Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (16 page)

Well, I was young and, I admit, very foolish. We didn’t sleep together often, just sometimes—usually when the wine had flowed more than usual. One night I had the shock I needed to wake me up to what I’d been doing by just doing nothing. Eugène had gotten me quite drunk on champagne and we’d been laughing about the Parisian snobs who’d disapproved of my dancing. I was feeling larkish, and at one point, kicked my leg into the air, grasped the heel, and repeated the pose I’d performed at the Opéra.

“Do it naked,” Eugène had drawled, sucking on his cigar.

Well, I suppose I did. I flung off my chemise and everything else, then threw up the leg to the level of my shoulder, put the tip of my toes against the wall and inclined my torso down towards the floor, balancing, with palm flat on the carpet.

“What a sight,” he exclaimed, getting on his knees to take a closer look. I could hardly claim to have felt shy, but at this, I did begin to wonder. The evening was taking a different turn; what was he up to?

“Can you stand again and turn, round and round, with your leg up?”

“I might fall over,” I laughed.

“Try.”

I managed a few turns, I think. He had a large mirror in the bedroom, standing against the wall, and we then took various attitudes in front of it, as men holding female dancers in ballets, and so on—with Eugène, also naked, and stiff as a broomstick all the while, coldly observational throughout. I wasn’t very keen on that, and tried to make him more playful, but he was regarding our reflections in an intensely serious manner, almost chillingly so. I didn’t know what he wanted; I’d drunk too much champagne to be able to stop him or shift his mood.

When he got bored, he went to the wardrobe and pulled out a leather belt with fifty or so peacock feathers attached to it. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but he seemed insistent, so I let him strap it around my hips. Then I really did feel like a peacock: it was heavy, and it rattled, and only looked fine if I was kneeling on the bed and the feathers stood high. I did so, and then he had more fun than I did, even though I usually like this position almost more than any other. On this night, though, I disliked both Eugène and myself. Intensely. He’d reached through the fan of feathers to twist my hair into a rope, and using this as reins, he rode me hard, centaur-fashion. It was rough—not in a sensually rough way, by consensus, but in the way of a man enjoying erotic sensations at the expense of the other.

“Get this thing off me, Eugène, will you?” I said, finally, once he’d come with a bellow, released my hair, and pulled away.

After a moment, he undid the buckle and the belt dropped to the sheets. “You look splendid in them,” he said. “Better than the bird.”

“I should hope so, since they’re bloody prickly.”

“Here I’d hoped that I’d be the one with the bloody prick. You certainly yelled your head off—didn’t you like it?”

“No, as a matter of fact.” I was almost spitting. “Couldn’t you tell? Or didn’t you care?”

It was like two tigers clashing, and I was surprised to find myself vibrating with barely-repressed fury.

“God, I’m exhausted,” he laughed, falling back upon the mattress, throwing his arms behind his head and shaking the rails of the bed in sudden jubilation. “My story’s finally up and running, Lulu, in serialization—have you seen it?”

I began pulling on my chemise. “Don’t call me that; it’s demeaning and stupid. And it’s not who I am.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, it’s a sign of affection.”

“I disagree.”

He reached under the bed and pulled out a newspaper, opened to the page. “It started today. I’ll run it for months.”

I read the title,
Le Juif Errant
. “I’m happy for you,” I said. “Why hadn’t you told me about it?”

“I was busy, it slipped my mind. What does it matter?” He slumped back and lay flat.

I read and read. Beside me, Eugène fell asleep, his breathing slow and regular, not a care in the world. There were several chapters. The candle began burning down, and I read on. I couldn’t believe it; my mouth was dropping open. Finally, I threw the paper onto the floor and jabbed him violently in the ribs.

“You’ve stolen this!”

“What the—?” His eyes flew open, bewildered.

“You’ve stolen my life!” I punched his chest, and it wasn’t a love slap.

“Are you crazy?” As he rolled away, “what the hell are you—?”

“Your villain’s a Jesuit!”

“All Jesuits are villains, don’t be ridiculous!” He was shaking his head to clear the sleep.

“You stole it, you stole the ideas!”

“Nobody owns the Jesuits, Lola, and certainly not you. I can do what I want.”

“You bastard, you fucker!”

By this point I was back on my feet, realizing that words couldn’t hurt him—he’d simply deflect them. So I strode to the fireplace, picked up and threw one of his precious
objets d’art
. It struck the wall, broke with a clatter.

“Jesus! What the
fuck
—?”

I threw another one, which shattered in a satisfying cascade of shards.

“Stop it, you—!
Merde
, I don’t have a sweet clue what you think I’ve done!”

“
¡Cabrón! ¡Bastardo!”

He launched himself off the bed and grabbed my upper arm, hard. We stared into each other’s eyes, teeth bared.

“Break one more thing, you vixen, and I’ll break you.”

He’d do it, too, I thought.

“Let me tell you something,” he added, with more passion than at any other point in the evening, “Alex Dumas wouldn’t be having the fucking success he’s having if he hadn’t stolen from me.
Les Mystères de Paris
inspired his publisher to say to Alex, ‘Turn the drab, historical manuscript you’re labouring over into a sensational adventure tale, like Eugène Sue’s.’ He’d never done it before, wasn’t sure he could. But look at him now! Count of fucking Monte Cristo himself—king of the fairy tales!” He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, hard. “We all do it. Steal like magpies. It’s part of the game, dear, didn’t you know?”

He shoved me away, turned his naked back and grabbed up his wine glass, still half full. Then, glancing over at the clock on the mantel, he took me completely unaware.

“I’ve another woman waiting downstairs, told her to come up at midnight. That’s now. I’m celebrating—two at once is my favourite treat, and she’s game. She’s very game. I’ve got a number of little things planned. Handfuls of coins are a feature: what a capacious woman can do with them. You don’t mind, do you? You can keep what you manage to keep inside. Are you game?”

I just looked at him.

“It’s over, Eugène.”

“It certainly is.”

*

By then, the summer was sizzling, and poised to begin its tumble into fall. I couldn’t believe it. My life seemed, once again, to be moving in useless, treacly circles. Paris, beautiful in springtime and early summer, becomes hot and cranky in the intense heat. Tempers flare, jealousies are stoked and burn with quiet ferocity. I was feeling again such a sense of despair, not eating much—not able to afford much, truth be told. I feared my swiftly-ignited love for Henri Dujarier would never be returned. I feared that perhaps he’d heard I’d still been with Eugène after we’d made our pledge in the carriage, and I cursed myself with tearful lamentation. What kind of morally flabby, stupid young woman was I, anyway? But Henri had a courtesan, so wasn’t that…? I’m
not
a courtesan, my thoughts would protest—and besides, he was breaking it off with Olympe so that he could come to me! But where
is
he, after all this time—what has happened? The waiting was truly killing me. I decided that somehow, even if it proved me to be too bold, I had to take matters into my own hands, find out once and for all how things stood. Had he changed his mind? Was I—after all this time—only imagining his love?

Merci, meanwhile, was becoming thinner and more transparent with each week’s passing. In my opinion, she was relying on Dr. Koreff far too much, and drinking far too much as well. She wouldn’t consider going to another specialist—Koreff was a kind of god to her. She told me his medicines gave her courage. Alex
fils
had found out about his father’s dalliance with Merci on the “I have a block” afternoon and had gone insane about it, raving and pushing his beloved around, even landing a blow which left a black eye and caused her to hide out for over a week while the mark went away. As if she didn’t have enough woes without that. I was beginning to wonder whether all men were brutes at the core, but couldn’t bear to dwell on this possibility.

And, as if to underscore that conjecture, Dumas’
Musketeers
finished up with a bang: the trio of Musketeers and D’Artagnan brought about the death of the female antagonist, the beautiful Milady—by having her beheaded! Beheaded? My God, it was vindictive, and shocking. And sold out immediately. It gave me the shudders. What was the world coming to, I wondered.

To settle my jitters over the silence of Henri (and my dreadfully lean pocketbook), at the beginning of August I asked Monsieur Grisier whether he’d consider giving me private instruction in the use of the rapier and the use of the sabre. I imagined it would be fun, and good exercise—and, well, why not? I needed to burn off some steam. Pier-Angelo, the Italian journalist, was becoming a friend and, when I mentioned the idea to him, said he’d “adore” to stand in as my opponent in practice sessions. I warned him I wouldn’t go to bed with him, at which he laughed and shrugged.

“Once you see my willingness and agility, Lola, who knows? Oh, yes, and my excellent thrusts and parries.”

“I’m serious, Pier. I’m just telling you, that’s not part of it.”

“Very well.” A big pout of his big lips. “But once you realize—”

“And you’d better be careful,” I smiled in return. “I always have this.” Small enough to remain unnoticed, for each dress I had made or altered, a slim pocket was created in the waistband for me to hide my little switchblade in. I drew it forth for him, then slipped it back.

“How frightfully Italian of you!” Pier-Angelo joked. “Actually, you know, I’ve never used a knife nor a rapier in my life, only pistols. As a Parisian hack, though, paid to have opinions, perhaps I’d better become proficient with all possible weapons, and let it be known. I don’t wish to be called to the field again, early one morning.” He shivered. “Dreadful thing, duelling. It’s why I left Italy, why I left acting. Don’t know what comes over one… Leaving a man dead as a stoat, for some sort of twisted male pride, or trophy-keeping. It’s crazy.” Then he flashed me a red-lipped grin. “Ah well.”

So Grisier instructed us in the back room of Lepage’s Shooting Gallery. We parried and thrust on Wednesday mornings and had a grand time. Pier-Angelo was gentleman enough, too, to pay for my lessons—and Grisier gave us a discount, because I was game and (I suppose) it was a novelty to be teaching a young woman, whose bodice was low and whose legs and arms were strong and shapely.

On one of our mornings, the door opened and jaunty Beauvallon came in to see what was happening. He considered himself a good friend of master Grisier, and he’d heard a rumour that there was a woman within who was learning another of the skills at which he excelled. A second challenge to his arrogance? I certainly didn’t intend it to be, so I decided to ignore the fellow.

“Of course,” he called out, “I should have known it would be you, Mademoiselle Montez.”

Grisier smiled, his small greying mustache bristling as he did so. “She’s getting quite good.”

Pier-Angelo had stopped our practice and was very still. “Don’t be drawn, Lola,” he murmured.

Beauvallon stepped towards me, twirling a lock of his long, chestnut hair between his fingers and licking me from head to toe with his eyes. “Last time we met here I said I would never fight a woman. I believe that, now, I’ve changed my mind. Will you fight me?”

“I’m not ready yet,” I told him, chin high. This barefaced aggression had taken me by surprise. Why was he doing this?

“Why aren’t you dancing anymore, mademoiselle?” he continued. “I’ve been waiting to see you again on the boards. As you may know, I’m drama critic for
Le Globe
—and I need some drama to critique. Can you not supply me with a little drama?”

Pier-Angelo was shifting nervously beside me. “Rosemond,” he admonished, “why don’t you stop now? You’ve made your point, whatever it is.”

“No, I know what it is,” Beauvallon said, coming very close and tilting my chin up with an index finger so that I had to look directly into his dark brown eyes. “You can’t get another gig; no one will take you. Pity. But I will—take you, that is. No time like the present—what about coming off with me now? A steamy afternoon between the sheets? I hear you’re good for it.”

Eugène, the bastard—what else had he been blabbing? I dropped my weapon to the floor and slapped Beauvallon hard. “I will not. Now leave me alone.”

His eyes blazed with fury, before settling again into an insolent stare. He didn’t react to the welt that I could see coming up on his cheekbone. Oh
merde en double
, I thought. These men, so touchy!—how can I defuse it?

“That’s enough, Rosemond,” Grisier said. “I will not allow this in my gallery; you know the rules better than anyone. Shame on you, man.”

“I’ll go,” the fighting cock replied. But before he did, he leaned towards me and added deliberately, “Didn’t you know? Dujarier’s been warned by everyone to break off his interest in you. So if you’re saving yourself for him—” (what an ugly sneer!) “—then you’re wasting your time. And mine.
Á bientôt
.”

He swirled away, the door banged behind him, and Pier-Angelo let out a pent-up whistle of relief. Grisier picked up my rapier, shaking his head, and with some reluctance he finished our lesson. I left that day, furious about everything—God dammit! Bunch of turd-balls, the stinking sack of them! Am I always to be some little pawn in their infernal chess game of aggrandisement, of sexual gratification? Leave me alone! And Dujarier? Was he such a coward that he’d left me dangling instead of telling me directly? I’d find him, I decided, and give the handsome, heartless gentleman a piece of my mind!