Almost on the same day in late October, both Céleste and Pomare learned they would gain opportunities in the theatre as dancers. They celebrated with champagne they could not afford at the Café Anglais, which they both loved. Adolphe footed the sizeable bill, knowing he was still paying for his earlier humiliation of Céleste. It forced him to ask her if she would ever forgive him. She replied, ‘Never!’ She had the good doctor exactly where she wanted him and he had to comply with her wishes or depart. Her newfound fame had given her a certain sense of power. Adolphe could take it or leave it.
One of Brididi’s friends worked at the Théâtre Beaumarchais and he lined up an engagement for Céleste to appear in a revue. She would have to learn to dance the mazurka. This had been created in sixteenth-century Poland and made popular in recent years by that country’s finest composer, Frédéric Chopin. Céleste’s confidence was high after her success with the polka, and she adapted to the mazurka quickly and efficiently. The colourful headgear, military band–style jacket, very tight white britches and long black boots allowed her to display her physical features, primarily, but not exclusively, her derrière and legs. Patrons rushed to buy the front-row ‘gynaecological’ seats and the theatre was often sold out, especially on Fridays and Saturdays.1
Mogador was soon the major attraction at the Beaumarchais as the press and sketch artists were now following her. On the matter of payment, she was promised much and given nothing. The odd patron would slip her some francs after the show, but the theatre management was playing on the belief, accurate enough in Céleste’s case, that she would not find work easily as a dancer elsewhere. The theatre owners knew she was registered as a prostitute and therefore under intermittent police surveillance. They were also aware that Céleste had failed to report once a fortnight to the police, who had called on her at the theatre to remind her of her obligations under the Registration of Prostitutes Act.
This weighed on Céleste, who was nervous about walking alone in the major boulevards, and particularly Montmartre, where the police paid close attention to any woman, even if they were promenading rather than loitering with intent to solicit for sex.
‘Every time a man looked at me,’ Céleste wrote in her memoirs, ‘I was afraid he was an inspector . . . My life, dominated by fear, was atrocious.’
Yet despite these general hazards and financial deprivations, Céleste believed she was on the road to becoming an actress. But when Pomare was jailed along with her husband for a crime he had committed, Céleste could no longer stand the parsimonious attitude of the Beaumarchais. She marched into the office of the owner/manager, Monsieur Robert Guichard, and said, ‘I want a piece of the gate!’
‘Impossible!’ Guichard replied.
‘Why? You’re playing to packed houses.’
‘You don’t understand, Mogador . . .’
‘I deserve some sort of stipend. Many people come to see me.’
‘Mogador, the theatre is closing down in a few days.’
‘What?’
‘The company has huge debts. The last few months we’ve kept doors open only to reduce the debts.’
Céleste was incredulous. Flush-faced, she said angrily, ‘You mean I’ve been used to get you out of a stinking financial hole?’
‘You may look at it that way if you wish.’
Céleste’s brief foray into a legitimate trade on the boards, where she could earn an honest living, would be over after only a few months. It left her in despair.
Adolphe had been furiously jealous of her success, so much so that Céleste had called off their relationship. Now she was alone and it seemed her only choice was to work as a lorette once more. To cheer herself up she parted with several francs to have her hair and nails attended to at the parlour of a beautician friend. While sitting in the chair being pampered, she told her story of bad luck and how much she desired to be on the stage. The aged male backer of the parlour happened to overhear her. When the beautician had finished working on Céleste, the old man stood in front of her.
‘Do you ride horses?’ he asked with a querulous tilt of the head.
‘I have, yes,’ Céleste lied.
The old man walked around her, stroking his chin and nodding his head. Finally he said, ‘You’re a fine figure of a young woman. Are you willing to take a chance?’
‘That’s the only way to make an interesting life, isn’t it?’ Céleste replied.
The old man smiled. ‘I’m looking for an elegant young woman to ride at the new Hippodrome.’2
This new Hippodrome was in Montmartre. It was a kind of outdoor circus in an open stadium that would hold 8000 people. The beautician thought it an excellent idea. Céleste had shown courage at the Bal Mabille and on stage. It seemed another, perhaps more enterprising, step into show business.
The old gentleman told Céleste she would be taught by the best riding master in Paris. She would be ready to perform on horseback in a month.
Uppermost in Céleste’s mind was her impoverished state and the prospect of not even tips at the theatre.
‘How much will I be paid?’
‘You’ll start with 100 francs a month.’
‘For how long?’
‘Let’s start with a one-year contract.’
‘So 1200 francs?’
The old man nodded.
‘I accept!’ she said with a big smile and shook his hand.
A week after signing, Céleste was being trained by the experienced ringmaster, Monsieur Franconi Laurent. He drove her hard with three sessions a day, starting with a gentle trot on a docile mare, and building within a week to a more challenging stallion. His advice was simple: Céleste should never whip her mount hard enough to draw blood. It was important to cajole the horses in her charge, not yell at them. But she also had to make sure she was respected. A light rein should be kept at all times, and the horse should never be jerked. The ringmaster told her to let the horse know what she wanted.
‘If your mount is feeling good,’ Laurent said, ‘he’ll do most of what you want. Try not to dig a stirrup into him if possible. It may be necessary in the heat of competition, but again, don’t draw blood. Your heels, as a rule, should be soft. Same with your hands. Your mount will then respond more with what you want. Depending on the horse, sweet words of praise in its ear will help. The animal may well know your voice, if you’ve practised on it, as you will have. People say horses have the minds of three- or four-year-old humans. I don’t believe this. They’re more than instinctive animals. They have intelligence and common sense. They have personalities. You, I’m told, are a person of character and personality. Keep your back straight in the saddle. You’re not a jockey, you’re a grand performer at the Hippodrome, so ride proudly and look confident, even if you’re not. Act it. I’m told you want to be an actor, so start at the Hippodrome.’
Laurent was determined to have her ready for the grand opening. But he had pushed her to the limit. Céleste bled from the nose in what a doctor described as a ‘slight haemorrhage’ and she was prescribed three days’ rest. Although not fully fit, she returned to training. There was a troupe of sixteen, from which ten would be selected for the opening night. Her determination saw her chosen for the team after just two months’ training. She was to appear in three acts: the grand parade, a race between five riders and finally a stag hunt.
There was not a spare seat in the stadium on the first night. Anybody who was anybody among the city’s elite was in attendance.
The parade of ten female riders swept onto the arena to a terrific roar. When the crowd settled to watch the horses prancing around the perimeter, Céleste heard her name called many times as people spotted her. ‘Mogador! Mogador!’
A band played. She would have preferred to have been in the first act, but had to wait, mounted on her large white stallion, Pedro. Her nerves built, and she felt the same stage fright as at the Bal Mabille. She shrank lower, as if hiding behind Pedro’s long neck and mane. She felt a slap on the shoulder. It was Laurent.
‘Are you going to ride like that?’ he demanded. ‘Pull yourself together, if you please!’
It was just what she needed. She sat up ramrod straight.
‘Good, now you look like a broomstick,’ Laurent said. ‘Get settled into your saddle, body straight but not stiff, elbows in, head high, fingers firm but not hard.’
Céleste was now focused on following his instructions.
‘That’s better,’ Laurent added, ‘and don’t be afraid, you’ve a good mount.’
He patted Pedro’s head and remarked about Céleste to an inquisitive spectator nearby, ‘She’s my pupil; she’s good . . .’
The first act came to an end. Céleste lined up with the nine other riders and their mounts for a 600-metre race of two circuits of the arena. A starting horn sounded. Pedro got away well, but Céleste found herself fifth after half the first circuit. She looked over at the other riders. The two in the lead were leaning over their horses’ necks in jockey-like positions. This was not the stiff-backed equestrienne positioning that Laurent had insisted on. Céleste leaned forward.
‘Go Pedro, go!’ she said, sharply, not shouting. She did not use her whip, instead she dug her left heel in with every word to him. The seventeen-hands-high Pedro got the message. He lifted, and was soon lying third behind the two who had led from the start. Into the second circuit, the spectators were on their feet, shouting. Many had bet on Mogador because she was the only performer they knew. A chant went up for her from one section of the crowd. Céleste began to pass her rivals. Her heart beat faster. She began to think she could even win the race.
Céleste took a risk and cut a sharp corner, nearly hemming herself against a barrier, to squeeze through ahead of the second-placed horse. The crowd roared. It inspired her. She spoke to Pedro again, this time saying almost gently, ‘Go for it, boy! Go for it!’
‘I shut my eyes and left everything to the horse,’ she said, ‘and just dug my heel into his left flank.’
Pedro responded and pegged back the lead animal, a big chestnut Arabian stallion. Pedro’s head was now bobbing with effort. His rider, eyes still closed, held on. With the finish tape only twenty metres away they were dead level, but Pedro found an extra strong stride to end up ahead. Céleste heard her name being chanted again, around the stadium this time. She opened her eyes and found she had won.
She patted Pedro, said sweet things in his ear, and then paraded around the ring to sustained applause from an appreciative crowd. She was more thrilled than at any other moment in her life to that point. Bal Mabille had been exhilarating; the Hippodrome made her ecstatic. She walked up steps to a dais to receive the victory bouquet. The cheer was the biggest of the show and demonstrated she was the crowd favourite.
A proud Laurent helped her prepare for the final event—the stag hunt—where a deer was released and chased down by dogs and mounted horses. Céleste noticed congealed blood on Pedro’s left flank. In her frenzy to win, she had dug her heel in too sharply. She patted the horse, made a fuss of him and apologised. Then she gave him four sugar lumps and if the horse had been miffed at her treatment of him, all was now forgotten.
The hunt began with the release of the poor stag, who wandered about in a daze at all the noise and movement. Then the dogs were let loose. They had been cooped up for forty-eight hours, their handlers believing this would cause them to be hungry for the chase. But the dogs were over-excited at being freed, and with the crowd laughing at their wild antics, they obeyed no orders. The stag was the last thing on their minds as they zipped about the arena at a frenetic pace, with a couple even dashing past the disoriented and almost stationary stag. Céleste led Pedro into the centre of the arena, but there would be no chase. Instead there was farce. The crowd seemed to enjoy the chaos, as if it had been planned as an amusing end to the afternoon’s events, with only circus clowns missing.
That spectacular first day lifted Céleste’s self-confidence higher than ever before. And feeling more secure thanks to her year-long contract, she moved nearer to the Hippodrome to the more distinguished Faubourg Saint-Honoré.