Lionel’s first act was to have the wedding banns made public in London while organising their marriage there before they took a boat to Australia. Using England was a smart move, as it avoided any action by his brother, in his powerful role as a member of the Council of State, to stop the union. Lionel’s sisters had joined the Chabrillan chorus of voices attempting to stop him from any further liaison with the hated Mogador.
By contrast, Céleste’s mother was joyous about the proposed union. She could not wait to sign the document authorising the marriage of her daughter. On 3 January 1854, Céleste, Solange, another maid named Marie, a peasant girl from Berry and Céleste’s two small dogs crossed the Channel in atrocious weather and arrived in freezing London. Snow had fallen like a thick white blanket over the city. Lionel, swathed in furs and ‘looking like a bear’, met them at a South Kensington hotel.
When the others were in bed, Céleste sat with her husband-to-be in front of a fire in their room. Demonstrating more managerial skills than she had witnessed before, he outlined the schedule for their wedding the next morning, 4 January, as if it were an order of battle.
‘Get everything ready this evening,’ he said. ‘We have to be at the registry office at ten a.m., the church at eleven and the Chancellery of France at noon.’
All locations were within the City of London, and through the haze of the moment, which, like the weather, had numbed her mind, she did not really absorb the ‘campaign’ and the reasons for each move. He smoked a cigar and she nervously dragged on three successive cigarettes as he spoke. Lionel missed no detail in ensuring the marriage would be judged valid everywhere. He feared that the British ceremony would not be recognised in French courts. Shrewdly, he organised the marriage registration on French soil at the French embassy in London. This would counter any move by Marie-Olivier or his sisters, now or at any future time, to stop or annul their wedding contract. Lionel was well aware that the women in his family would rage at the thought of his wife—this wife—carrying the title of countess.
They slept the sleep of lovers, together, and then dressed in separate rooms; he in a black suit and white cravat, she all in white—hat, veil, long dress, gloves and cashmere shawl.
‘Lionel looks superbly elegant and distinguished,’ she wrote in her diary. ‘He is rather pale, but his lips are red and his eyes are shining. He seems to be very happy.’
They rode in a smart carriage to the registry office. Céleste felt surprisingly calm and recalled that the wedding ceremony went well. Witnesses reported that the English magistrate made a fulsome speech about her, although she did not understand a word. She left the building surprised that she had held up well and had not broken down in tears. Step one in the consolidation of their marriage was over. She was officially Countess de Chabrillan, although not yet in the eyes of the Church. She had two steps to go and they were more challenging. It helped that Lionel said he had forgiven her, which meant more than any holy man in a foreign land. He had also gone to the trouble of preparing the frocked clergyman, and had given him a generous tip to facilitate his understanding and kindness.
They approached the confessional where the priest was waiting with a beatific smile. It was just another ceremony for him, but to Céleste it was the second-last hurdle in a race through a maze that until this moment had led nowhere. She hesitated. Her nerve failed her. All her Catholic upbringing about guilt and sins revisited her. She had stood up to all sorts of abuse in her life from those close and others remote. Her strength of character had brushed it aside. But now before her god she nearly collapsed. This omnipotent voyeur from heaven would know about her work at a brothel and how she had used men to her ends.
‘Please let’s go,’ Céleste whispered in Lionel’s ear. ‘We’re married enough!’
Lionel steadied her. She fell to her knees before the priest.
‘Father, I have sinned!’ she repeated several times. The priest helped her through the self-imposed ordeal by asking the questions he needed to and answering them as well.
‘Come, my child, show yourself equal to the duties that lie ahead,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘Only remember the past to let you lead a better life in the future.’
This was sound, unthreatening and nebulous enough to help her towards the end of the ceremony. Lionel knelt beside her and Céleste was certain he was praying for her. The confessional torment over, they walked to the Saint-Paul Chapel at the other end of the church. Lionel had invited a handful of London-based French witnesses for the exchange of vows. According to French writer Françoise Moser, there was one secret witness who would have caused a stir had she been recognised outside the chapel.1 Queen Victoria, a good friend of Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie, had heard much about Céleste, and it was whispered, with some glee, that the famous courtesan and equestrienne was about to marry into the French aristocracy and one of France’s most notable families. The tittle-tattle would have reached Victoria via Prince Napoleon. Victoria was intrigued to see her. It was reported back to Prince Napoleon and later, Lionel, that Victoria had confided she thought Céleste even more beautiful than Eugénie.
‘Never take it off,’ Lionel said to her as he slipped the ring on her finger. ‘If one of us passes, the one who survives will wear it.’
The priest pronounced them man and wife. Céleste was now a countess.
They climbed into the carriage a third time and trotted off to the French Consulate. Snow was falling. The houses were covered and it was a foot deep in the street. They waited an hour before the French consular official, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, summoned Lionel to his office.
‘You wish to register here the marriage you have just entered into, witnessed by the English authorities,’ he said and paused to glance unfavourably at his new wife through the door, ‘with this young lady, Céleste?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Think for a moment,’ the official said, removing his glasses and standing. He moved close to Lionel and lowered his voice. ‘You will perhaps regret having carried out this formality. Your family—’
Lionel cut the official off before he further overstepped his authority.
‘I am thirty-two years old,’ Lionel snapped, bringing to the fore the full weight of his aristocratic background, ‘and quite old enough to understand the importance of the agreements I enter into.’
The bureaucrat hesitated, went back to his desk with a disgruntled look and wrote out a document. He handed it to Lionel. A moment later, Lionel passed it to Céleste, saying, ‘If I were to die, no one would be able to cause you trouble over the name I am giving you.’