It was as if I was being forced to relive everything: the mistakes and misunderstandings, the wilful arrogance and belligerence of combative males, the inability—as if churning through quicksand—to turn fate around. To be clenched like a fist and yet fear in advance that it would be almost impossible to prove anything or to make the charges deliver any sort of justice. Five excruciating days.
Rouen is a small provincial town, completely unused to the demi-monde of Paris—the looser morality, the men-about-town, the hangers-on and spongers. Then add to that the colourful dresses and frockcoats of the dancers, writers, actresses, journalists and others who arrived in the town for the crucial and still-scandalous courtroom event: all very shocking! The prosecution—led by Monsieur Duval, representing the Dujarier family—had called forty-two witnesses, of which I was one; of course I knew that Dr. Koreff would be another. Henri’s mother, a tiny bird-like woman, was there, along with his dark-haired sister and her husband. Henri’s seconds, Bertrand and de Boigne, were ready to take the stand; so was Beauvallon’s second, d’Ecqueville. The other mysterious second for Beauvallon—in the black cabriolet—had vanished, though I now more than suspected who it might be and thanked God that he was nowhere in sight: I kept Maurice’s pistol handy in my reticule, just in case.
Alexandre Dumas and his son arrived in pomp and splendour, along with their various mistresses—some of whom, like Anäis Lievenne, were also to testify. They caused much talk as they swirled through the streets in a brand new open coach and four horses; the lead animals were Magnifique and Enchanté, Henri’s beautiful steeds. I longed to stroke their velvety noses, to see if they’d know me, but they were led away before I could get near them.
George Sand came on her own and took a place in the stands, dressed soberly in countess attire, her sharp brown eyes registering everything. And of course the Parisian journalists were there: Pier-Angelo, Théo, Jules Janin, everyone who was anyone. The papers were gasping for all that they could deliver.
The first day was given to questioning the accused, Rosemond de Beauvallon. He entered the courtroom with bravado, a sneer plastered across his lips. He was represented by the very fearsome Monsieur Berryer, a pugnacious attorney who had the reputation of very rarely losing a case. Just seeing Beauvallon was enough to make the red rage begin to surge upwards, like late-winter sap through my veins—and to listen to him speak, even more so. He remained unflappable as he gave his testimony, claiming, among other things, that he had been wounded in his honour, and that his demands were reasonable for a man who had suffered such a wound. “As Dujarier refused a reparation by words,” Beauvallon declared, “I demanded them by arms.” When asked by the prosecuting attorney, Monsieur Duval, what Henri Dujarier had said that had caused Beauvallon’s honour to be wounded, Beauvallon’s reply, I felt, was grossly inadequate: he said the deceased had told him he did not wish to be in Beauvallon’s company. It was obvious to me that the villain had pumped up a remark Henri made in passing, at the party, for the sake of provoking the fight. I found it difficult to concentrate while gripped by the red gush within, listening to Beauvallon’s braggadocio and then to d’Ecqueville’s equally smooth testimony. At last the first day came to an end; I returned to the hotel in which I was housed and sobbed my heart out against the pillows.
On the second day, Monsieur Duval called his witnesses. Arthur Bertrand, Henri’s principal second, explained that the seconds involved in the duel had drawn up a strict contract for its rules: the number of paces to be taken, the manner in which the weapons were to be chosen and so on. When either of the parties fired, the other was to stand still and immediately return fire. When each had fired once, that was to be the end of it and honour would be considered to have been satisfied. At each step of the way, Bertrand and de Boigne had tried to dissuade the two combatants but could not do so. The day before the duel, Bertrand said he’d heard Beauvallon declare in public, ‘If Dujarier will not accept this provocation, I will force him to come out on another.’ After reporting this to Henri, my love had told Bertrand, ‘If I decline, I will soon have twenty more challenges, and so I might as well get it over with. In truth, I don’t even know what I’ll be fighting about.’
Bertrand then moved on to testimony about the duel itself. Beauvallon’s party had won the toss over whose weapons were to be used the day before. On the morning, as I knew, Beauvallon had nonchalantly arrived at the field an hour and a half after the scheduled time—what had he been doing until then? That was critical. When de Boigne examined the pistols, he’d found they were warm and had been blackened, showing they’d already been discharged that morning, more than once.
The two adversaries had decided to go ahead anyway, however, Henri shivering and eager to end the matter. They paced off, turned, and Henri fired, his shot going wide. Then he dropped his pistol, rather than holding it up to protect his face, as was usual and allowed, and rather than make of himself a slightly smaller target by turning his body to the side, he presented a full front to Beauvallon. This, Bertrand was sure, was due to his inexperience. Beauvallon had waited a full forty seconds, at full aim the whole time, Bertrand swore, before deliberately shooting Henri in the face.
The courtroom rocked with gasps of disbelief; I thought I would be sick, and only barely managed to avoid it, even though Bertrand had told me this dreadful news months before. This, surely—as everyone knew—was not the way a gentleman behaved.
Koreff’s turn came. He took the stand, avoiding my eye as he passed my bench—almost ducking his head. As he was questioned, his eyes flitted about the courtroom, searching the faces of the crowd; this made me nervous—who was he searching for?—but then intense grief set in as I listened to his testimony.
“After Dujarier was shot and the smoke had cleared,” the hateful doctor said, “he fell slowly backwards and thence to the ground. I knelt behind him, but knew immediately that it was a mortal blow. The anxiety with which he looked at me showed he was perfectly conscious.”
Oh, God…
“I tried to calm him with a tranquillizing medicine I placed under his tongue, but his mouth was quickly filling with blood. I asked if he was in pain, and he nodded. I tried to urge him to cough, to clear his breathing passage, but he could not, and he couldn’t breathe. His face then turned bluish, he convulsed, squeezed my hand, and expired.”
Squeezed his hand, that monster’s hand? And not my own… What medicine had Koreff tried to give? But what did it matter? Bon-bon was dying and nothing could have saved him…
“The ball had entered a little above the right nostril, penetrated through the upper maxillary bone deep into the head, breaking the occipital bone in such a manner as to produce a cataclysmic disruption of the spinal marrow.”
My ears stopped working… I lost much ground, trying to follow what was being said at this point… All I could do was think of my darling, dying, from a fight that he didn’t knowingly provoke or understand…
I cannot bear to dwell for long upon the remainder of this trial. Other testimony included the finding that the iron ball used in the weapon and retrieved from Henri’s skull was much larger than those usually used in duelling matches. Was the combat a fair one, was the question argued hard by the prosecution. It was unequal, certainly. Beauvallon was a crack shot, Dujarier a complete novice—and Beauvallon knew this. There had been lying and subterfuge throughout the various stages of the investigation: a gunsmith, Devisme, testified hotly that d’Ecqueville had claimed that the guns used did not belong to Beauvallon’s brother-in-law, Cassagnac—and this the gunsmith knew to be a lie. They were Cassagnac’s. D’Ecqueville had also said that the guns were at Devisme’s shop being cleaned on the morning of the duel, and that is why the powder had been flashed off—flambage—earlier that day: Devisme swore that was another lie. The weapons had not been in his shop. Another gentleman then took the stand and testified that he’d seen Beauvallon practising with the pistols in Cassagnac’s garden for an hour or more prior to leaving for the Bois—practising with the weapons, in other words, at exactly the time when he should have been facing the shivering, pacing Henri Dujarier. Sounds of astonishment percolated around the courtroom until the president demanded silence.
Other witnesses were called, moving the scenario back in time to the supper party at the restaurant, Les Trois Frères Provençaux. Anäis Lievenne, brassy actress and current mistress of Alexandre fils, took the stand with a lot of simpering and swaying, and wearing a clashing outfit of bright red, bright blue and bright orange. Her testimony—brought forth in a loud and coarse accent—contained a foul lie! She said that Henri had been very drunk (unfortunately true, as he’d admitted to me), and that he’d said to her, “I’ll bed you within six months.” At this, the foul insect leered around at the court with a come-hither grin. Monsieur Duval had not expected such a statement and attempted to shush her, but she had an audience and was difficult to shush. It was as if she was deliberately acting for the other side—for Beauvallon’s side! I couldn’t believe it—and I certainly didn’t believe what she claimed Henri had said.
Other actresses and singers who’d been at the party were called, but most of them could remember nothing and so their testimony was worthless. Duval’s face showed his disgust with the result.
I was called late on that second day.
“Delores Maria de Porris y Montez, please take the stand.”
I reminded myself to stay calm, to speak soberly and truthfully; I raised my veil and removed my gloves to swear it on a Bible. When they read the letter Henri had written to me, aloud in the courtroom, I couldn’t help but shed copious tears. And when I was asked whether I’d known the duel was with Beauvallon, I replied that I had not and that if I had, I would have stopped it.
“And how would you have done that, mademoiselle?” the president asked, peering at me over the spectacles perched on his long nose.
“I would have reported the assignation to the police—or, if necessary, I would have gone to the field myself, armed.”
There was a gasp, signalling I’d breached some sort of etiquette. A few nervous titters pattered along behind the gasp.
I glared over at Beauvallon, sitting there with his attorney, smug and secure. The sight infuriated me. Pointing directly at him, I cried, “And I would not have missed!”
I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have said it—the red gush, the damned impetuous, angry self which gets the better of me in times of great stress. I was led from the stand amidst a violent hubbub of sound.
Dumas took the stand next and slowed proceedings by turning it into a storytelling session about the rules and regulations of “code duello” as he termed it, “to give it its original Italian name.” He went on and on, attempting to entertain the crowd and succeeding with some—though not with the attorneys, nor with the president of the court. Many looked sour, lips curled or mouths pursed. Alex fils followed his father, rambling on about the supper party and the card game afterwards. And that was the second day.
By the end of the third day, it was becoming apparent that the Dujarier case was losing ground, even though witness after witness still took the stand for the prosecution. What had begun to be whispered was that, if the jury decided the verdict strictly by adherence to the letter of the law, Beauvallon would be convicted for murder. But Beauvallon himself, as well as everyone else, knew that French juries rarely apply the murder statute to a duel unless the affair d’honneur differed sharply from the written contract signed by the seconds, or if some provable unfair advantage had occurred. That was why Duval was arguing so strongly about whether it had been a fair combat. Though duels were illegal, men still fought them—thereby consenting to the inherent danger. Honourable men used duels not so much to kill as to demonstrate a willingness to risk their life for their honour. And Henri had consented to the fight.
“Honourable men,” bellowed Monsieur Duval, finishing his summation at the end of the fourth excruciating day, “do not stand for forty long seconds, with their lives no longer in danger from their opponent, taking deliberate, slow aim and then blowing the other’s brains out. It was dishonest, premeditated, callous murder.”
He spoke energetically, passionately, but the balance was shifting and everyone could feel it. He finished with a plea, or perhaps it was intended as a pledge.
“If Monsieur de Beauvallon is absolved,” said Duval, “then the causeless duel, the unscrupulous duel, will have won. If so, we may discover in days to come that Henri Dujarier will have been sacrificed as part of a rising tide that will forever dishonour the ritual of duelling. Jury, I beg you to set an example—to do the right thing by Dujarier and his family.”
As the courtroom adjourned for the day, I was moving past the sea of reporters seated in the public rows. One of them broke free from the group and was hurrying out, muttering darkly in English to another Englishman, “Have you ever heard such outrageous testimonies? As if they think that duels are not barbarous? Standing there, without an ounce of shame, any of them! Proclaiming that Frenchmen are elegant, Frenchmen are chivalrous, that’s why they invented the duel—otherwise, affairs of honour would devolve into cloak-and-dagger assassinations, like the Italians or the Spanish! But no, no, this way is up front and honourable, they say! Unbelievable!”
I asked Pier-Angelo, who was there reporting for the Corsaire, who the gentleman was.
“From Fraser’s Magazine, apparently—in London. Don’t know his name, but he’s certainly wound up like an electrified budgerigar.”
I shook my head: I agreed with the man’s outraged opinions. Just barely, just in the nick of time, I remembered that I was Spanish, and so sealed my lips.
*
The final deliberations took place on Sunday evening. By then, thousands of people had crowded around the Palace of Justice, and hundreds of gendarmes had been detailed to quell and contain the mob once the verdict was handed down. Monsieur Duval was still fighting hard, but that day the argument had been turned over to Monsieur Berryer, the defense. He was a mastiff with an enormous grip on the jury; their provincial faces registered their awe at his authoritative protestations of Beauvallon’s honourable intentions.
It was near midnight when the case was given over to the jury and they were asked to retire to conduct their deliberations. Inside the courtroom, the air could be cut with a knife; outside, the mob swelled and heaved. It took only ten minutes before the jury filed in again. Henri’s tiny, frail mother and his sister clung to each other; the son-in-law, François, held both of their hands in his own.
The president said, “And what is the verdict to the charge as follows: that the accused, Jean-Baptiste Rosemond de Beaupin de Beauvallon, on the 11th of March, 1845, committed voluntary and premeditated homicide on the person of Alexandre-Honoré, known as Alexandre-Henri, Dujarier? As pronounced by the jury, on their honour and conscience?”
A little man with a long soup-strainer of a moustache stood and—very aware of his sudden importance—drew himself to full height, looked around at his fellow jurors and then back to the president. I glanced at Beauvallon; he sat impassively, also very aware of the many eyes that were turned on him with breathless curiosity.
“Not guilty, Your Honour.”
Beauvallon leapt to his feet, fist in the air and a huge smile on his dark, handsome face. One of the people he looked at in those first few seconds, with jubilation and a repulsive sense of triumph, was me. His eyes sought me out; mine blazed back at him, and I turned away, heart full and heart sick.
*
Outside in the street it was past midnight, and yet there was a task that I had to fulfill. I had one hand in my reticule, grasping the handle of Maurice’s pistol, while ducking and weaving through the milling bodies that were impeding my frustrated progress from the courtroom, through the hallways, out onto the wide stone steps and thence onto the pavement. I was becoming frantic to reach him before he stepped into a cab, though the cabs were fully occupied and unable to move forward because of the surging people all around. I was well aware that a crowd such as this would be a perfect place to distribute the kind of Spanish justice that the English journalist had referred to—yet I had to risk it. I had to speak to the detestable shit before he disappeared.
On the corner of the square in front of the courthouse I finally caught up to him, grabbing his arm to turn him to face me.
“You!” he gasped, trying to turn again and flee.
I grasped his collar and neckerchief as I had once before, in his office, and twisted it with all my strength, forcing his wide soft face to remain where it was.
“I know about you,” I hissed at him. “I know what you were doing, and have been doing all along. You killed Merci Duplessis!”
“No, I never—!”
“Did you go to her funeral, you parasite, as if you were sorry? Standing there, hat in hand, pretending that you’d tried so hard as her doctor but that it was only a matter of time? And how many others are you killing, little by little, with your vile experiment?”
“It’s not true, you could never prove—”
“Anäis Lievenne, perhaps? With her crazy moods? A different kind of dose, just to see what might happen? A centigramme? One or two at a time?”
His eyes were darting from side to side, hoping that someone would chance by and see this mad woman, this scandalous Lola Montez, throttling the eminent physician, and thereby reach out to help him.
“I know what you did to me,” I said. “And I know that your colleague was murdered that night!”
“Mein Gott…” He was startled by this and stopped twisting about. He reached up to his throat, hand on my hand, trying to pry mine loose.
“Where is the other one?” I shouted directly into his face. “The man with one leg—what do you know about him? Hurry, bastardo repulsivo! You cochon!”
He began twisting about again, but I tightened my grip and pushed the short barrel of hard steel in my reticule up against his fat ribs.
He whinnied with fear, then took a deep breath. “He appeared, sometime last year.” Koreff began panting and rushing his words. “Promising debt relief for troubled individuals, if they would listen to some possible options. My brethren and I… We’ve extended ourselves…”
“And you were stupid enough to let him lure you in,” I finished. “What else?” I poked him hard with the pistol to ginger him along.
“It wasn’t until the night in question… The night when you…”
“Speak!” Another poke.
“Only then did I realize the extent of his madness… Oh, I so much regret… I am a ruined man…”
“And the sweet doctor from the Black Forest, that was your fault as well.”
Koreff began to snuffle wetly. “I had no idea…”
This was getting me nowhere. Koreff was just as mad as de la Vega, that was the truth, but not as violently, immediately vicious and deranged.
He was weeping openly now. “I’ve never seen such malignancy, and when he lets himself loose, claiming the blessings of—”
“Where’s he gone, the Jesuit?” I demanded, cutting off the babble. “Is he here, in Rouen? Was he here at the trial?”
“No, no, I don’t think so! He didn’t wish… Too tangled up in it, his distrust of authorities… And Cassagnac… Well…”
I leapt at this. “Cassagnac, what?”
“Had joined, too, I think. The society… So the priest didn’t want—”
“Wait! Cassagnac, brother-in-law of Beauvallon and owner of the pistols used in the duel with Henri—are you telling me he has joined the Society of the Exterminating Angel?”
Koreff whinnied again and ducked his head. Tears leaked from his eyes. “Don’t say that name, please, do not speak it… Lured, yes… The promise of slipping free of debt… The society pays it, or helps one devise another way to wipe a debt clean…”
My jaw dropped open. “Another way… And so Beauvallon made up a reason to challenge Henri…”
“What can one do?” he snivelled.
“Ugh!” I let go of him and shoved him away. “You’re scum,” I said. “I despise you.”
He turned and ran off into the night as fast as his short legs would carry him.
¡Mierda! Oh my darling, my sweet trusting Henri… I stood there, staring at nothing, as the crowd continued to rush and flow, pouring eventually down the streets and away.
*
I was up very early, despite little sleep. It was a relief to get moving. The trial was over, I was free to go, and was now certain that keeping my life would depend on swiftness and secrecy, on my ability to disappear from sight. Paris was well and truly behind me. How I would carry on and how I’d live, I had no idea—but was determined to do so.
I’d arranged with Pier-Angelo for my luggage in Rouen to be forwarded to his apartment; he promised to keep it and all my other things safe until I sent for them. So I had the saddle horse I’d hired brought round to my hotel, intending to return to my tiny Montmartre apartment—paid for all this time by the courts—pack the rest of my belongings, and then travel somewhere very far away. Maybe I would go to the coast, near Bordeaux, just to see it… On second thought, perhaps I would not.
I swung up onto the horse and cantered along through the streets of Rouen, heading for the south-east and the main road to Paris. I was keeping my eyes peeled in case of trouble, and I had the little pistol tucked into a reticule close at hand on the saddle. It was a beautiful, fresh morning. I recognized others that I’d seen in the courtroom also travelling the road, most of them in coaches and carriages. I felt freer than that, up on my steed, and urged the horse to stretch out into a mile-eating gallop. Though perched upon him like a meringue on a cake’s edge, thanks to the wretched side-saddle, I still felt the joy of motion, of good health and life surging through my body.
Well. I’d mourned my sweet darling for a full year. I no longer believed in the trappings of justice. But if one is to go on living, it’s just as well to rise to it, isn’t it? Leave it behind and look ahead?
That’s what I was thinking, when suddenly I could hear a commotion on the road further back. There were female screams and a male voice, raised in alarm. I turned to look and saw a coach and four charging along the highway, quite far away but gaining upon me swiftly. What could have happened? It seemed as if the horses were out of control. Within seconds, I could hear the pounding hooves and the breath coming snorting out of the animals’ nostrils, getting louder and louder as they hurtled towards me. Other riders and carriages were desperately trying to get out of the way, one horse rearing violently and its rider tumbling off backwards, passengers screaming out in alarm or surprise from inside their vehicles.
I had the flash of an idea, and before I could think again soberly and talk myself out of it, I put it into action. What did I have to lose? I’d already lost everything that mattered. Rise to it! Rather than rein my horse to the side and out of harm’s way, I used my riding whip to encourage his pace, and we continued flying along down the road. I could hear the coach and four gaining upon us: I began to wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, but pushed this away and concentrated fully upon what was about to happen. The galloping horses—spooked as they were by whatever had caused them to run away with themselves and their coach at this pell-mell speed—were coming up on us. I chanced a glance back, and it was only at that very second that I recognized the lead animals, and by extension, the coach itself and its passengers. Magnifique had his head fully extended, along with the others—Enchanté was across from him in the front harness. Breath came snorting through their noses, manes and tails flying, with the screams of the terrified actresses, clinging to each other and to Alex fils, spurring them onwards, the sound trailing backwards and across the landscape like the wails of eldritch spirits.
As the horses drew alongside, I urged mine slightly closer towards them. This was a hellishly dangerous game I was playing! I leaned across the neck of my steed and began speaking loudly but gently into Magnifique’s left ear. The ear was laid back against his head, however, and I needed to do more. I reached out and took hold of his reins, but didn’t attempt to yank or pull at them. Urging my own horse onwards with a few snaps of the riding whip to ensure he kept pace, I leaned closer to the chestnut gelding and began speaking more urgently into his ear.
This was crazy! We flew along—at any point, one or other of the horses could swerve, or hit a stone, and I would be tossed from the saddle, a cracked and broken meringue. The women kept screaming, though now I could hear a gruff male voice exhorting them, “Merde—fermez les bouches!” They finally quieted, except for occasional hiccups of hysteria—but we were still out of control! I carried on, trying for Magnifique’s attention, for my words to perhaps soothe him, for him to recognize my voice and come back to himself, come back to his bearings, and perhaps to his equanimity—I didn’t know, had no idea if this was working, but couldn’t bear the thought of letting go and seeing a smash-up. A runaway carriage can so often end in disaster: passengers terribly wounded, horses ruined, in agony, and having to be put down.
And then—oh, hope—it began to work. Magnifique’s ears started to twitch, to move forwards and backwards, his pace to slow, little by little; and perhaps Enchanté was also listening? For she too was slowing, yoked to Magnifique. Perhaps my voice, my familiar voice—I liked to believe—had soothed her too? It took another three or four miles before I was sure, before we were all sure, and before the driver—Alexandre Dumas—was able to take charge of the reins again, bringing the lathered, labouring horses and the terrified humans to a shaky halt.
I dismounted, dropping my horse’s reins over his head, then placing my hands on my knees, bent over and panting to catch my breath. The coach’s passengers were sobbing and hugging each other, Alex fils included. After a moment, Alexandre père staggered out of the coach and came over to me.
“Sacrebleu,” he swore. “I’ve never seen anything like that before!”
I panted a few more times, then looked up at him, sideways. “Maybe not, but you’ve written about it.”
He stared at me, briefly, threw his big head back and let out a huge bark of a laugh. “Jesus, you’re right!” he said.
“Though the dappled-greys were violently injured in that scene,” I added.
“All for the sake of the drama, I swear.” He stood there a moment, shaking his fuzzy-haired head and blowing air through his lips. Then he flung out his right hand for me to shake. “Lola Montez, I salute you!”