much that stings, sweetheart, and how it makes you want to lash out.”
I nodded—that was very true. And I, of all people, should understand a quick temper. I thought for a moment, then said, “I’ve been told he employs other, younger writers, and they write most of his books for him.”
“Oh no, no,” Henri protested. “That’s a vicious rumour. Yes, he has a few trusted collaborators who research the time period, the historical personages, and they may provide a story outline, maybe the sketching of scenes—but never fear, without Alex’s dramatic flair and passionate ability to flesh out his characters, those books would be nothing. Everything important in them? It’s all Alex.”
Henri slid off his own chair and onto mine, tucking himself in tightly against me. His lips found my cheek, and then my forehead. “Sweet Lola, I tell you, you and Alex will become great friends. Ah!” he remonstrated, as I tried to pull away. “You carry a chip on your shoulder, my love. Don’t. Let it go. Enjoy the excitement of learning from great people rather than wasting your talents on jealousy. I should know, I see it all the time. You artistic people are far too volatile, and it can warp you out of all true alignment.” His kisses were calming my (I’ll admit it) inflamed opinions. Deep down, I knew he was right. I didn’t wish to be the kind of person he’d outlined. Should I give Alexandre Dumas one more chance, I wondered?
“Let’s enjoy life, darling. We’re invited to Alex’s for one of his famous dinners—he’s the chef and he cooks for dozens. A mid-December feast, two weeks from now.”
Triple merde, and mierda.
*
So off we duly went, by railway carriage, to a little town called Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where Dumas maintained a country residence. The carriage seemed to be full of boisterous artistic types all headed for the same place; only half an hour away, the writer was still extremely accessible to all his friends and acquaintances. I heard one fellow telling his group that Dumas’ son, Alex II, had warned his father that if he left Paris to seek peace and quiet to write, Paris would come and find him. “And so we have!” The group laughed uproariously and agreed. I was happy to see Pier-Angelo amongst the guests, and Eugène and I courteously kissed cheeks three times. For politeness’ sake. I spied Beauvallon sitting with another dark and ominous-looking blade.
“Do you know them?” I whispered to my love.
“Absolutely—they’re the competition. First rate men, though quick to temper. On the left is Jean-Baptiste Rosemond de Beaupin de Beauvallon, drama critic of Le Globe. And beside him is his brother-in-law, Granier de Cassagnac, the paper’s editor.” Henri leaned in closer and said into my ear, “Cassagnac used to work for me at La Presse—still owes me a lot of money, personally. He borrowed it, then used it to finance his own paper. No question, he can be belligerent. They’re from the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe, which is interesting, don’t you think?”
When we arrived at the station, batches of us were carried off in Dumas’ landau to his residence in a huge, sprawling place called the Villa Medici, a part of which he was renting. Henri had told me Dumas was having a chateau built nearby and the costs kept rocketing upwards, but the writer would shrug and sign away another fifty thousand francs without blinking. My mind boggled.
I was really very nervous, I must say. This was my first real outing—back into the turbulent demi-monde—since the fateful day of Olympe’s salon and the hideous death of the young girl, Merci’s sister. What would Paris make of me on Henri’s arm? Would Olympe be there? As we stepped down from the landau onto the pea-gravelled circular drive, I took hold of myself and grasped Henri’s warm arm even more tightly. I knew that I was looking fine, thanks to my darling. I was wearing a demure but expensive diamond necklace (how I love diamonds!) to set off the ones in my ears. My dress was robin’s egg blue in silk and velvet—my favourite combination. I had a matching muff to keep my hands warm, and a luxurious dark blue cape against the cold. Henri was also looking his best in a mustard waistcoat, aubergine frockcoat, and his trademark, slim-fitting trousers (yum). We looked marvellous together, I knew it. And so did he.
Alexandre Dumas welcomed us all effusively, waving us in and commenting loudly about everyone’s business. He was wearing one of his customarily overblown waistcoats—this one in a loud mélange of many colours—and he was covered in trinkets of various kinds: earrings, pins, and long fob chain. Overtop of all that sat an apron, liberally splashed with bits of goo and sauce and hand-prints of flour.
“Welcome, welcome all!” he bellowed. “Wednesday night gatherings have hereby transformed into Saint-Germain Sundays, when the work of the week is done and we can imbibe with gusto!”
A cheer went up from his doting friends. Nothing warms the heart of an artist as much as free food and drink.
I looked about at the gathering, grouped around tables in the large foyer, all with glasses in hand and nibbles nearby. There was Alex fils and Merci—seeming thinner than ever, she was a mere stick. Dr. Koreff was lurking in a corner like a living toadstool. Pier-Angelo had already grabbed two glasses of wine and was making a move on one of the courtesans I hadn’t met but had heard about (he’d told me he would broach her sooner or later, so I guessed he’d decided that sooner was now). And, swanning her way across the room, there was George.
Dumas grabbed his fellow writer’s shoulders and kissed her four times, from cheek to cheek and back again. “George! Mon bon ami, et bonne amie!” and everyone laughed again at his joke, while George looked pleased. Eugène headed over to join the two, so I turned away (I hoped he wasn’t about to say nasty things about me)—and, not ten feet from me, I saw a sight that chilled my blood. Marie d’Agoult! There she was, oh mon Dieu, what to do now? She was speaking animatedly with a rumpled looking middle-aged man and a lavishly attired woman in a hat with many feathers. Franz Liszt was nowhere in sight—and then I remembered that he was touring the Iberian Peninsula to escape from the woman and her disturbances. I gripped Henri’s arm fiercely, gave it a tug.
“Henri, please! I must get out of here!”
He looked about and immediately realized the source of my consternation. “Lola, no. Now or never, it’s a small circle and you must brave it. Come.”
Oh, shite, and gobshite! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, be with me!
The tall, stately woman glanced over as we approached. Her face allowed itself a stiff smile, her eyes fixed on Henri. She held out her hand and my love bent to kiss it. I could hardly breathe, there, tucked in to his other side.
“Monsieur Dujarier,” she purred. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”
“And for me as well, Countess d’Agoult, it is wonderful to see you,” answered Henri, gallantly. “Now,” and he looked at me with his toffee eyes and gave me a small, reassuring wink, “may I introduce mon chérie, Mademoiselle Lola Montez.”
The ice cold eyes stabbed me briefly, then looked away. “We have met.” The air around us seemed to have been sucked from the room.
The woman in the feathers began to speak animatedly, oblivious to the atmosphere. “Marie has finished her novel, Henri! And it’s delicious; it will be sensational! You really must consider it for La Presse or someone else will snatch it up.”
“Mm, yes,” Henri murmured, smiling at the two women.
“Émile tells me that it’s not his decision, it’s yours, is that true?” the feathered woman persisted. The rumpled man was staring at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s called Nélida, and the countess’ nom de plume is, I think, sheer genius! Everyone will know, but no one will be able to prove it! You’ll sell millions!”
Henri was shifting now at the woman’s pushiness. “Delphine, this is not the time nor the place.”
“I’ve been telling her that,” the rumpled man muttered.
Henri took this opportunity to introduce me to him. “Lola, this is my partner and co-owner of La Presse, the great Émile de Girardin. Lola Montez.”
The man took my hand and bowed over it. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
“And this lovely apparition,” Henri continued, smiling at the lady in feathers, “is Émile’s wife, poetess Delphine Gay. A genius in her own right.”
Everyone relaxed and enjoyed these declarations except the tall blonde, whose nostrils were flaring—almost imperceptibly, but I could see it. I needed to get out of range, the situation was dire. I tugged at Henri’s arm again.
“My dears,” Henri said, “we will continue this at another time and place, I have no doubt? And now, if you’ll excuse us.”
We moved away (thank God and all his minions!) and as we did so, I saw George smirking away to herself, eyes upon us.
At almost the same moment, Dumas returned from the kitchens (I presumed) and began waving a grease-laden wooden spoon in the air, declaiming, “I’ve decided! I cannot keep it in a moment longer! I hope I have your blessings, Émile and Henri, but if not it doesn’t matter. I am signed, sealed and—almost—delivered!”
“What?” everyone asked, “What has happened, Alex?”
“I’m signed to another book—this one with La Presse. It’s replacing Balzac’s. Les Paysans has been boring the customers right at the crucial point when they should be renewing their subscriptions, so it’s been dropped! Who wants to read about the hardships of peasants?”
Henri was looking extremely alarmed. “Alex, for God’s sake,” he called out, but Dumas was charging onwards.
“So I’ll have another one on the go! Starting in a week! Look for La Reine Margot, in serialization in La Presse! But now! Come eat!”
And he turned on his heel, splattering grease everywhere, oblivious to the quiet oaths and glaring looks that were ricocheting amongst his guests.
*
Dinner continued at this break-neck speed; I was sure it would end in a collision of some description and found myself almost holding my breath. We were seated near Beauvallon and Cassagnac; Beauvallon kept trying to catch my eye, but I steered clear. Pier-Angelo was sitting opposite us, which was nice; Alex fils, Merci and the squat doctor were nearby. Dumas’ wife, Ida Ferrier, was beside Dumas at the head of the table, but she looked decidedly out of sorts—as well as perceptibly fatter than ever. She’d always been fat—she certainly had been large when I’d first seen her, two years before—but now she was enormous, and didn’t seem happy inside her skin. Her eyes were red and it appeared that she had been crying.
Servants brought in trays loaded with meat, Dumas introducing it all by declaiming, “Dig in, mes amis! My dindon à la Sainte Menehould is made from only the right legs of the turkey—the left leg is too tough, because that’s the one they use to scratch themselves with!”
A roar of laughter went up at this, and then tous les artistes dug in with the gusto that Dumas demanded.
Once the first fury of chewing and consuming started to slow down, the stories began—of course, led by Dumas. He couldn’t help himself; he simply had to be the source, the centre of the evening. And poor Ida seemed to be the bait.
“No, no! Roger, mon ami, can vouch for me—it was uproarious!” The writer’s voice was climbing in volume. I’d noticed that he never drank spirits, so that couldn’t have been the reason—no, it was simply the man himself, uninfluenced but immoderate. “Ida, as most of you know, has an Italian lover—a count! He’s very handy. In the good days, we shared her. Now I don’t want her.” Ida whacked Dumas, but he fenced the blow and put her hand aside. “She’s going to leave me for him, she’s promised. The sooner the better. I need to trade her in for a young one—any takers?”
“Oh God, Merci, here he goes again,” moaned Alex fils. Merci downed another glass of champagne; her eyes were beginning to glitter, her body to sway.
“But let me tell the story!” Dumas resumed. “Roger and Ida were in bed together one afternoon—God’s truth! Before she got so damned fat!—and I came home.”
The friend, who was Roger de Beauvoir (so Henri told me, in my ear), began to roll his eyes, and reached over to pat Ida’s shoulder.
“I came home,” said Dumas, “entered the bedroom, and she was sitting there with the sheets pulled up, looking guilty as hell.”
My heart jolted at this, remembering myself in the same position. I glanced down the table at Marie d’Agoult, whose baleful eyes were fixed upon me. Fuck a flaming duck à l’orange!
“So of course I knew,” Dumas was continuing, “and it was a cold day, sometime in the winter. I crawled under the covers with my dear wife, let the fire burn down, wouldn’t let her out of bed… The room grew colder and colder. And finally he had to give in! Roger peeked out of the closet, teeth chattering like icicles in a breeze. He started to sneeze uncontrollably. So I said to him, ‘Roger, you idiot, get in here before you catch your death!’ Soon we were all tucked up together, with a fire raging, sleeping happily!”
“It’s all true, God help me,” Beauvoir concurred, tears of merriment running down his cheeks.
Hailstones of laughter! Gusts and waves of hilarity rippled around the table. Poor Ida was crying and shaking her head, covering her eyes.
“But never mind that, dear friends,” Dumas finished, wiping his own eyes from his enjoyment of the tale. “How do you like my dindon?”
Sounds of approbation from all sides.
“Good, good. I only wish that I could cook you my favourite delicacy of all time, but it’s almost impossible to acquire.”
“And what would that be, Alex?” asked Beauvallon, wiping his lips.
“Elephant trunk. Roasted, with potatoes and parsnips, a smattering of herbs—unbelievably good!”
“Oh!” I couldn’t help it; I let out a gasp. How dreadful, how appalling.
He focused upon me like a shot, little squinty eyes all inquisitive, peering down the table towards me. “What’s the matter, mademoiselle?”
“I love elephants,” I said, as all heads turned towards me. “I grew up around them. They are graceful, intelligent—much more intelligent than we are, I sometimes think. I could never eat them. That is barbaric.” I couldn’t help myself, no matter what he thought of me for it. I shuddered, just thinking of a glorious elephant, being killed so that a gourmand could devour its trunk.
Beside me, Henri took my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
“You are… Who are you?” Dumas asked.
The Countess d’Agoult’s nostrils looked as if they could cut glass.
“We are together, Alex,” Henri said with a smile. “Once again, mon ami, meet Mademoiselle Lola Montez, the love of my life. You were too busy when we first arrived to introduce you properly. But don’t forget her again.”
There was a pause. Merde, what now, I thought. To my left, far down the table, I saw Countess d’Agoult’s face stiffen even further, and felt George’s eyes dart from me to her erstwhile friend. I chanced a glance at Henri’s profile: he was looking at Dumas with an open but challenging expression. Heads were turning back and forth between the two men.
“Really?” Dumas said, finally. “Well, I see… It’s what I’d heard, but… I hadn’t believed it, Henri.”
“Do.”
“Well.” The writer might have been wrestling with himself, but he finally said, “Alors, mademoiselle. I envy you your love of elephants—and of this fine young man, whom I consider almost a son.”
Alex fils made a quick, contorted motion of distress at this, before Merci was able to calm him.
“Be good to him,” Dumas continued, “or you will have me as an enemy. I swear it most solemnly.”
Diablo, this was very harsh! Henri rose, and then raised his glass. “Let us not speak of enemies. Ever.” He looked around at everyone with his affectionate gaze and then back to the writer. “To my dear friend, Alex—I thank you for your love, which I assure you is returned, and I thank you for your hospitality. And now we should return to our dining pleasures, before the dindon gets cold.”
Around the table, shoulders relaxed and I could hear sighs of relief. The talk moved on and I was enormously glad. I hated being in that big man’s firing range yet again. I whispered into Henri’s ear, “Do you see now? Do you see what I mean?”
The inevitable red curtain of rage had begun to rise behind my eyes but Henri patted my hand and raised it to his lips. He gave me a loving glance over my fingers. I willed myself to take a deep breath. Henri knows what he’s doing, I reminded myself, and what’s good for us: I am not solo now, I must think as part of a duo. Calm, Lola. I struggled to attain it through the waves of heat churning up through me.
Just then Pier-Angelo, after downing a large glass of red wine, leaned towards us and said, “Henri, have you heard about this?—if you haven’t, let me propose to you an article about it. Being Italian, I know about these things, from years in Naples and other nefarious places.”
“What things, dear fellow?” Henri asked. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a cult—seems to be a cult, or a brotherhood. Call themselves a brethren, I think. Quite disturbing. Preys on young, impressionable men—well, I say ‘preys,’ but perhaps that’s not the right word. Actually, the literal prey seems to be young women.”
I felt the hair at the back of my neck begin to prickle, as some of what he’d been saying filtered past my agitation. “What—what was that?” I asked.
“Pier was speaking about a group of odd brethren,” Henri told me.
“What do you mean, Pier?” I demanded.
“Well, this cult, or whatever it is—it’s hard to decipher—believes that our way of life is wrong, is hedonistic. That it’s fueled by drunken debauchery and loose women. That it’s weakening our moral fibre as men, as nations. Ridiculous.” Pier laughed, then continued more soberly, “It’s spreading like wildfire amongst certain susceptible men—Alex’s son there being one of them.” We glanced over: Alex fils had his eyes closed and hands linked piously in his lap. Merci, beside him, was downing yet another glass of champagne. Pier-Angelo continued, “Seems to have started in Spain, spread through Prussia and some parts of Germany last year, and now—somehow—it’s coming here.”
My blood suddenly ran cold, a shiver jolting through me like a bolt of lightning. “Through Spain? And this is a cult?” I asked, extremely alarmed. “Do you know any more? Is it… Could it be…” I could barely speak the word. “…A society?”
“I don’t know about that,” Pier-Angelo mused. “I only know that its appearance amongst us does not bode well. For us—or for our ladies.”
“But what are these—this brotherhood—what are they proposing?” I quavered.
“I’m not sure about that either. But I imagine… well, to stop us?”
I was shocked beyond all expression; I could feel that my face had gone as white as a sheet. A cult against loose women? Against a liberal or artistic way of life? Is it possible? It’s not possible! He’s mouldering in Her Majesty’s jail in London, England.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, let him be locked up in England, or better yet, have died of some lingering disease. Most horribly, though, this mysterious brethren sounded like an offshoot—or the thing itself?—of Father Miguel de la Vega’s demonic Society of the Exterminating Angel. And certainly, if it was, even with the hell-hound priest out of the way, there’d be others to leap in and take his place.
Just then, Merci uttered a piercing cry, fell out of her chair and onto the carpet.
*
Luckily, Dr. Koreff was at hand and surged into action. Merci was moved into a nearby room and laid out on the bed, while everyone clustered around, shaking their heads and whispering behind their hands: “Too much to drink,” “She’s losing her looks,” “Such a shame, for she started out such a pretty little thing.” Alex fils was now downing glass after glass of champagne himself, and muttering about “this dissolute life.” His father, ever the ebullient host, was patting people’s hands and ushering them back to the dining table. “Let the doctor perform his magic,” he kept saying. “Give them some room; the girl needs air, not all of you breathing your turkey breath upon her,” and so on. I saw Dr. Koreff helping Merci to sit up, then handing her a glass of water and a small white pill. She was clinging to him gratefully.
Soon after this, Dumas declared that unless some of us wished to stay the night—and we were welcome to bed down on any handy piece of furniture we could find—those who needed to return to Paris would have to hustle, for the last railway trip back to the city left in under an hour. “You know, they love me in this little town! Train revenues have increased twenty thousand francs per annum since I’ve come here!”
Henri kissed me to comfort me and we joined the throng at the door. He placed the cloak over my shoulders and the muff into my hands.
“Alex, a million thank yous,” he said to our host. “You’ll look after Mademoiselle Duplessis?”
“Of course, and she has her doctor. They’ll stay the night and all will be well.”
“And next time, my big friend, you’ll remember my darling Lola and speak highly of her?”
Dumas and I regarded each other carefully.
A pause, then he said, “I will try.”
Fuck! I swallowed my ire and gave him a sweet curtsey. “As will I. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Dumas. I learned a great deal tonight.”
George was rushing to the door, and joined us. She gave my waist a quick squeeze. “You did well with the devout wafer,” she whispered. “Come along, my hearties, or we’ll miss our carriage! Bon soir, Alex—entertaining as always! I can’t wait to see what Dantès will get up to next in your tale of vengeance! Keep it coming, mon amour! Fantastic food! Bon soir!”
Flaming torches held aloft by servants, swirling cloaks and swirls of gaiety filling the air—the landau crowded to its maximum capacity and beyond—the demi-monde of Paris, oblivious to danger, laughed and caroused its way back to its nerve centre.
*
And though I’d been shattered by Pier-Angelo’s reportage of rumours about a mysterious cult, the whole thing—too quickly—slipped out of my mind. I let my guard down, let myself be distracted (so foolishly) because, in the railway carriage on our way back to the city, as everyone else hooted and hollered with artistic excess, I’d had an idea. I’d spoken the truth to Dumas at his doorway, that I’d learned a great deal. And yes, I was worried for Merci—who came back to the city a day or two later and seemed almost recovered (though much, much too thin and even paler than before)—but my new idea was so exciting and breath-taking that, for the moment, it drove everything else completely out of my mind. Everything except Henri, of course.
One night, a few nights later, we stayed in to enjoy ourselves in bed, revelling in a just-before-Christmas sense of occasion—and a wonderful time we had of it, too! We nibbled and kissed and gently consumed each other. He made me throb at the first touch of a finger; my insides instantly began to melt. I think I have never spent so freely and copiously, and I told him so—and some minutes later, he swore that neither had he. Of course, those pleasures were simply the hors d’oeuvres, enjoyed individually before the rest of the feast. Not long after, “We are made for each other,” he murmured, with the first lunge of his prick up me, and I cried, “Oh yes!” We topped off the delights of the evening in a moving, twisting dance of togetherness, skin against skin. Oh, to be so in love, to each time die with happiness, as the hot spunk spurted and my salty fluids joined with his. Henri—the sweetest confection I’d ever known, and a name of endearment simply fell from my lips as we drew apart, sated.
“Bon-bon…” I tried it out, and then once more. “Bon-bon.” I sat up, delighted. “Oh! That’s what you are, my Henri, my sweetheart! You’re my delectable bon-bon.”
“I am?”
“You know it, my heart. Mi corazón…” I drew my fingers through his short, silky beard. “I don’t like nicknames, myself, so I hardly dare say this, but… May I call you Bon-bon, with fondest love?”
“Bon-bon… I don’t see why not.”
Adorable man.
“And what shall I call you, then, Lola?”
“Lola—your Lola—will do very nicely.”
We purred, crooned and cuddled, sipping cognac from delicate glasses while a fire glimmered in the corner of the bedroom, sending out warmth. Then my secret excitement bubbled up again, and I felt that the moment had come.
“Oh, oh! Henri, let me tell you.” I sat up again, folded my legs under me, and took his hand. “Henri—Bon-bon—I’ve had an idea, and I think it’s so exciting! I know I can do it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“What, my darling?” He was smiling at me with such open joy, it gave me all the confidence I needed.
“With your help, Bon-bon, this could be the success I’ve been looking for!”
“Oh?” he said, a flicker crossing his brow—of what, I wasn’t sure, so I hurried on.
“I’ve thought it all out; it’s all in my head! Everybody’s doing it, and if it works for them, then why not me? I want to try. I propose… I want to write a novel under a nom de plume! I’ve been considering carefully, and I think I’ve found the perfect name, but never mind that right now.”
The flicker was turning into a little crease. Ignore it, carry on!
“What I think is lacking in the whole novel business at the moment—and remember, my love, this is not a reproach, just an observation!—is that there are no female heroines. It’s all about men—and yet so many of your readers are women, is that not so?” I didn’t dare look at him any more at this point, so I looked at the fire and rushed onwards. “And my thought is… I’ll bet that, well, that many subscribers would like to read about a feisty young woman, a very modern young woman—maybe a young woman who rides like a cossack, can shoot pistols with deadly accuracy and perhaps even swing a sabre with the best of them—”
Henri sat up at this point, running a hand distractedly through his hair.
“—No, listen, Bon-bon, here’s what I’m thinking: at a crucial point, this heroine will rescue her dauntless lover, who has gotten himself captured somehow by an unscrupulous villain—in fact, by an evil prime minister who plans to murder the lover by firing squad—how or why I haven’t yet figured out, but—well, I can base it on truth, Henri, I do know what I’m talking about, I’ve admitted all this to you, so it can’t come as a shock—and surely it’s an amazing tale which other women would be thrilled and terrified by—and love, as a story!”
I was galloping onwards, my tongue flapping like a riding crop being put to vigorous use against a horse’s sides. I daren’t stop until I’d got it all out.
“It will be a disguised—deeply disguised, don’t worry—and fictionalized version of the terrors I went through in Spain two years ago, but I’ll place it in unknown India! To slake readers’ insatiable thirst for exoticism! And in my book, the heroine will rescue the hero—he won’t die, she’ll save him, it will be a happy ending. And no one will ever know that I’m writing from my own experience, but making it better—do you see?”
Henri threw the last of his cognac down his throat, blinked, then kept his eyes closed. What that meant I wasn’t sure. But never mind.
“And my nom de plume, Henri? I think this is the capper, this is what made me know that I was on the right track! It will be…”—with a flourish—“‘Lorenzo Milagros’!” I paused dramatically, then remembered his Spanish was not yet up to it. “Lorenzo means ‘ready and eager’, and Milagros is ‘miracle’. Do you see now? Don’t you love it? …Henri? …Bon-bon?”
The nerve-wracking pause endured for centuries. Then he opened his toffee-coloured eyes to look at me, a loving smile creasing their corners. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. “You enchant me, Lola. You are so funny.”
I pulled my hand away sharply and gave him a little slap. “No, Henri, it’s not funny. I’m perfectly serious. I know I can be a success at this.”
His adorable lips pursed, ever so slightly. “Have you ever written anything before?”
“…No. But I read voraciously.”
“Not quite the same thing.”
“Bon-bon!”
He took my hand again and held it against him. He lay back, placing it on his bare chest, palm down. I stroked my fingers across his ribs and lay back with him, head on his shoulder. “Please, darling,” I coaxed, “please don’t destroy this idea…”
“I won’t,” he said softly. “But let us think about it together.” Kissing my fingertips one by one, he went on. “You know that I love and accept everything about you, the woman that you are and all of your past—and I admire you greatly for your honesty, your trust in me. I’d never destroy or betray that trust.” He placed my hand once again on his chest. “My beautiful Irish mavourneen, whose secrets are as safe with me as my own.”
(The only man I’ve ever told the entire truth. The only man I’d dare.)
“So let us keep thinking. First, I think it’s spunky. I think it’s bold.”
Hurray, I thought, and my heart lifted again.
“Having said that, I’m not sure that you should expose yourself in such a way, just at the moment.”
And then sank.
“But Marie d’Agoult—” I began.
“Now just listen, my heart. Marie d’Agoult already has repute as a famous person, if nothing else. She is also a countess—these things have weight.”
“I—!”
“Lola, shh.” He stroked my hair, calming me as one would a nervous horse. “Secondly, as editor, I cannot say truthfully that I have—as yet—seen any writerly talent, though I have seen many, many other talents too private to name.” He kissed my forehead at my hairline, then drew back to look me in the eyes. “And thirdly, darling, and this is important: how do you imagine you’d be able to sit still long enough to write anything more than a stanza? Or a couplet, even?”
I couldn’t help it; I snorted. Laughter exploded out of my lips, my throat—his image was so true! So ridiculously true. I buried my face against his chest and tried to desist, but it really was too funny!
“You’re untried, Lola.”
I sobered again. And felt so deflated. “Let me try, though,” I said, lips against his skin.
He tilted my face up and kissed me. “I love you. Everything about you. Never doubt that.”
“I don’t.” And that was true.
“Let’s see how it goes, shall we?”
I was silent a moment. I was going to protest with my usual bounce, but then thought again. “Bon-bon?”
“Mm?”
“You’ll consider it, won’t you?”
“I will. With great thought. With great care.”
“Love me again?”
And he did.
*
Forces were gathering, inexorably. Meanwhile—oh, to think of it now!—I went along on my merry way, making plans and trying them out. Wishing to surprise Henri with my diligence and talent. Unsuspecting, distracted, excited with possibility… And maybe already (in hindsight, I wonder?) experiencing the strange effects…
Henri and I would lie curled together, naked beneath our duvet, all night long, waking to cuddle and make love when the spirit moved us (which was blissfully often). Seeing him off to work every morning, I would then go through the connecting door into my lovely adjoining apartment and seat myself at a desk. And I’d start. Nibs, pots of ink, sheafs of paper. Doodling and creating elaborate, inky curlicues round the edges, simply to soften the curse of the big, white blank which awaited me. I wrote my name over and over again, for the pleasure of seeing it. Occasionally I would write ‘Lola Dujarier’—just trying it out—before crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it on the fire, thrilled but superstitious. This would be followed by a leap to my feet, several arabesques and a bit of spider stamping, perhaps ending by flinging myself into the splits on the Persian carpet with an enthusiastic “¡Hola!”—just to keep myself mobile. The thing was, I couldn’t believe the immense tedium of trying to stay put in a chair at a desk, minutes turning into hours, then into whole afternoons! I tried so hard!—heavy head propped on my hand, chewing the quill—then suddenly I’d leap up, race around, remembering things I simply had to do first in bedroom or study or our other apartment, finally returning to the desk, to stand, just looking at it. At the paper. At my doodles, and curlicues. Then I’d rush off again on some other urgent errand. Diablo! That bastardo paper!
January came and went—a new year, a new beginning. I trusted that 1845 would be wonderful, replete with every fortunate thing—if only I could make a good start! One morning I had the happy thought of writing ‘Lorenzo Milagros’ at the top of a fresh sheet, followed by ‘The Adventures of…’ And then I couldn’t decide what my heroine’s name should be. Dammit. The problem was, I just knew that if Henri could give me a firm deadline, by which date my story would commence in La Presse, everything would begin to flow. But he kept hemming and hawing and would promise me nothing.
Some afternoons, staring out the window, wrestling with myself to sit again at the desk, I’d daydream of writing one thrilling chapter after another, longing for the time when I would be rewarded with the publisher’s formula, ‘To Be Continued’, perched jauntily at the end of each day’s installment. ‘To Be Continued’ meant that it would go on and on—and so would my pay cheques! One morning I penned a dense little paragraph about everything that would happen in my story, and felt very proud and ready to begin! When I reread it later, it lay there on the page like a limp, dead thing, so I crumpled it up and flung it into the fire.
To keep from going mad inside, I took myself to Lepage’s Shooting Gallery every second afternoon; it was good for the body and for mental stimulation. I began to urge Henri to come with me, since he’d told me that tempers were flaring; several journalists were raising hell about the ongoing serialization wars and what they perceived as the inequity of payments between writers. They’d come into his office, ranting and thumping their fists on his desk, voices high-pitched and loud with outrage. Henri had mussed up his hair in all directions and looked very tired when he told me this, one night in early February. I’d been alone all day, bored and restless; I was in his lap, straddling his legs, as we held each other in a loose embrace.
“Come with me to the gallery, then; it’s wonderful, Henri. You need protection, a line of defence from the hot-heads surrounding you at work. I think it’s important. What’s your best weapon, pistols or sabres, which do you prefer?”
“I don’t believe in violence, Lola,” he said.
“Think of it more for fun and good exercise, then. And we’d be together.”
“Shooting at things will never be fun for me, chérie. Nor will skewering living things.”
“You haven’t even seen what I can do—I’d love to show you, Bon-bon. I’m really very good. Please come?”
“I’d feel like a common thug, not a gentleman. Men with deadly intent… It’s crass, it’s stupid. Besides, everyone knows my stance against violence. If I were to change now, it would simply be giving in to ridiculous pressure. I can’t do it, my love.”
And I couldn’t budge him.
Later that night, as we cooled down on top of the sheets, he told me something marvellous: he’d been working on this secretly for a number of weeks. He’d spoken to a friend, the manager of the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin, in fact, and had secured me a dancing gig! The manager had seen my performance at the Paris Opéra, ages ago, and agreed with Henri that I’d do quite nicely in one of the dancing roles. It was to be a new fairy musical comedy called La Biche aux Bois, which promised to run for months. Rehearsals were to begin right away! I was over the moon with excitement and gratitude to my darling Bon-bon.
“And that’s not all, Lola,” he managed to say, around and through my delirious kisses. “Let me breathe, my lovely, and tell you more.”
I stopped, panting. “There’s more?”
His smile was wide, a deep satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. “I’ve hired the theatre for two independent nights in early March. It will be a dancing event of your own on those two nights—I’ve hazarded to call it ‘La Dansomanie,’ I hope you approve. The dates are March 6 and March 10. Two solo performances, to do with what you wish. What do you say to that, sweetheart?”
Never mind what I said, let me simply remember everything we did…
Destroyed, not a vestige of energy left within either of our bodies, as we were falling asleep—mind jetté-ing elatedly around the stage of my imagination—I couldn’t help it, I had to murmur,
“But my story, Henri… I’m still working on my story, with my nom de plume…”
A soft sigh. He must have been asleep.
*
Henri hired a little studio for me, and I began trying out ideas for ‘La Dansomanie,’ while I waited for rehearsals of La Biche aux Bois to begin on the first of March. We’d both return home in early evening, exhausted from our work days and seeking ease and comfort in our loving nights. I would be making money again! I had purpose, I was busy and useful, and again on the rise—it made me so happy!
Bon-bon and I were so busy with each other and so in love that it felt as if the rest of the world didn’t touch us. We had decided, on the quiet, that we would marry later in the year. Although this thrilled me to the bottom of my soul, a little warning bell did begin to ring at the back of my brain. Hadn’t there been some sort of decree, in the terms of my divorce from Thomas James, that I was forever barred from remarrying? Handed down by some crusty old fart with a bone to pick, in England? I couldn’t remember… Certainly at the time I’d never wanted to marry again and so hadn’t cared what the outcome had been. And then (another little warning tinkle) I wondered what would happen to our loving sweetness to each other—Henri’s and mine—once married? I’d had a taste of what can transpire the first time, and hated every moment of Thomas’ ugly transformation from suitor to jailor. Did that happen with all men, when their minds and their legislation turned an exciting mistress into a tiresome wife? Oh, but this was Henri Dujarier, a completely different and sweet-hearted being! I shoved the nagging worries aside—all would work out, I told myself. I was sure of it.
Still, somehow or other the word must have leaked because Delphine Gay—the poetess and Émile de Girardin’s wife—announced it at a dinner to which she’d invited us, along with many of the usual crowd (though not, thankfully, Countess d’Agoult).
“Listen, everyone,” Delphine trilled, clinking her spoon repeatedly against a crystal wine glass. “We have exciting news, hot off the press as it were, about our dear partner and his lady!”
Henri and I exchanged glances; the crease had returned between his eyebrows, along with a questioning look in his eyes. I shrugged, totally innocent.
“Yes,” she went on, “Paris’ most eligible bachelor is about to hang up his hat—before the year is out, he will wed! I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Henri Dujarier and Lola Montez!”
As everyone began to clap, she motioned us to our feet. Dumas, across from Henri, was looking like a thunderhead; his son, a few seats away, seemed disgusted. Alex was there without Merci, I noticed; instead, an actress I’d seen once before at the Jockey Club—name of Anäis Lievenne, a sly, highly-strung piece of goods—was seated beside him.
“May I accompany you on your honeymoon, wherever you decide to go?” a middle-aged gentleman near Delphine called with a laugh.
“It all depends, Méry,” Henri joshed back, “whether we need your skills in translation. Since we’ll likely journey to Spain,” and here he glanced at me with a small wink, “I think I can safely say that Lola will provide any translations necessary.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, my dear Dujarier,” rumbled Dumas, staring at me with something approaching real emotion. Since his Saint-Germain dinner party, when Henri had called him to task, the writer had remembered who I was—but it wasn’t until this moment, after Delphine’s announcement, that I recognized the hard look he was directing at me for what it had become: Dumas was jealous! He was jealous of me being loved by his friend! He saw me taking Henri away from him, and he couldn’t stand it.
“No curmudgeonly behaviour tonight, Alex,” chided Delphine. “This is a party! Let’s all be happy!”
And the talk moved on to other things, thank heavens. But Delphine was right, Dumas was in a stubborn mood. As the plates were being cleared after the first course, he gestured around with the point of his knife and said heavily, “It seems to me that we are approaching a grim period, my friends. Many of our finest young men are deeply in debt—witness my son.” Alex fils didn’t seem to hear this, engrossed as he was with the sparkly blonde actress. “They’re judgmental of us fathers and elders; the liberal tide is turning against us. Though he behaves the way we do, he hates himself for it—and I tell you, that sort of extreme inner turmoil makes young men crazy.”
Henri was listening carefully and commented, “That’s interesting, Alex.”
I tried to focus, but my head was swimming. Had I had too much wine? Already?
Dumas leaned across the table. “May I have a few words later, Henri? There’s something preying on him, some weight. I do not appreciate the influence, or whatever it is, that’s begun to creep over him and cloud his judgement.” The little eyes surveyed me balefully, then returned to Henri. “I need to get the boy published; he needs some swift success. He’s becoming intolerably lazy and a drunk.”
Oh! My mind spun sideways. I couldn’t believe it. To hear the big writer demanding that Henri publish the work of his son, without any by-your-leave. And what about my book? I gave my love a little kick under the table.
He placed his hand over mine and lightly squeezed. I admit I was deaf to Dumas’ real subject matter—yes, I’m a nit-wit sometimes—but I was so appalled by the thumb-screws Dumas was using on Henri to publish his damnable son!
The writer swallowed a large glug of water, then slammed the glass down. “God knows I’d love to trade in that fat wife of mine, but even I wouldn’t go so far as my son’s new acquaintances are suggesting.”
I did feel a sudden frisson, then, at these words, though I couldn’t have repeated what he’d just said. What was it he’d—?
“Are we led by the nose by these women of ours, Henri?” Dumas asked, in a slightly louder voice to include others nearby. “What do you say, mes amis? Are we led by our lusts? Should we curb our insatiable desires, give them up?”
The son looked over at this and called, “Never mind bringing that up, père! You’ll get too agitated, you know you will!”
“Pier-Angelo was about to start on a story with that same theme,” Henri reflected, looking thoughtfully at Alex fils. Then, to his friend, “But the trail has gone cold, so Pier says.”
“There’s a man with one leg,” Dumas went on with a groan, “my son’s newest ami. He’s a strange one… I don’t like him.” He was speaking more to himself again than to any of us. I’d not seen the big boor in quite this sort of mood before, except perhaps the day he’d barged in to use and abuse Merci. And where was Merci tonight, I wondered? Had the son dropped her? I must go to see her, I told myself sternly, then Dumas distracted me again.
“Cassagnac at Le Globe—he’s another, Henri, that’s listening to this man. Be careful, I’m telling you—I remember that Cassagnac still owes you money?”
“Indeed,” Henri answered.
“They’re grumbling, these hot-heads, about ridding themselves of all free-thinkers: zut alors! Let’s change it up, change it all!” Dumas banged his fist upon the table, then left it there, forgotten. Inside me, a feeling like ice water trickled down between my shoulder blades as his words went on, the tone of them changing from dark to darker.
“It’s as if society as a whole craves a curtain line at the end of each day—a cliff-hanger to the chapter. Something tantalizing or terrifying. Something that makes you leap out of bed each morning to find out what’s next—and the action must begin at once and never ease up. That’s what these hot-heads seem to want to provide: the curtain line.”
Dumas was glaring down at the tablecloth. Several others were watching, seemingly concerned, then he shook his head violently and asked, “So, will you publish him? My son?”
I blazed my eyes at Henri, but he ignored me. Why was he ignoring me? Why did I feel so damnably odd?
“What is he writing?” my love inquired.
At this, the pompous celebrity’s energy was rejuvenated. He pushed back his chair, lit a cigar (though the desserts were not yet finished) and began droning on and on about some stupid idea Alex fils was considering. I was furious and confused. I excused myself to go for a turn on the balcony, smoking a little cheroot and staring down into the frozen street until I began shivering and had to return.
When I did, Delphine had taken over the conversation in a piercing voice, and what she said chilled (and then thrilled) me even more than the February night had done.
“Henri’s in charge of all that, as you know,” she was saying. “Émile tells me that, not only has Henri given the go-ahead to Comtesse d’Agoult’s Nélida, but he’s seriously considering a brand-new story by another woman writer—a young, untried one, as I understand. So perhaps the time has come for women to be heard!”
My heart buh-bumped. I hadn’t known Bon-bon was seriously considering—! Oh my darling! Could it be true?
The would-be (meaning, wishes-to-be) Count Dumas flung himself back with a grunt, his chair groaning under the pressure, a cloud of smoke curling from his lips. “What’s the new bauble then, Henri? Another airy concoction graced with a foolish nom de plume, I wager? By yet another vain, rich tart, dabbling at art?”
Henri was standing, using his hands to quiet things down, trying to push the genie back into the bottle. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to punch Alexandre Dumas right in his big, fat, condescending nose or whether I hoped this tantalizing, incredible news of Henri’s would pop out right then and there. Or did I wish it to remain our own lovers’ secret until the time was perfectly ripe? Probably that, too. So that’s what the darling had been working on all this time! How could I have doubted…? Perhaps there was a new smile lighting my face, perhaps it was something else—but suddenly Dumas’ baleful glance raked me again from stem to stern. He sat up in his chair, plucked the cigar from his fat, wet lips, and said, “Aha.”
I looked him straight in the piggy eyes; gave an almost imperceptible nod. He saw it—and I believe he now truly saw me. Saw me for the woman I am. Like a shot in the arm of some mind-changing substance, Alexandre Dumas had finally registered my fiery nature, my strong beauty, my determination and passion. And my talent. Touché, Monsieur Dragon!
Shoving his chair over with a roar, Dumas rose to his feet. He reached across the table, grabbed Henri’s shoulder and gave it a shake.
“I fear for you, my dearest friend,” he said. Then turning to the table at large and waving his cigar, he intoned, “I say before you all, and let no man later claim not to have heard me: Lola Montez will bring the evil eye to any man unfortunate enough to link his destiny to hers!”
With these malevolent—and completely unprovoked—words, it was suddenly upon me. I’ve said it before, and I say it again: I don’t know what happens; I can never predict it—but a red gush of volcanic nature rises up through me like a twisting, leaping funnel of vehemence, with all the force of molten lava, from somewhere deep in my belly, rushing up to explode out through the top of my head. I can no more sidestep it than one could sidestep an earthquake when it opens beneath your feet and splits the world apart. I leapt up, pointing at my abominable tormentor. It felt as if my eyeballs would burst out of their sockets as I cried, “Do you hear this? Do you hear this man abuse me, again and again? What have I ever done to him except to be myself!”
Henri was attempting to enfold me in his arms, begging me to be calm, to say no more. The red gush was clouding my vision, but rather than the usual call to physical action, it was making me feel strangely feeble. Before I knew what to do with my justified fury, I gasped and passed out in Bon-bon’s arms, slipping to the floor and banging my head against the table’s edge as I went. Then I lay there, cold as a cod.
*
Koreff had been called. I came to with his pale ugly face perched above mine, only inches away. I let out a shriek before realizing that Henri was there, holding my hand, and that several others hovered nearby. I was prone on a settee, a blanket covering my body. Horribly, I also realized that I had been sick, for the stench was still in the room. Mierda… My head ached like a bugger, oh Dios mío…
The Count of Many Curses had gone, apparently, taking his black mood with him. The Girardins were solicitous, offering us a room for the night, but after conferring with Koreff, Henri felt that we could go home where I would be more comfortable. And so we did. I took a little pill, one of a sachet-full that the doctor had given Henri with strict instructions for their usage, and I slept fitfully through the remainder of the dark hours. My ensuing dreams were terrible—there were dragons or some other large scaly worm-like beasts, flying around, and over all a sonorous voice tolling its words of defamation against my poor self. I kept trying to move forwards through some sticky and pernicious substance that was hampering my progress: slick, oily, almost up to my waist, but still I toiled onwards, alone, through a barren landscape, as if something cataclysmic had happened. Another dragon flew by overhead, then a glowing eyeball appeared—huge, like a full moon—hovering, peering everywhere, before plunging like a flaming comet straight into the oily murk that encased me. Oh, dreadful… I’d drag myself up out of this chaos, only to be pulled under once more.
In the morning, I discovered there had been further consternation and alarm while I moaned and sweated into the pillows. At seven o’clock, Henri had sent a message to his office to warn them that he would be in later than usual. But as the messenger left our building, he’d stumbled upon—almost literally—a corpse, lying to the side of the front walkway, half concealed by an ornamental shrub. It was the body of a young woman—in fact, a music hall dancer. Henri had recognized her, he said, when he’d gone down with the horrified messenger. He stayed to guard the body while the messenger raced ahead to the nearest gendarmerie. At that point, I was just waking, groggy and bewildered, wondering where Henri was. The police arrived to deal with the body, and after he’d spoken with them, Henri came upstairs to me. Then the gendarmes trooped up to our apartment to look around and ask a few further questions, which is how I finally heard about it. Henri admitted he hadn’t wanted to tell me, and at this I was horrified.
“Never keep bad things from me, Henri! We must be perfectly honest with each other, always!”
“But sweetheart, you’re not well, I didn’t want—”
“No! Promise me!”
The gendarmes looked embarrassed by my vehemence, and began checking their notes. The one in charge said, “Now, monsieur, let me be sure I have this straight before we depart. The deceased is not known to you personally, but was a dancer at the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin?”
“Yes,” Henri said. “The manager, a friend of mine, knows the unfortunate young woman. He is still downstairs. He’s not sure if she has family in Paris…”
“Correct,” said the second gendarme.
“At the Porte Sainte-Martin, Henri?” I asked, my head still woozy but my mind trying desperately to grapple with events, all happening at lightning speed and with accompanying seismic shocks. “The Porte Sainte-Martin, where La Biche aux Bois is about to take place?”
He nodded, then glanced at the gendarmes.
“How did you know her?” the second one asked.
“I’ve seen her perform one or two times,” he said, “and I recognized her.”
“And how did she die?” I demanded. I couldn’t help it; I had to know.
“Unpleasantly, madame,” said the gendarme in charge. “Please don’t concern yourself.”
After a few more minutes, they seemed satisfied by Henri’s answers and they left us. We sat in silence for a few moments; he had my hand fiercely clasped in his own.
“Tell me, Bon-bon.” Afraid to breathe, afraid to make a sound. Ice water trickling down the spine. As if, somehow, I already knew. “Tell me how she died.”
He got up and took a turn around the room.
“Please, sweetheart?”
“Her throat was slashed,” he said quietly, shaking his beautiful head, then passing a hand across his eyes. “It almost took her head off.”
¡Jesús! Oh my God, it was coming true—that was the modus operandus of—no, Jesús, no, it cannot be! He is in a deep, dark cell! But into sharp focus—at last, and too late?—the certainty swarmed me: these hot-heads that Dumas and Pier-Angelo have spoken of—these brethren… I had told Henri the outline of my flight from Spain, but not the gruesome details, not all of the horrors that haunted me… Not Matilde’s identical murder, and the smothering of her baby, nor the violation of de la Vega, watching me, naked, in the stable… I couldn’t put those horrors into Henri’s head, into his dear self, I couldn’t do it…
“I’m not sure how to ask this…” I moved to look into his brown eyes, but he turned his face away. This chilled me, too—was he hiding something? I had to know. “Was there anything else, Henri? Anything that would lead one to recognize… the perpetrator?” I quavered, trembling, not wanting to know, but needing to know, with an aching dread now throbbing through my body, and a feeling of approaching sorrow.
“What else would there be, darling?” Henri asked, pale as paper, and coming to sit again close by my side.
“Please, tell me.”
There was a long pause, then, “There was. Something terrible. The large, open wing of a grey seabird. Or owl, no one was quite sure. But it was spread over the young woman’s breast.”
I chewed my lip. What could this mean? “And?” I urged.
Henri looked stricken, then was very nearly ill himself. His eyes closed, his hand clutched mine as he said:
“And her left breast, over her heart… Was gone.”
*
Events began to tumble onwards with unseemly haste. It was as if Dumas’ hateful words—his baleful prediction—had unleashed a monster from the deep jungles of Fate, and terror had begun walking the streets.
Henri, my Bon-bon, a man who was usually so light of outlook and cheerful, was cast into a profoundly melancholy frame of mind by the horrific murder he’d witnessed at our doorstep. At first he wouldn’t let me out of his sight, hugging and squeezing me almost convulsively during the following days and nights. We tried to observe my birthday (my first with Bon-bon, St. Valentine’s again and another year older, Dios mío). Despite best intentions, it was a subdued event. He’d bought me a beautiful necklace with a sapphire pendant in honour of my eyes, but again his embrace was so tight that I nearly fainted. I was worried about him!
The dancer’s murder was followed up by the police, and three days after it had happened, they arrested a vagabond who’d been spotted in our arrondissement during the time in question and threw him into prison. The streets were safe once again, they declared, and Henri and I assured each other that this appalling event was behind us. Each convinced the other that we believed this to be the case. Deep inside, I knew that I’d been living in a happy bubble, and I kept thinking, oh, my God—they’re here! But I wanted our life back, the way it had been—and I dared not tell Henri, I wanted to protect him!
On another front, I couldn’t understand why I still felt so sluggish, and why I couldn’t shake it. Could it have been the bang on the head, when I collapsed and hit the table? That’s what Henri believed. He tried to convince me to cancel my engagement in La Biche aux Bois.
“No! I’ve just started again! I can’t back out now; I don’t want to,” I told him heatedly. “I can’t give in to fear and trembling, Henri, and neither can you!”
As of March 1st, I shook off his over-wrought concern and managed to attend each and every one of my evening rehearsals for La Biche; I also continued working in the studio during the day on my solo venture, ‘La Dansomanie’. Both openings were now approaching at speed, and I vowed I must be astonishing. I struggled on through the headaches, taking the powders that seemed to help, and not letting on to my love that I was definitely not at my usual capacity. At first, Henri would accompany me to the Porte Sainte-Martin every evening and wait for me in our fiacre, outside—but this was ridiculous, I told him, he’d catch his death sitting there hour after hour. Eventually I convinced him to stay at home or go to his club—to enjoy himself. As a compromise he sent his valet, Gabriel, to wait for me and to keep a sharp eye on the streets.
Located in the 10th arrondissement, the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin was located in a huge building which seemed a gaping cavern when viewed from the stage. I was told the audience capacity was about two thousand persons. The lowest ticket-price holders would stand in the parterre (reserved for men), while four rows of boxes surrounded the other three sides, where women and their escorts were seated. The building had an illustrious history, at one point having housed the Paris Opéra after their first home had burned to the ground. Now, the Porte Sainte-Martin was well known for its light amusements and beautiful actresses, so I was told (and blushed prettily upon being told so by the manager, Henri’s friend). Many of the sporting set came to see their girlfriends’ legs on display in the various bits and bibelots of what passed for scenes. I found the other dancers and the orchestra for La Biche rather run-of-the-mill, though nice enough. I began learning several dances with the others, and was also given a sprightly little solo, somewhat Spanish in nature, which was to occur in about the middle of the program.
Henri and I also began banging the ‘La Dansomanie’ drum to our dance and theatre critic friends: we had to, if we wanted to recoup our investment. We told Théophile Gautier (he of the monocle and giggly laugh, who’d trashed me in my Opéra début, though Henri was sure he would not do so again), as well as Jules Janin, Pier-Angelo (of course) and—unfortunately—Rosemond de Beauvallon.
“Not him, Bon-bon,” I pleaded. “Don’t invite him.”
“We have to, my love; he’s Le Globe’s drama critic.”
“It’s not drama I’m doing, it’s dance!” I protested.
“We don’t want his nose to get out of joint; he’s quick to take offence—so let’s send the invitation, just in case.”
He rolled towards me in our bed and pinned me in a strong embrace. “You know how much I love you, don’t you, Lola? I adore you; I’d do anything for you. You make me inexpressibly happy.”
“I am yours, Bon-bon, always.” I tucked myself into his shoulder, and he held me, his chin resting against my hair.
He spoke very tenderly. “I’ve been thinking, darling… I know you want to dance, and you shall. But perhaps, when your performances are over, and you’ve enjoyed your Parisian success—we could leave all this.”
I pulled away, alarmed, to look into his eyes, but he urged me back into the curve of his body and the warmth of his embrace.
“Just listen to my thoughts. Here, are you comfortable? By the end of March, I was thinking we could go somewhere very warm, perhaps the southwest, to the sea. There’s a chateau near Bordeaux that I know about where we could stay, and maybe we could find a small one of our own, buy it outright, make it into our home.”
“Henri, cariño—”
“Shh, Lola, let me finish? It’s quiet there, I know—perhaps too quiet for you. But it’s safe; it has many amenities. My family had roots in the area, a century ago. I suppose it’s in my blood, the sea and the land in that part of France. There are long sand beaches on the coast that go on forever, where we can ride, and the horses will love to run. And… well, darling, I was thinking… perhaps we could have our wedding there.” He kissed the top of my head. “And perhaps… in time, a child will come…”
My heart sank, I wanted to crawl inside his bones and weep. There they were, the remaining secrets I had not yet revealed. Will this be the truth that drives him away?
“Henri, sweetheart…” And so I began. I had to. Lying against him, crying quietly, I told him the story of my recklessness, of the unborn innocent who paid for my folly in India. I kept it simple, the bare facts. He had to make of it what he would; that was only fair to him. But I wished to die, in those moments. I had no idea what would happen next.
“My poor darling…” His breath against my hair.
“There’s more,” I said. “I have to tell you it all, before I lose my nerve. Before that, Henri, I had a baby. When I was fifteen. Her name is Emma. She was adopted by my step-aunt and uncle, in England. She is ten years old this year. Oh, Bon-bon, I should have told you. I would have told you. I am so sorry…”
I finished, and there was silence. I closed my eyes and stayed very still, not even breathing. I could hear his heart thumping at an accelerated pace—and then, slowly, quieting back into its steady ‘buh-bump, buh-bump.’ The most precious sound in the world. Soon to be lost to me forever?
His voice, rumbling from his chest, “Then maybe we should begin by writing to them, and travelling to England. We could see Emma, meet with your relatives. They could get to know us. And maybe… Perhaps… We could see if Emma wished to live with us. For part of the year, if that’s all they would allow? Or perhaps… Always. Would that make you happy, Lola?”
I pulled away far enough to look into his dear face. “You would stay with me, still, after knowing this?”
“Always. It is you I love.”
We kissed.
“I am so worried for you, my Lola, my love…”
“And I am, for you.”
“I want to protect you.”
“As I do you.”
He began to stroke my hair, my cheeks. “I’ll leave this rat-race in Paris. We’ll do something else together; why not? A fresh start. Agreeing to change our lives, to be happy together… Sounds like heaven, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” And I could see it, suddenly, our life together near the sea, with the ocean breeze always smelling of freedom and space to roam. With our hair curly from the salt and our skins brown from the sun. I rolled to face him, trying to smooth the crease between his eyebrows as his toffee-coloured gaze regarded me steadily. “I think I would love that, as long as I could continue to dance, re-establish myself there, in that smaller city—why not? Paris isn’t everything. You are everything.”
“As you are to me.”
“But you mustn’t worry so much, Bon-bon. I’m fine, I’m strong and I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t need to. Let me do so.”
“No, Henri, I do need to do so—remember, that’s what you loved about me, right from the beginning? My adventurous spirit? Don’t squash that or try to change it, darling. We’d both grow to hate that, even if it happened out of the deepest love.”
He was quiet then, his lips against my cheekbone. My heart expanded as I thought over what he had said, what he had offered. The love surrounding me, the acceptance of every confidence. Oh, thank God.
We made love quietly, gently, and with deep thankfulness. Afterwards, entwined, I urged him not to tell anyone yet of our plans to escape. That I wanted, so much, to dance in La Biche aux Bois for at least a month or two, to build my confidence—which he thought was a fine idea; there were many things that he, too, had still to bring to a successful close. Our breathing slowing, I lay thinking. Our love-making had mellowed; we were ardent as ever, and we cried out as often as usual—but the urgency had turned into something stronger and more profound than simply of the flesh. It was the first time I had ever experienced that, and it was amazing. I knew him so well, knew what he liked in bed, what made him smile, what made him hard. I didn’t even long for anyone else, nor cast many glances at other slim men’s trousers, nor the circumference of their chests nor the size of their biceps. Could this really mean that I was… Grown up? That my mind had perhaps caught up with my body? And that astonishing question led to others. Did love change over time? Would it become routine, or boring, to be in bed with Bon-bon for the rest of my life? I certainly didn’t feel so, but… I was now twenty-five. I could hardly believe it. What would that mean—this hurtling pace—in five years, or ten? Would Henri still desire me? Would I desire him? And what if we made it into old age? How did love survive all that time? Could it? But could I imagine myself alone after having known his love? Oh, never! At that chilling thought, I reached my arms around his dear chest once more and squeezed him tightly, as tightly as I possibly could: never, never! “How I love you, how I treasure you!” I whispered fiercely.
He coughed and laughed. “What’s happening, sweetheart?” He’d been almost asleep.
In a moment his breathing softened again and he had gone under, off to some dream world of his own. Mi corazón, my sweet heart…
I raised my head to look into his face. His marvellous face. His love touched every bit of me, and I was so thankful. I’d never felt the tiniest fragment of such a profound love before. And did I love him back? Was I the hellcat, the opportunist, that some others thought me? Oh, not with Henri, the one I adored from the first moment I laid eyes on him, the man I could see myself growing old beside. Me, who had never before considered such a frightening event. With Henri, I could do it, I could face it and be with him forever. I was so sure.