On the evening of March 6, I danced before an audience of four hundred. It was the first night of ‘La Dansomanie’ and it was both well attended and delightfully fun. I had chosen some excellent music, I thought, and put a great deal of careful consideration into my costume. At the Paris Opéra—thanks to Eugène egging me onwards—I had revealed (probably) too much leg and too much cleavage. This time I was determined to dress in perfect taste for the most discriminating Parisian: sequins and lace in becoming shades and a decorous modesty, plus long, black lace mantilla for the full Spanish flavour. This didn’t mean, however, that the dance program itself was chaste and boring, no! I began with a cachucha, followed by a polka (I hoped no policemen would be in attendance, remembering Eugène and Dr. Koreff’s discussion of same, the previous year), then a mazurka and finishing with a final cachucha. All brand new, never-before-seen, and created by me!
Afterwards, Théophile and the others were coy but somewhat encouraging. “You’ll have to wait ’til the morning, Mademoiselle Lola,” Théo said with a giggle and a wave of his fingertips. I was euphoric with excitement and relief, and probably drank too much champagne (it’s so difficult not to!). At one point I saw Henri over in the corner with Granier de Cassagnac from Le Globe; they seemed to be having words, but I didn’t hear what it was about. I was kissed and back-patted many times, my cheeks hurt from smiling and by the time most of the audience had departed, my limbs had begun trembling from exertion and fatigue.
In the morning, we decided to forego our dawn ride in favour of coffee and the papers. Henri read Théo’s review out loud to me. “Listen to this, darling, it’s great—‘Go see her: it’s curious, it’s funny, and above all, it’s entertaining!’ Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Yes,” I said, “but let me see?” I peered at the lines. “What does he mean by ‘curious?’”
Someone else wrote about my ‘unbridled audacity,’ and another my ‘mad ardor and wild verve’—I liked those ones very much. There were some that were not so complimentary. Beauvallon in Le Globe was snotty and supercilious; we ripped it up together, Henri vowing that he wouldn’t let the man get away with it, that he’d soon put things right. When I asked what he meant by this, he shrugged, “Ça ne faire rien, chérie.”
Overall the reviews were “mixed,” as Henri put it. “But that’s good, Lola, it means your final night will be full, as people come to decide for themselves.”
Flipping the pages of La Presse over a third demitasse, my eye caught a small outlined box of text with Henri’s name in it. The notice announced the full amount of Granier de Cassagnac’s outstanding financial debt to Henri Dujarier.
I looked at him with concern. “What’s this, Bon-bon?”
“The result of one too many insults from a man who owes me so much money.”
“But—!”
“It’s common practice, my love, as a way to try to force a debtor’s hand. He’s had months and months out of me. Enough is enough. Time to put my accounts in order.”
“But what did he say? Was it last night, at my performance?”
“Yes. He was disparaging, in fact downright insulting. Never mind, sweetheart, it’s done.”
I didn’t like it, but supposed that Henri knew what he was doing—and if the man owed Henri money, he should pay it.
By the next morning, March 8, there had been a response. Beauvallon, of course, was Cassagnac’s brother-in-law, and in a scurrilous article, Beauvallon launched what seemed to me to be a personal attack on my darling, claiming that Henri was openly stealing Le Globe’s subscribers! Henri pooh-poohed it, but I was frantic.
“Don’t mess around with that maniac, Bon-bon! He’s an ace shot, extremely vicious and arrogant.”
“They’re just vitriolic, the two of them,” Henri said, “because they’re tied to subscribers, while we’re successfully exploring other means. La Presse sells through street vendors, and we’ve reduced the cost—forty francs per year, as opposed to their eighty. They should wake up, that’s all. Wake up to the competition.” He wiped his lips, and placed his napkin down. “The horses are waiting—shall we ride, mon amour? The Bois will be beautiful on this fine, cold day.”
*
After our ride, I stayed at home, still very tired from the performance—in fact, sleeping most of the afternoon. Extremely unusual for me. I lay, and dreamed—mostly vile dreams, again, full of swirling and dangerous action which I couldn’t remember when I’d struggle up out of the mists of nameless apprehension. While awake, I comforted myself with languid musings about our future. It seemed to me to be opening up like a jewel box, slowly revealing hidden treasures.
When Henri got home from the office, he was in a foul mood. This was extremely unlike him. He told me he’d decided to go to a party that night at Les Trois Frères Provençaux restaurant, and that I wasn’t to come. We began to quarrel about it—which scared me, because we’d never done so before.
“I don’t want you to be seen in such company, Lola. It’s simply a bunch of the worst, like Alex fils and his new paramour.”
“What, that Anäis Lievenne creature?” I asked. “Why do you wish to go so badly, then?”
“I promised them.” Henri scraped his fingers through his beard and admitted, in a strange, subdued tone of voice, “All right, I’ve been keeping company with them, sometimes, while you’ve been at rehearsals.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “You’ve what?” I immediately imagined the worst possible scenario. “That sly Anäis—don’t tell me, don’t tell me that!”
“You think I—? Of course not,” he countered, seeming appalled. “I would never do so, Lola; I can’t believe you would think such a terrible thing!”
My pulse quieted somewhat, but not altogether. Something else was wrong, then. He wasn’t looking at me.
“That Anäis, she’s a wild one, Bon-bon,” I said. “Always a crowd around her of glassy-eyed dancers and no-account dandies. Why would you want to spend time with them?”
“Oh, sweetheart… I told Dumas I’d look out for his son,” Henri said glumly. “It started with that.”
“And has proceeded… how?”
“There’s gambling, sometimes. The usual foolishness.”
This was a new revelation, and not a happy one. “Are you—?”
“I enjoy it, that’s all,” he added, shaking his head and again looking away.
I couldn’t help but wonder. My amazing man: did he have a flaw, after all, and was this it? I remembered Diego’s passion for gambling, as well as his skill. How good at it was Bon-bon—and was it good for him?
I was very upset, couldn’t stop shivering, and my head was pounding. “Why can’t I come with you? And don’t start telling me what company I can and cannot keep, Henri, if you’re not willing to listen to my thoughts about the same! Is Cassagnac going to be there, is that it?”
He turned his back and strode to the window.
“Bon-bon! This is terrible, don’t let’s argue!”
“I’m going, Lola, and that’s all there is to it. Méry will be there, and the doctor, and, I think, Pier. I thought you’d be at rehearsal for La Biche this evening.” He swiveled around to look at me, hands on his hips. “In point of fact, I’ve promised Alexandre to keep an eye on Alex fils tonight. It’s a party Anäis has arranged, for some mysterious reason, probably for the son, and père is worried, but can’t go, himself, or they’d think he was interfering.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s always Alexandre, the big important man!” I fumed.
Henri’s eyes blazed; they seemed bloodshot, I noticed with sudden alarm. “He’s my best friend, Lola!” he cried. “Can you not let me do something for my best friend when he asks me to? You want my soul, as well?”
I fell into a chair; I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Tears gushed from my eyes in a hot stream. Where in God’s name had this come from?
He ripped at his cravat—“I can’t breathe!”—pulled it away and flung it down, then stormed into the bedroom. I sat still as a ghost, hand at my lips and eyes wide. What to do, what to do? Then I leapt up and ran to him as he stood buttoning up a different waistcoat.
“Darling,” I entreated him, “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, or what’s happened—has something else happened?”
“No, Lola, nothing. I’m going, that’s all.” He pulled a fresh cravat from the drawer and began tying it. “And you are not. It’s simple.”
“You’re pig-headed!” I raged. “I don’t understand! You will not treat me like your personal property, Henri, like a horse in your stable! I’ll decide for myself!”
“You’re the stubborn one, Lola, and when I simply tell you I need you to listen to me for once, you go crazy.” He looked at me sternly from those bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, but do not show up there. Please rest and recover your strength; you don’t realize how wrung out you are. I’ll be back when I’m back. Soon it will be over, and we can begin our life anew.” He strode to the door, turning back to say, “And don’t worry, I won’t compromise you, if that’s all you can think about. You should know me better. I would never do that.”
Then he went.
*
Of course I spent a terrible night, worrying and pacing, and crying in fits of angry heartache. Yes, I’d taken the night off from rehearsal, citing exhaustion, and now wished I hadn’t—at least that would have distracted me from our awful, confusing quarrel. In fact, I sent for the carriage and had myself driven to the theatre, but when I arrived they were rehearsing other numbers and I wasn’t needed. Some of the dancers were standing in tight little groups, whispering about the young woman murdered from their ranks; they looked me up and down and pursed their tight little lips. So I went home again. Where I waited. And waited.
Sometime around dawn, as I lay in our bed half asleep, besieged by nightmares from which I would attempt, unsuccessfully, to flee—Henri arrived at last. He was staggering, swaying from side to side with fatigue or drink or whatever else, I couldn’t tell. I pulled off his boots, then his trousers, as he lay flat on his back on the bed. He was already asleep when I tried to remove his frockcoat, so I had to leave it. I covered him over with the duvet and crawled in close to his heart, my hand nestled inside his shirt and upon his skin so that I could feel its reassuring thump, thump. The rest of him seemed completely inert.
Several hours passed; then he roused. He held me close and began to murmur into my ear.
“I’m sorry, my darling Lola, I’m so sorry. I was a fool, a jealous fool.”
Oh, I was frightened again instantly! “What’s happened, Bon-bon?”
“I was an idiot; it was an idiotic night.”
“Tell me.”
He groaned. “The supper party was loud, very raucous. Alex’s son was in full fettle, and the dancer, Anäis, kept braying like a donkey, out of her mind on something. All the wrong people were there. I’m so glad you didn’t come.”
“Oh, Henri,” I said with reproach. “If I’d come, I’d have helped you.”
“No, I think not.” He lay his head on my breast, as I ran my fingers through his hair, again and again—his crisp, springy hair that I so adored.
“I drank too much champagne,” he went on, “since I was so thirsty. Idiot again. My head was reeling, I kept thinking I’d fall over sideways, as if my balance was shot. Then, after the supper, we adjourned to another room to play lansquenet—do you know that old German card game everyone’s rediscovered? They’re mad about it.”
“I don’t know that one,” I said. “Diego taught me some, but not that.”
“They all screamed with enthusiasm that I would love it, since it’s full of banking terminology… Anyway, we started, and I soon could tell that it’s very easy to cheat at that game. I could see the ‘banker’—it was Cassagnac—leaning slightly towards the table, replacing cards from prepared ones he’d hidden in his waistcoat pocket. I called him on it—but alas, as I’ve said, I’d drunk too much, and no one believed me. They all laughed instead. Maybe at me.”
“Oh, Bon-bon…”
“I kept playing, like an idiot… I think Roger de Beauvoir tried to stop me, but… I was worrying over our argument, darling; I said some terrible things, didn’t I? I have no idea why. I’ve felt so beastly all day and all night…” He lifted his head to look at me out of his toffee-silk eyes, then dropped it again onto my breast. His eyes still appeared so bloodshot, no white in their edges at all—what had gotten into him? He began hugging my rib cage, kissing my belly. “I kept losing, apparently… And I kept playing, trying to win it back. It felt as if a fever had taken hold of me. I felt odd, very odd indeed…”
Now I knew that something else must have happened.
“And then what, sweetheart?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he said. “Just as I was stumbling out—and I regret to say I must have been stumbling badly… Just then, I think Beauvallon came up with a swagger and we had some sort of words, I don’t remember what they were. I simply wanted to get home—to get home to you. Lola, my darling…”
“Think, Henri,” I urged him. “What did you say to him? Nothing too inflammatory, I hope?”
“I think… just something about not desiring his company… at that moment. Or something of the sort. Muddle-headed…”
I felt ill with worry and kissed his dear forehead. At that, he began to weep and moan—he was cupping my left breast tenderly, and he began kissing it, then kissing both, holding them against his cheeks and sobbing, “Such evil in the world, how could there be such evil?”
I sat up, disentangling myself—and so alarmed at his wild grief! “Henri, what is it? Tell me what’s happened.”
He struggled up and again clasped me to him. “I don’t want to frighten you… I just love you so much, Lola, I want to protect you…”
I pulled away sternly, gave him a little shake. “Tell me.”
He hung his head, closed his eyes. “I’m still so drunk… Forgive me, darling…”
“Bon-bon?” I wiggled in between his legs, my own straddling his, and our bodies tight against each other. “What is it?”
He said the words against my neck. “The murdered woman… The image of her haunts my mind, lying there with… so much blood. The savagery done to her, to her…” His breath caught, he stopped, then resumed raggedly. “And the other thing. I can’t get this out of my head…”
“Try.”
“…Under the grey wing of the sea-bird, or owl—covered in her blood, oh, mon Dieu…” He was trying to pull himself together but kept dashing his fingers across his streaming eyes. “There was a note; the police took it. I could just make out the words before they did so…”
“And? Tell me what it said.”
“‘Behold the wing of the Exterminating Angel, moving swiftly over the land.’”
I gave a cry, then stifled it against the back of my hand. Dear God, it was true.
“I don’t know exactly what it means, darling,” he said, “but it is unspeakable.”
And we both cried, holding each other so tightly that it felt as if our bones would snap with the strain.
*
By afternoon, Henri was well enough to go into the office—subdued and remorseful, but no longer staggering. He seemed a little more like himself; I thought he seemed relieved to have unburdened himself about the hideous note, as well as the Trois Frères supper party and its gambling aftermath. I warned him to be extremely careful, to drink nothing that he hadn’t seen come directly from a reliable water source—and no alcohol, not today. Full of new fear but also determination, I went to my rehearsal for the second performance of ‘La Dansomanie’, taking every precaution, a pistol in my reticule, and looking around me like a fierce hawk at every moving as well as immobile thing, returning home after eight in the evening. There I found Henri with Alexandre Dumas.
Henri seemed discouraged, and Dumas almost as ebullient as ever. It was the first time he’d been in our home, to my knowledge. Of course, as Henri’s dearest friend, I’m sure he’d been there many times in the past. He seemed very much at ease, smoking his smelly cigar and with his booted feet on a low table by the fire.
I lit one of my little cheroots and sat myself down beside my love. Dumas exhaled, releasing a huge cloud of smoke from his lungs, and lumbered up. “Well, Henri, never fear. It will all come right soon enough.” As surreptitiously as a large man can, he pushed a wooden box he’d had beside him on the floor with his foot to conceal it behind one of our wing chairs.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing.
“Not to concern you,” the writer answered.
I turned to my love. “Henri?”
A deep sigh. “I’ve borrowed them from Alex. He’s tried to talk me out of it, but I think I’ll just go ahead, get it over with.”
“What?” My hackles were rising with renewed alarm.
“An affair of honour,” Dumas said. “And as it’s Henri’s first, we need to be careful of his reputation. Let him undergo the baptism. It’s a rite of passage that all men must experience.”
I looked at Henri for immediate explanation.
“I’ve been drawn into a duel, sweetheart. It’s a stupid thing, all a mistake, but never mind.”
I jumped up. “No! Henri, you’re not a fighter, you know you’re not! I’ll go in your place!”
The two men looked at me, each aghast for their own particular reasons. Dumas burst out laughing, but Henri reproached him with a few strict words.
Then the writer calmed down and said, “Never fear for his safety, mademoiselle, for the affair is with our preposterous friend, Roger de Beauvoir—he of the hiding-in-the-closet with my fat wife, do you remember the story?”
“I do.”
“So it will all end well. It’s simply a matter of honour to be settled, one middle-aged man reasserting his virility and his young friend allowing that salve to be administered. I’ve brought mon cher Henri my best set of pistols.”
“Pistols!” I cried, appalled. “Everyone knows that pistols are more deadly than sabres in these stupid affairs! Even when neither of the gentlemen knows what the hell they’re doing!”
“A duel, for a gentleman, is one of life’s necessary episodes,” Dumas intoned. “One of those events that, as writer, you gear the action towards: the curtain line!—the suspense!—you’re kept hanging until the next installment, and life is consequently full of savour. The sex tonight, I assure you, will be mind-blowing.”
“It’s a clumsy comparison—a vile one in fact,” I snapped, and turned back to Henri. “Sweetheart, call it off, I beg you. Or let me go, to talk some sense into Roger.”
But the men, at that, circled their masculinity around them like a large, dark cape, and would not be drawn into any further disclosures. Finally, I left them to go up to our bed, for I was exhausted—staggering, myself. And feeling so nauseated… From the stress, I presumed—angry, deep down, that Henri would have allowed himself to be so distracted, so distant, from my final performance of ‘La Dansomanie’ and from the other, very real dangers that I now knew to be lurking just out of sight. Let him do it if he must, I thought, with the ridiculous Roger. And then, maybe quietly, maybe yes, we should leave. Right away. Start our new life, leave them all behind. Keep my darling safe. The decision, taken as I fell off to sleep, made me feel so much better.
*
The next night—March 10th—I danced my solo ‘Dansomanie’ for the last time, and it was wildly elating. Bon-bon had been right; the mixed reviews on the 6th had piqued interest enough that many other Parisians decided to take a chance to view the Spanish danseuse for themselves. I whirled and flung my skirts, stamped and clicked the castanets, showing my shapely legs with youthful pride. I may not possess the invariable correctness of a classically trained ballerina with all of the pirouettes and ronds de jambes that they seem to prefer—but I’m lithe, graceful by my own standards and wildly inventive. I add new things every time, and the orchestra has to keep up. I never wish to be constrained by rules when there’s freedom to be had and kisses to be thrown—to an audience that loved me.
The only damper on my happiness? Well, it was a big one, and we had argued again over it. Henri had begged off and remained at home, claiming that important paperwork had to be finished before the morning. At this, I was furious and said some harsh things of my own, unable to understand why he would choose to abandon me on my night of all nights, a night that he had arranged and given me as a gift of love! I couldn’t comprehend it. The valet, Gabriel, as well as the coach and driver, were to stay outside the theatre to ensure I’d arrive home safely—and we argued over that, too, I’m ashamed to say.
“You’re trying to make certain I come home directly afterwards, aren’t you, and not stay to enjoy the fruits of my very important evening? That’s selfish, Bon-bon! How could you?” I said nothing to him about my overnight decision, my willingness to leave Paris as soon as we could arrange it. Make him wait! I went off in a huff.
And stayed afterwards, air-kissing my congratulatory friends and exchanging gossip, before shivering finally back into the cold, damp night, ready to crawl into my lover’s warm arms and murmur to him of my happy adventure and my undying adoration. To say to him, “I’m so sorry that I was crabby, please forgive me, darling. It was all because of nerves—but I’m a success, Bon-bon, it was a triumph!” I could hardly wait to share my delight.
When I entered our apartment, after midnight, I found a note. In it, Henri asked me to sleep in my own room so that he could ensure he had a good rest for the morning. From this, I realized that the ridiculous duel with Roger would take place at dawn. Again I was miffed; he stayed home because of that? But then I remembered that my beautiful love had rarely, if ever, fired a pistol. Maybe he’d been reading up on it, or practising—but how? What a foolish thing they were up to! I thought, let’s hope the two sillies simply fire the guns directly into the sky—then pray that the falling bullets don’t kill one of them accidentally, as they stand shaking hands.
I guessed it would happen somewhere in the preferred site of such affairs—the Bois de Boulogne—and I resolved to be there ahead of them.
*
I dragged myself from my solitary bed long before dawn and went to the stables, equipped with my favourite pistol and a sabre in its scabbard, which I slung from a shoulder belt, to be ready at hand if I should need it—or simply to astonish Roger de Beauvoir, I thought, which would be fine too. Magnifique whickered a greeting as I entered his stall and offered his mouth to the bit. It was still dark in the streets as I cantered off, heading for the Bois.
I’d checked our bedroom door before leaving and found it still closed; then I’d been surprised and alarmed to also find it locked. My poor darling, I couldn’t understand why he was determined to see this farce through, but as I rode along, I decided I’d beg him to promise me afterwards that this was the first and last such affair he’d let himself become entangled in.
It was a bone-chilling morning, the air dense with anticipation of snow to follow. The kind of March day in Paris when the weather is changeable, and you don’t dress as warmly as you should because you think it will be warmer than it is. As we entered the paths through the Bois and I began to search out the most likely duelling fields, I realized that I hadn’t thought this plan through very carefully. I’d been so exhausted, and had fallen asleep almost immediately upon laying my head on the pillow. Somehow, I’d told myself, all would be clear in the morning. But it wasn’t so clear—there were numerous fields, and the Bois was huge. I wracked my brain to see if I could remember any particular ones that gents spoke of as ‘the’ field for fighting. Le chemin de Grandes Randonnées, perhaps? Or le chemin de Ceinture du Lac Inférieur? Damnation! There were two lakes, several waterfalls, reservoirs, race tracks, numerous fields—and many routes to each. And the immensity of the Bois, I suddenly realized, was matched by my stupid inability to find my way around anywhere at all. The foolish trait didn’t seem so amusing now. I urged Magnifique into a full-on gallop. The night’s darkness was lifting and snow beginning to fall—lightly, but as the sky became defined, heavy clouds could also be seen, very low and very dark.
This was an awful situation, I thought. Would Henri be rising at this moment and making his way here, only for me to be galloping around at the wrong end of the woods? And then I had another, better thought: I’m sure Alexandre Dumas is acting as his second, and I do know where Dumas’ city apartment is. Henri had pointed it out on many an early morning ride—and in fact, it was quite close. I’ll ride there immediately, I told myself, and if they’re already on their way, I can intercept them en route.
So I reined Magnifique around, and we galloped back the way we’d come. There were still no other riders in sight, and very few yet upon the streets.
When we reached Dumas’ building, I hurriedly tied the gelding’s reins to a post and talked my way past the concierge. She must have been used to young women coming and going from the writer’s apartment at all hours, for she shrugged and yawned as she waved me along. I ran up the stairs and pounded at the door that I believed must be his—from the messy collection of boots, hats and various bibelots left lying outside.
There was a long wait before I could hear footsteps within, and I jittered nervously about on the landing. “Hurry, hurry,” I was whispering to myself and wondering whether it would be Ida who answered. But no, it was Dumas. My heart plummeted; if he was Henri’s second, wouldn’t he already be gone? Or was I right on time?
“You?” he said.
“Are you with Henri this morning?” I said. “He’s fighting today, isn’t he?”
The writer rubbed his face, looking sleepy.
“Where’s the duel taking place?” I inquired, now frantically thinking of rushing off again, since he obviously couldn’t be involved or he’d already be awake, at least, and getting ready to go. “Please, in God’s name, don’t keep it from me!”
Dumas was now taking in my attire: the pistol in my waistband and the sabre on my shoulder.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Come in, my dear, and let me explain.”
My dear? He’d never said such a thing to me before. He put a heavy arm around my shoulder and ushered me inside.
What followed then, I know in hindsight, was a series of delaying tactics—prompting a rising agitation within me—as the faux count began preparing coffee and urging me to unburden myself of my “clanking weaponry,” which, according to him, was completely unnecessary and looked idiotic on a mere scrap of a thing like me. “We shall depart for the Bois as soon as we’ve enjoyed a café together, does that suit?” he said, implying—I assumed—that the time of engagement was set for later than dawn. I perched nervously on a chair, sabre resting on the floor, while Dumas left the room to go and dress. He was gone a long time and I’d begun pacing, wringing my hands, by the time he returned, sporting one of his larger-than-life waistcoats festooned with trinkets. He poured coffee, chatting of this and that; then when I asked again where Henri would be duelling, he began quoting from Le Code du Duel, attempting to reassure me (I supposed) that his young friend must fight like a man and that I mustn’t interfere in these important male rituals, blah blah. And that’s when it finally hit me: it was the supremely smug look on Dumas’ face, like a cat who’d swallowed a bird. A baptism, he’d said. Who had a bone to pick with Henri? Into my mind’s eye flashed the notice Henri had placed in the paper, revealing Cassagnac’s debt. Henri’s consequent argument with the man, and his moodiness… The stupid supper party, Cassagnac cheating…
“Wait,” I said. Dumas regarded me, eyes hooded. “You’re not acting as Henri’s second this morning, are you?” I asked, the blood draining from my face.
“No. A looming deadline,” was the answer.
A further surmise, which I now feared was true: “And his opponent isn’t Roger de Beauvoir.”
“Afraid it is not.” He smiled, not using his teeth.
“Then who? Cassagnac?”
A long pause while my heart jumped around in my chest like the imprisoned canary in Dumas’ wide jaw, awaiting the fat cat’s crunching and swallowing.
I must have looked anguished, for he finally said, with another appalling smile, “Don’t agitate yourself, I beg you. Would I send my best friend into danger?”
“Yes!” I cried, “If only to see what dramatic outcome it might have and how you could use it in your next escapade!”
“Too cruel of you, mademoiselle…” He looked triply smug.
“You huge turd!” I stamped and flung my arms into the air—then a terrible realization hit me in the solar plexus: if not Cassagnac…? Oh, worse? The best marksman in Paris? Pray God, it can’t be! “For God’s sake, who is Henri fighting?”
I saw him give a quick glance at a brass clock that sat on his mantel. Then he placed the cup back in its saucer, stretched his legs out against the carpet and said, “They needed to get it out of their systems, that’s all. Two gentlemen, laying a grievance to rest. It’s Rosemond de Beauvallon.”
I shrieked, “What have you done? Then Henri is lost!”
My limbs finally burst into action as I flung myself across the room and wrenched the door open.
“Beauvallon is a gentleman!” Dumas cried after me.
I turned back to spit, “He most definitely is not!”
Hurtling down the winding staircase, I could hear Dumas follow me to the landing and call down, in echoing words that ricocheted around the marble steps and walls, “It’s a baptism! Don’t shame him, you hussy!”
*
Magnifique could gallop like the wind, but it felt as if we were moving at a crawl. The streets were now busy: there were pedestrians and carriage traffic, carts piled sky-high with goods and many slow-downs. I gibbered and quaked and screamed at a few bodies and vehicles that seemed to move into our path just as we neared them. At last we reached the edge of the Bois again and entered the woods at a reckless pace. “Go, sweetheart, go,” I urged the gelding. “Find Enchanté, listen for her whickering, catch her scent—find her and you’ll find our darling!” I was bent over the horse’s neck, tears streaming from my eyes from the raw cold, the snow that had been falling and gathering on the ground, and from absolute stark-raving terror. Beauvallon! How could this be; how could Bon-bon not have told me! Somewhere, off in the distance, a loud, sharp sound rang out. Oh God, let me get there, let me find him! Galloping wildly, cornering dangerously, we bypassed several sedate riders, who called after me, crossly. I still didn’t know where we were going, but had given the gelding his head, hoping he would somehow, miraculously… And then I saw two riders who were stopped, speaking together, one of them pointing back the way he’d come; the other also began gesturing and pointing. Could it be? I reined sharply, and Magnifique almost reared. “What is that field?” I called to them.
“La Favourite, mademoiselle—just over there.”
I cursed myself: was it la Favourite, was that where they were fighting?
“But do not go in that direction, let us help you away,” one of them began saying, with a quick glance at the other.
At that moment, two other horses and their riders came charging onto the path from that very place and bore down upon us with frightening speed. The horsemen were laying on the whips—there was the crack of leather against the animals’ flanks—and almost before I could distinguish the men’s features or anything else, they tore past. But I recognized one of them: it was Beauvallon. I reined Magnifique again and we changed direction, about to race after them. Before I could do so, there was another sound; I twisted in the saddle to see a horse and black cabriolet with its hood up come tearing down the path and past, the black horse labouring, a long whip cracking out from the hidden interior, over and over, snapping upon the creature’s hindquarters with vicious accuracy.
Magnifique, rattled and jumpy, was turning himself in circles, as was my frightened mind. Follow those devils? Or ride to my love, who must be there in the field, just round the corner, pray God he’s safe. “Mademoiselle,” the two who’d spoken to me urged, trying to catch at my horse’s bridle. No, let go of me! Ride! I nudged Magnifique with my heels, and we galloped onwards.
The path through the woods ended abruptly, and the space opened up. At the other side of the field, silhouetted against the far trees, I saw a carriage with two horses in harness, and the pale beauty of Enchanté, neck drooping, standing off to the side. There were a group of men gathered around… Something. On the ground. Urging Magnifique towards the group, I felt the sky was going dark again, and from my throat I could hear a strange, low sound, growing, spreading… There were two men standing and two on the ground. The men standing I didn’t recognize; one of the figures on the ground was short and stumpy, and as I approached I could make out the features and balding head of Dr. Koreff, as he bent over the other slumped upon the frozen snow. But—the other…? No… No.
One of the standing men looked up and saw me, then began to try to wave me away. “Don’t come any closer, mademoiselle, I beg you—”
“Is it Henri?” I cried, “Henri Dujarier?”
Dr. Koreff looked up quickly as he heard my voice.
“Doctor,” I called, dismounting and casting the reins onto the ground, then running towards him. “For pity’s sake!”
And that is the moment I laid my eyes upon the figure, lying there in the doctor’s arms.
“I regret, mademoiselle,” said Koreff, looking now at the man in his lap, “that he has just this moment died. From a bullet that entered his head at the lower right corner of his nose.”
I threw back my head and screamed, then flung myself down onto the snow mixed with Henri’s blood, a large amount of which was leaking, congealing and freezing there beneath him. A large blue-black duelling pistol lay off to the side. My darling! His body looked so small, and his brow so very pale, as white as the snow itself. But below his brow, a large black hole, oozing with blood, had torn apart the left side of his beautiful, his gorgeous face. The face I’d loved and kissed—the rasp of his dear cheeks over every part of my body, the cheeks I’d shave for him afterwards, while we laughed and talked… His thick clumps of dark hair springing forth, now soaking wet; the crease between his brow that I’d try to rub smooth, now smoothing. The eyes that gazed upon me with all of the warmth in the universe: one now covered in gore, the other open. Inside that wonderful face—whose desecration was even now being dusted with white—behind that too smooth marble brow and the open eye, gathering snowflakes? There was nothing. He was gone. How could this be true?
Blood began flowing in a bright, red stream from his mouth and onto the snow as Koreff lay his dear head upon the ground. I reached out to touch Henri’s hand, the one closest to me.
It was warm, but barely perceptibly. It was also wet. How could his beloved hand already be so cold, if he had just that moment died?
I leapt up again and ran to the gelding, smelling of blood, so that the horse skittered and backed away before I was able to grab hold of the reins. Throwing myself into the saddle, I kicked him into action—to follow the murderer—to kill him myself! Or die, as well, and follow my love. Charging wildly across the field and back onto the path, I was panting and crying over Magnifique’s neck, and the low strange sound at the back of my throat had become a full-voiced version of what it had always been: a keening of death, of love cut short, of the brutality of time and fortune. I howled and screamed and cursed like a banshee, flying at breakneck speed after them.
And of course, though I galloped to the edge of the Bois once more and along other routes, wailing and sobbing for vengeance, there was no sign of Beauvallon, or his second, or the unknown witness in the black cabriolet. There was only blowing snow, freezing cold and the end of the world.