Lionel sounded sincere. She wanted his dedication to her and his gentle dumping of Zizi to be true. She decided to wait and see if he was indeed being honest with her. She believed he did intend to break with Zizi but was being a gentleman about it. Still, having aroused in him an emotion Céleste knew well—jealousy—she continued to take up invitations. One important one had been issued by another count before she met Lionel. She decided to go to this event, a ball put on by the Jockey Club, the most exclusive club in Paris, yet did not enjoy the night. Some of the women behaved snobbishly towards her.
‘Mogador!’ they remarked in mock horror. ‘A circus rider; a woman who danced at public balls.’
Céleste was immune to the jibes.
‘Women of that class were no different from the rest,’ she observed in her memoirs, ‘only their price was higher.’
Her compensation, even minor revenge, at the ball was to have most of the young aristocrats flock to her. On the dance floor they wanted to show off their skills with a woman whose capacities in all variations of the waltz, from the traditional to the pepped-up, were legendary. Céleste even went into her high-kicking cancan routine and had all heads turning.
When she next saw Lionel, she made a point of telling him about the Jockey Club event. Tactically, it was to see his reaction; an unsaid declaration that she could play the chess move of dating former acquaintances, too, if Zizi continued to be on the scene. A bit more jealousy from him would reassure her. Too much jealousy would torment him. Lionel surprised her by simply and casually asking if she’d had a good time.
This confused her. In her emotional state about him, her first thought was that he didn’t care, which meant her ploy had backfired. Later, Céleste wondered if his attitude might be one of resignation, signalling that he might be submitting to her. She decided to give these thoughts time to percolate.
Lionel took her to the gambling halls. He continued to throw away money he did not really control. Céleste was appalled but maintained her cool. Every 1000 francs less, she judged, meant he would be drawn closer to her world of struggle. She fantasised that then her strengths in coping would help control the situation between them, that it would give her a certain power, though she did not want to actually dominate him.
Lionel declared his love by buying her a fabulous diamond-encrusted ring. It was not for engagement, but just because he wanted to. There were other gifts of expensive clothes and trinkets for her slim wrists and elegant neck. They kept coming and she accepted them without a word of protest about his profligacy. She did not care that this was hurtling him faster and faster towards a financial abyss. Céleste knew that she could never drag him from his addictions, especially roulette. She observed Lionel sitting with dissolute, like-minded cronies night after night in halls that held a permanent mist of smoke as the rich players puffed their way into oblivion, often wordlessly. There was not much discourse as spin after spin of the little red pea mesmerised Lionel and his mates. And if he won, there were low-key reactions, for rich dandies never made an obvious display over pocketing winning chips. This was partly because they did not want to demonstrate any form of relief or rescue due to a really big win, say a 36-to-1 shot coming in. It was also because these young men, who were on average no more than twenty-five years old, had been playing long enough to know that even a string of big wins would be followed by a run of even bigger losses. They joked that their money was disappearing faster than the smoke dispersed by the roof fans, and there was bravado among them for being ‘good losers’. And that was one thing they were excellent at.
Céleste observed and absorbed all this without criticising Lionel directly or in her memoirs. She knew that this ruinous compulsion was unstoppable. She heard of mistresses and wives privately complaining about the dandies’ waste. They were ostracised. It was the right of a member of this peacock menagerie to orchestrate his own demise, publicly and for all the newspapers to record and the various social sets to gossip over. It was an essential part of Paris’s elite of the period. Céleste felt no guilt in being part of the money drain on Lionel through her grateful acceptance of his generosity. She claimed she never encouraged it, although her gratitude and barely contained glee at his largesse were tacit approval of it.
Despite the subtle ongoing contest between them, Céleste was always fortified by the way he made love to her. If anything, their intimacy seemed to become more passionate rather than less as their tempestuous relationship blossomed. Lionel seemed more concerned with her needs and satisfaction than his own.
Céleste had a nagging, prevalent worry—that she was more crazily in love with him than he was with her. The more they were together and had such compelling sex, the more she understood that she was under his spell, even if he didn’t quite recognise it himself. Count Lionel de Chabrillan had her body and soul, and she was fearful that his love would one day evaporate, like all her other affairs.
As the weeks progressed, she began to dream the impossible dream for someone of her class; something that everyone from her background and many in Lionel’s might hate her for. Like the 50-to-1 long shot he so preferred to back at the Versailles racetrack, she dared to imagine being the Countess de Chabrillan. Reason told her that the longer they were together, the shorter the odds would become. Alternatively, the relationship could come to an abrupt end, which was too terrible to contemplate.
One night the valet came to her apartment at midnight to tell Lionel that his father, the Marquis de Chabrillan, who had suffered from cancer for six months, did not have long to live. The Marquis was sixty years old1, but it was still a big jolt. Lionel left for the country right away. Céleste was keen to help, but as she had not been invited to go with him, and as it was a private family affair, she could only write to him.
After weeks of letters he finally replied:
My dear child,
Thank you for your kind thoughts. I am suffering a great deal. When shall I see you again? I have no idea. I was expecting it for a long time. I did not think it would happen so soon. You will understand that certain sorrows need solitude.
As the days dragged by Céleste herself had to suffer in silence. Then he wrote saying the marquis had died and that he wanted to mourn at his country estate in Berry. Céleste suspected that he was not yet ready to introduce her to his family, perhaps, she worried, because they would not find her acceptable. Reality struck, at least when thinking about the future, and she did not let thoughts about marriage intrude again. In this time of grief and family consolidation, she felt certain she would remain outside the close circle of relatives.
Céleste wrote to Anne-Victoire at the dress shop. When there was no reply, she discovered that it had closed down. Neighbours told her that her mother had gone to live with Vincent again, a fact that did nothing to lift her spirits over Lionel’s prolonged absence.
Her friend Frisette comforted Céleste by saying that Lionel would not be with a mistress at this time because he and the family would have duties to fulfil. But she was less comforted by two of Lionel’s dandy friends. Henri told her, ‘Lionel has just inherited. That’s good for you.’ The other friend, Georges, was less certain that Céleste would benefit.
‘He’s going into mourning in the country,’ he told her, ‘and now he must think about getting married.’
Céleste was taken aback by this comment but kept an outward calm. What did Georges mean? Was Lionel thinking about marrying her or Zizi, or someone else?
‘You’ve seen him?’ she asked.
‘At church,’ Henri replied. ‘He really loved his father, but it’s the best thing that could have happened to him.’
Georges was surprised at Henri’s candour. ‘Is it ever a good thing when one’s father dies?’
‘Sure, when a person has debts! His father had an income of 400,000 francs, but there are three other children besides Lionel who will also inherit.’ Henri, forever candid and blunt, turned to her and added, ‘Do not let this go, Céleste.’
Again, Céleste was astounded by such a comment. She had been preoccupied by Lionel leaving Paris and going to the country. But the last remark jolted her.
‘I am not in love with his fortune!’ she said indignantly.
Henri and Georges laughed at her reaction.
‘Still, do not let go of this, Céleste,’ Henri repeated.
This hurt and left her in a quandary. If she tried to see him it would appear as if she had an ulterior motive. Yet, she mused in her own defence, she had moved out of her apartment because of him. She had also spent a lot on furnishings, from a large bed to a leather chair, to meet his demands and tastes, although Lionel was not aware of her efforts and she would never have told him. After the discussion with his friends, she was left with the stark realisation that Lionel had left without even saying goodbye. Céleste was devastated. She had no idea where he was, only that he had gone to his newly inherited property.
Four months of 1847 slipped by before more news came from Georges and Henri. It cut even deeper. Lionel had inherited his 100,000-franc share of the marquis’s estate, but this hardly covered his debts.
‘His only chance of solvency,’ Henri informed her with his usual forthrightness, ‘is to marry an heiress and to settle down on one of his estates.’
Céleste’s pre-Lionel bitterness returned. She reproached herself for being privately pleased that he was running down his fortune at the roulette table. She turned to Frisette, now her closest confidante, telling her that she wanted to forget the ‘ingrate’.
‘Let’s party and have a good time!’ Céleste said.
They went gambling at the halls she had grown to know so well with Lionel, but Céleste was an even worse gambler than he was, and she was soon losing what meagre funds she had. Georges found her battling at a card table one night. He took her aside and, finding her so sad, gave her Lionel’s address and suggested she write to him. She demurred over this and was not confident enough to write. Then her luck changed.
As ever, innumerable men wanted her favours. Her desirability had been elevated by her relationship with Lionel, who, despite his wealth-squandering, was arguably the most desirable bachelor in Paris, given his title, looks, charm and good nature. Céleste discarded or ignored potential suitors, partners and other assorted prospects with the same care she might have displayed for an empty champagne bottle. But one very thin, refined, perhaps too effete–looking Russian prince, Jean, persisted. The more she rejected him, the more he tried to please her. Céleste told him she could never love him. He kept asking her out and sending her gifts. Céleste remained aloof. After several months of refusing Jean, she relented and slept with him. She practically snubbed him in bed by making their coupling a humourless, unfeeling occasion. But Jean, fifteenth in line to the Russian throne, was so excited that he promised her anything she wanted. She was adamant that her desires did not include him, but she accepted his eager offer to pay off her debts. The funds kept coming, enough to give her some security again.
This reversal gave her the confidence to write to Lionel.
My dear friend,
In writing to you thus, I do not wish to level reproaches at you . . . I have loved you and a love like mine is most insignificant. You have the right to trample it.
You trod on my heart. Since your departure, I have been losing myself in gambling establishments, killing my memory of you by wearing myself out.
I was mad to love you so much. I knew you could not keep me. With a little reasoning on my part, I could have healed myself. Heedlessly you crushed me. That was mean! I have a better opinion of myself. I did not know I was capable of such love.
I need nothing. I am almost rich now. I wish you all the happiness in the world, and I forgive you your neglect.
Céleste posted the letter. Then she counted the hours until she knew it would be with the count and placed her hand on her heart. She was putting much store in him responding and the strain showed. Her nerves were not helped by the sad death of the sister of her maid, Marie. Then she learned from Georges and Henri that Lionel had rented a house for Zizi at Saint James in Paris, which indicated that he was still looking after her, and the relationship was not over.
All these events caused Céleste to have heart palpitations. Her doctor prescribed rest and strong doses of digitalis. But instead of taking his advice, she stayed up at night and became increasingly distressed over her lost love. She became unwell when winter set in.
‘I had to be bled,’ she remembered, ‘and I took to my bed. One night I was thinking of Lionel. I picked up the bottle of digitalis tincture. Instead of drinking a few drops, which always soothed me, I swallowed the whole bottle.’
This act made her seriously ill. Céleste’s memoirs indicate she was confused over why she did this. Perhaps it was less a suicide attempt and more a moment of weakness caused by depression. Or perhaps it was literally a cri de coeur, for as every day of late 1847 slipped by and she did not hear from Lionel, Céleste had to face the reality that their relationship was over.