Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (16 page)

I lived with her for several months. . . . She was a good person, but she was extremely disorderly, and we would move every three months.

Each day she was surprised that her furniture had not been sold yet.

Occasionally I would spend a few days in Versailles. My relationship with M. Adolphe was, by far, what I cared for the most. By dint of telling myself that I adored him, I had begun to reserve a large space for him in my life.

I had opened a savings account. I would deposit ten francs, twenty francs on Sundays without fail.

When I had three hundred francs I sent for Marie’s furniture merchant, and I asked her very humbly if she would furnish one room for me. She replied that she was willing but that she would put the lease in her name and that I would pay notes of fifty francs a month. Since the terms were of too long a duration to go through the store account, I would pay higher ones to her and she would pay them, so that, for a thousand francs’ worth of furniture, I would be giving her two thousand francs.



Effects of a Hospital Stay

I did not have a choice. I accepted.

Marie was very sad when she learned of my decision.

‘‘You are going to leave me?’’ she said. ‘ Good-bye savings! A month from now I shall have nothing left!’’

A few days after getting settled in my new room, M. Adolphe asked me to go with him to a little soirée being given by one of his Versailles friends.

I accepted. I was quite unassuming but happy to be with him, because I had been suspecting for some time that he had another attachment.

I was asked to sing. I did the best I could. . . . Everyone complimented me. That seemed to make M. Adolphe very proud, when suddenly the scene changed. A woman had just entered the living room. She was wearing a splendid outfit and nodded to everyone in a patronizing way.

‘ Oh! Here is Louisa Aumont,’ exclaimed several young men as they walked toward her.

Our eyes met and exchanged darting looks of hatred and jealousy.

Louisa Aumont went straight up to the host, steered him toward the window, and told him, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘‘I had asked you never to invite women, especially that one! . . . I told you how it was. . . . I do not want to find myself in the company of such girls! . . .’

M. Adolphe was biting his lips, but he let the insult ride. I went up to him and told him in a voice restrained by anger, ‘‘If you are afraid to defend me, will you have the courage to follow me?’’

‘‘Why do you want to leave?’’ he replied in a sheepish tone. ‘‘You are here, stay.’

My doubt was being confirmed, and I took off like an arrow.

I waited in the street for two hours, hoping that, worried about me, he would follow me, but no! I became afraid of my despair. I ran toward the road to Paris, and I walked all night, listening to my footsteps. . . .

I arrived home, beaten with fatigue, but more beaten still by my feelings. . . . I was hoping for a letter the next day, some word of explanation! . . . Nothing, nothing. Not one regret, not one apology!

  

This first disappointment had a most unfortunate effect on my life.

I became ambitious and unbending.

Marie noticed the change.

‘‘What is the matter with you?’’ she would repeatedly ask me. ‘‘You seem so sad, so preoccupied.’

She insisted with so much perseverance that I let my secret out.



Effects of a Hospital Stay

‘‘I am in love with a man who does not love me. I love him submis-sively, sweetly. He does not treat me well and toys with my heart. I can tell you, I have suffered and my soul has become hardened as a result.

I shall become like Louisa Aumont.’

‘ What is this Louisa Aumont?’’

‘ Louisa Aumont is my rival.’

And I told her about the scene at the soirée in Versailles. Marie seemed frightened by my plans for revenge.

‘ Now! You might be better off going to see your friend and making up with him.’

‘‘He loves this woman, but he will come back. . . . I shall do so much that he will hear about me! It is her riches he likes. I shall have more than she!’’

‘ Come to the ball tonight, at the Chaumière,’ said Marie.

‘ No, let us go to Mabille!’’

‘‘I have never been there. I would prefer to go to the Chaumière.’

‘ Then I am not going out, because I do not want to run into him. . . .

He is coming to Paris and he will be going there.’



9

o

The Bal Mabille

Brididi and His Dancer—The  September  Polka—

Louisa Aumont Scorned—The Pomaré Carnival

   ’ when we arrived on the Allée des Veuves. . . .

Mabille had been a small village dance hall, lighted by oil lamps. . . .

Admission cost ten sous. . . . It was a favorite meeting place of butlers and maids in the days when they were less elegant than their masters.

At the time I am speaking of, Mabille had greatly improved. It was not yet the magnificent gardens that we see today, with flower baskets, strings of lights, water fountains, a large room with walls lined with gold, velvet, and mirrors. In those days it was a modest garden! A few gaslights had replaced the oil lamps, but they were scarce, either out of economy or discretion. . . . Fabric clerks, grisettes, and milliners could tell us more about that, since the usual customers had changed. Admission was now one franc.

It was into this milieu that we made our entrance. . . . The orchestra was in the middle of the garden and sounded good. I loved music. I had never danced. I wanted to try but the fear of looking ridiculous held me back.

And yet, Adolphe had told me that Louisa Aumont could waltz well.

I wanted to try. I was invited for a quadrille . . . and I was about to refuse when a young man from Versailles came to greet me. I accepted. I asked Marie to be my vis-a-vis. In the same night I learned how to waltz and how to dance.

   

I walked around the dance hall, stopping briefly by each circle surrounding the good dancers. One of these circles was more crowded than the others.

I heard laughter, cries of bravo! The circle opened and everyone

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The Bal Mabille

rushed on the heels of a woman, laughing, talking. This woman must have been five feet tall; her waist was short, her chest round, and her shoulders somewhat high. . . . She held her head proudly. Her hair was a beautiful shade of black, neatly parted. She wore her hair in flat bands; she had a coiled braid at her nape and from underneath this braid hung curly hair that hid her neck. Her forehead was low; her well-arched eyebrows met in the center, giving her a hard look. In addition to that she had large dark eyes, a nose reminiscent of Roxelane’s,1 and a scornful mouth.

She went toward the café, and I followed her so I could be in the first row when she danced. She appeared short of breath. She coughed, placed her hand on her chest, then swallowed two glasses of ice water.

A short man had just signaled to her. He took her by the waist, and the first figure began.

He was as light as a bird. All those leaps, which seemed ridiculous when executed by the others, were graceful when he performed them. I was right to have followed them because there was an even bigger crowd than the first time.

For the second figure, his partner looked at the band leader and as soon as the baton moved, she took off, arms extended behind her, then upon completing the circle, she stood straight up, arched her back, her elbows almost touching, lifted her head, and came back forward.

‘‘Bravo! Bravo!’’ the spectators were saying.

She was wearing a black wool dress, which signaled poverty. It is possible that she had not eaten all day because she was quite pale.

I heard two young men next to me say, ‘‘Let us take her to dinner! . . .’

‘ No,’ said the other, ‘ she would cost us an arm and a leg. I bet she has not eaten for a week.’

Someone called, ‘‘Brididi!’’ And the short young man who danced so well replied, ‘ Coming! Coming!’’ and went toward the café.

The next Thursday I went back to Mabille with Marie. We looked for Brididi and his dancer. She was one of the first women I saw. She was wearing a lilac barege dress.2 Her hair was more elegantly combed.

A man of a certain age, wearing a gray hat, white trousers, a small baggy cardigan, stopped in front of her.

‘ So, now,’ he said, ‘‘we are in shape again! She looks like la Reine Pomaré.’ 3

Everyone around her said all together, ‘ Chicard is right, we have got to call her Pomaré.’

‘‘Bravo! Pomaré!’’

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The Bal Mabille

The evening turned into an event. The next day several newspapers wrote about it.

That night Brididi did not seem pleased. He was dancing with pretty girls, but everyone was interested in Pomaré. He decided to give her a rival, and came up to me to ask me to dance. I told him that I barely knew how to dance.

‘‘Well, I shall teach you.’

And indeed, he taught me. I took off my little shawl, and I was just in my light short-sleeved barege dress. A lot of people watched me and that encouraged me. At the end of the evening, Brididi asked me unaffectedly, ‘ Do you want to come have dinner with us?’

I accepted in the same way, and we left, a cheerful group, to have dinner at Vachette’s.

‘ Oh,’ I said, looking around to make sure I was noticed, ‘‘if this could be known in Versailles!’

We left the restaurant at six in the morning.

‘‘Nothing for me?’’ I asked the concierge.

‘‘No!’’

    

At four o’clock Brididi came to see us.

‘ Oh! Guess what,’ he said without saying hello. ‘ There is a new dance: the polka! Come to my house for the evening, we shall learn it and we shall dance it together to make Pomaré fume.’

We practiced for five hours. Finally I knew it perfectly. We were performing lots of movements that made us look like trained dogs: arms, legs, body, head, everything was moving at once. We looked like a bunch of telegraph signals and marionettes.

Brididi invited me to stay at his house. It was quite late. I thanked him and declined. He brought us home. Since I did not want him to take me for a prude, I told him about the state of my heart . . . but with each sentence I executed a polka jump and I sang its tune. At home I asked, ‘‘No one came? . . .’

‘‘No!’’

I stifled a sigh deep in my heart.

Back in my room, I started to polka.

‘‘I am glad,’ said Marie, ‘ that you are taking your situation lightly.’

The furniture merchant came to tell me the next day that my apartment was ready. I took my bags and moved in at  Rue de Buffault, in a little two room entresol.

It was lavishly furnished, and looking around at my luxurious dwell-

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The Bal Mabille

ing I was worried about the sum I would have to pay. In my bedroom I had a mahogany bed, a dressing table, a Voltaire-style chair covered in red wool, two chairs, a little table. In the first room, which served as parlor or dining room, there was a round table and four fluted chairs.

The next day I put velvet bows in my hair, mended my dress and my boots, and went back to the ball.

Brididi came toward me. . . . I was not unhappy about this partiality. . . . The band announced, ‘‘Polka!’’

‘‘I could never dance this here! I might do something awkward, and everyone will make fun of us.’

‘‘No, no,’ he said, ‘ let us go in a corner.’

I was going to resist, when I heard behind me, ‘‘Well! Does not anyone know this dance? . . .’

I recognized Louisa Aumont’s voice.

Now I was the one taking Brididi in my arms and forcing him to dance.

Several times I danced by Louisa Aumont, and I leaned so much on my dancer that she could have thought I was kissing him.

I was applauded excessively, I was followed, I was pointed out! . . .

‘‘Pooh! How awful!’’ Louisa Aumont was saying in the arms of an old man. ‘‘Flaunting oneself this way! . . .’

I could tell she was annoyed! I waited for her to come by me. I took hold of her arm to stop her.

‘‘Hello, dear Louisa. How long has it been since you have gone to Versailles to see your lover?’’

She turned purple and wanted to go on her way, but I stopped her again.

‘ Oh! Excuse me, I thought this gentleman was your father. If I had known he was the old bird to whom you say, to get rid of him, that you are going to visit your aunt in Versailles, I would not have talked about your Henri.’

I bowed and left laughing. I had just done something mean, and I was beaming. I heard someone say, ‘ She is a lot better than Pomaré!’’

All the men came to invite me to dance.

‘ Oh,’ said Brididi, ‘‘it would be easier for me to defend Mogador than my dancer! . . . Hey!’ he shouted really loudly. ‘‘I name you Mogador!’’ 4

A hundred voices shouted, ‘ Viva Mogador!’’ Twenty bouquets were thrown in my direction.

There were two camps. . . . On one side were shouts of ‘ Viva Pomaré!’’

and on the other, ‘ Viva Mogador!’’ Those who understood nothing and

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The Bal Mabille

could only catch the sounds shouted, ‘ Viva Pomador!’’ The guards had to intervene! . . . Pomaré was placed in a carriage, the horses were unhitched, and the young men themselves pulled her to the Maison-d’or.

Either Mabille had bought some advertisement or the dance masters wanted to make the polka fashionable, but the next day all the newspapers were talking about Pomaré and me. Le Charivari pictured us in all positions.

There were two other women who were also making news at the Chaumière; they were Maria the Polka Dancer and Clara Fontaine.

Through the press our meager fame extended into the provinces.

  

I had not seen Adolphe for three weeks. He came to Mabille out of curiosity.

When someone pointed me out to him, he stepped back and said,

‘‘You are mistaken! That is not her, that is Céleste.’

‘‘Yes,’ said his friend, ‘ Céleste Mogador!’’

Adolphe walked up to me.