Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (10 page)

*

So—riding high, riding proud—I headed off to the Jockey Club on Eugène Sue’s arm. It didn’t matter to me that he seemed to prefer the next conquest to the one he was with. We were all looking around, scanning the horizon, and I could give as good as I got in that regard. Eugène was fun, a jolly companion; George had done me a real favour there. I trust him somehow, I told myself. He was taking me to meet the rest of the Parisian lions, the writer-critics and journalists who dominated the landscape.

The Jockey Club de Paris was already famous and infamous. Established ten years earlier by one of the influential newspapermen for the mutual benefit of
les gentilhommes sportifs
, it was subtitled, ‘The Society for the Encouragement of the Improvement of Horse Breeding in France.’ I think the sub-subtitle could have been something along the lines of, ‘As well as the Promotion of Carefree Beauty for the Unspoken Allocation of Courtesans in Paris.’ Admittedly I’m speaking from hindsight and with the weight of everything I’ve gone through since. Certainly at the time—in March of 1844—I was delighted to join that prosperous crowd.

On the steps outside, we ran into Théophile Gautier, the man to whom Franz’s final letter was addressed. In his early thirties, wild-haired and wild-hearted, he was from a modest background, becoming a journalist in Paris because he wanted to travel and to make a good living—he told me so himself. He was a bit affected, in that he wore a monocle, which he never really needed, and had a high, giggly laugh which he put to use often. Gautier worked at
La Presse
for an editor Franz had mentioned in connection with Marie d’Agoult: Émile de Girardin. As we went in, Eugène whispered that Gautier could be important to me because he was a dance critic who enthused about a dancer’s physical form and vital energy more than her technique. Hey, bingo, I thought—sign him up for the end of the month!

Also in attendance, handing the valet his overcoat, was Pier-Angelo Fiorentino, an Italian. He’d been an actor in his country of birth and escaped to Paris after a duel gone wrong in which he’d killed the other duellist. Eugène told me this just before the Italian swirled around, eyes crinkled with mirth, to greet his friend and to meet me. Pier-Angelo was thirty-eight, somewhat good-looking except for very thick, red lips which he covered with a large mustache. He wrote for the papers too, he told me, and had at one time been part of Alexandre Dumas’ play factory. As I was to discover, Pier-Angelo (like many Italians) loved to give and receive all sorts of gossip.

“Play factory?” I asked, over the rising din of excitable voices.

“Oh, yes! He doesn’t write them all by himself; he’s got a stable of collaborators, young hopeful scribblers—but he takes all the credit!”

Eugène was standing by, a wry grin on his face.

“Really?” I said. “His plays for the theatre?”

“And probably his new stuff, in the
feuilletons
, oh yes,” Pier-Angelo continued. “How else could one explain the unreasonable output? He’s writing novels for five different papers at the same time. He’s unstoppable, soaking up cash, taking all the work from everyone else!”

“What’s the trouble now, Pier?” asked Eugène. “There’s something behind this.”

“Sure. He’s just turned down one of my plot ideas for a novel, the bastard—and it was terrific.”

There, in a nutshell, the ever-present enormity of Alexandre Dumas was confirmed yet again. He had ascended to the throne of Fame; the dragon lay at his feet, conquered. The week I’d arrived, two of the main newspapers were just beginning two separate novels in serialization. One was called
The Three Musketeers
, and the other,
The Count of Monte Cristo
. I’d begun reading them, thinking I’d be able to throw them down in high dudgeon—but was disgusted to find myself becoming undeniably addicted to the characters and their adventures.
Musketeers
was hilarious,
Monte Cristo
deeply dramatic and suspenseful—how appalling! It was like a secret vice, and I had to have my fix of them, daily, like every other Parisian. How was he doing it?

“Come along, Lulu,” said Eugène. “Time to crawl deeper into the bowels of the beast.” He took my arm again and we moved on, leaving the Italian arguing with the valet over the treatment of his overcoat.

The Jockey Club was a lavishly appointed building full of smaller rooms where different circles of men (and women) could gather. There was, of course, a race track outside, as well as stables and housing for jockeys and trainers, but the main business of the Club seemed to be the talk afterwards, and the drinking, smoking, canoodling and gambling that usually surrounds gentlemen of leisure who follow the sporting life.

One main room—a very large one, like a ballroom—was at the heart of it, and that is where Eugène steered me. Here I could see a number of brightly dressed women laughing and sipping at garishly coloured liquids. They reminded me of hummingbirds, flitting quickly about the room, stopping to speak with someone and then someone else.

“Paris’ finest,” Eugène said, “all in one place. Very convenient, don’t you agree?” “Finest?”

“
Les lorettes
,” he said, “and a few of the newer
filles en carte
. Courtesans, my darling—your direct competition, don’t you think?”

I was outraged. “I certainly do not! I am a working dancer—”

“I know, and a grieving widow. But widows are better than virgins, anyway. They know what they’re missing, and sooner or later they come back, starved for it.”

I whacked him with my fan, hard.

“There’s money to be made here, too, Lulu. Lots of it.”

“I have an engagement at the Paris Opéra. I don’t need to stoop so low.”

“Look around—do these women look as if they are unhappy? Or stooping low?”

Each and every one was gorgeously attired. In fact, on closer inspection, I have to say that I have never been in a room so literally stuffed with incredibly beautiful young females. Eugène began to point them out for me. “That one is named Olympe Pelissier, the reigning queen—so gorgeous and so in demand that she can actually make her own choices. She was mine for a while—not exclusively, but… Well, we’re adrift. Over there is Anäis Lievenne—she’s a crazy thing, an actress in musical plays of sorts and a terrible cheat at cards, but fun in bed. Or so they say. And the thin, pale girl—see over there?—Marie Duplessis. We call her Merci. Kind and sweet.”

The girl he was pointing out was coughing delicately, fingers on her lips, as she listened to a rumple-haired young chap who was speaking at her in an agitated fashion.

I suppose I
was
very naïve. “Do they do anything?” I asked. “I mean, other than…”

“Some act, some dance. A lot like you.”

I hit him again. He seemed to like it. Then he bought me a drink and we moved through the crowd, chatting and flirting; many of the men were ones I’d met the previous week at the theatres and supper clubs Eugène had taken me to, so I smiled and vamped ingenuously. There was something about the highly-charged atmosphere that was making me nervous, so unfortunately I probably began to accept one or two drinks more than I should have. I don’t really remember.

The large room was still filling up and it was long past midnight. Some of the women and a few of the men began disappearing upstairs. One fellow had sat himself down at the upright piano in the corner and started playing, not very well, but with plenty of fervour. Eugène’s amused face swam closer as he asked, “Isn’t this the kind of thing you like to dance to?” I listened and shook my head, then listened again. Maybe it was. In fact, very much like it, I decided. Perhaps I should just…

And before I knew it, I was up and twirling. I sashayed over to the man at the piano and placed my drink down. There was a riding crop sitting there, across the top of the instrument. “Do you know a cachucha, perchance?” I asked, picking up the crop, just on a whim.

“I know what they are. I’ll give it a whirl.”

He did, and so did I—whirl, that is. People moved away, clearing a space, and as the notes continued (though haphazard and not very Spanish in flavour), I was becoming inspired. I’d been quiet too long, docile and toadying for favours even longer—I needed to move, to fling, to kick! And stamp! And swish with the whip! I followed my instinct and (so Eugène told me later) did something quite unique in the history of the Jockey Club. Taking aim, I made a mighty leap—like an antelope—into the centre of the cleared space, before rising up on my toes, almost
en pointe
. Balancing there, with a movement of great agility, I then raised the other leg high into the air and stayed in that difficult pose for quite some time, while with my free hand I flashed the crop about and made it whistle through the air (the brightly-coloured women regarding me with confusion, while some of the gentleman jostled for a better position). Somewhere, in my imagination, the whip was punishing a certain countess with a blanched almond complexion, I seem to recall… Then I got bored of that. So I brought my leg down, detached my garter and flung it at the closest gent, a dark-skinned, chestnut-haired fellow with an insolent appearance. He snatched it up, brandishing it with a laugh and a flash of his eyes at me. A short, fat individual with tiny hands began clapping loudly, gazing at me with the kind of fixed intensity that I abhor—I ignored him pointedly and turned away. There, off in a corner, was another fellow, and it’s odd but through all the haze I do remember him: medium height, slim build, dark hair and whiskers, and a revealing pair of tight, buff-coloured breeches, with a thin cigar in hand and a lovely laugh pealing from between his lips as he watched me…

Then—well, there’s a blank. I’m not sure how Eugène got me home. In fact, when I woke I realized I wasn’t at home, I was at Eugène’s. In his bed. For the first time. He was lying beside me, smoking thoughtfully. It seemed to be morning. And my head was pounding like a bugger.

“Oh,
merde
.”

He looked over. “Hurts, does it? I’m sure it does.”

I realized I was naked. “Did we—?”

“Oh yes.”

“Was I—?”

“Very much so. The inspiration continued, believe me. You are extremely flexible, Lola Montez.”

I lay there, silent, for a few moments. “Did I make a fool of myself, at the Club?”

“Certainly not. You did get yourself noticed, that’s all. Great advance publicity for your dancing next week, is my bet. Dancing like that? And at the Opéra, too…
Mon Dieu
, the grey hairs won’t know what hit them—if they don’t collapse first, from the stimulation. Management had better have the medics standing by. The throwing of the garter was a nice touch.”

“The what?”

“You threw your garter—the ever-pompous Rosemond de Beauvallon was the lucky recipient. He’ll add it to his collection. He’s drama critic at
Le Globe
and one of the city’s finest marksmen. You don’t get into an argument with that young duellist if you know what’s good for you. Quite the womanizer, as well.”

“Hmpf. More than you?”

“I am an innocent lamb in comparison, believe me. Anyway, never mind all that. I need to get you up because I’ve got work to do.”

“Did you like it? I mean, me?” What an idiot, why did I ask that?

“’Course I did.” He threw back the covers and surged to his feet. “But that was then; now it’s today. What’s ahead?”

I sat up carefully. “Was there a man, over in the corner, dark hair and whiskers…?”

“He noticed you, too. That’s Dujarier, co-editor of
La Presse
. One of Olympe’s current
inamoratos
. The one she bumped me for, in fact.” He looked up from pulling on his trousers. “You remember him, do you? Why?”

I lay back down, holding my head. “I … Don’t know. I made him laugh.” My temples throbbed abominably, and I was sure I would soon be sick. “Is there a basin handy anywhere?”

*

On the evening of the 27
^th
of March, I made my French dancing début—at the Paris Opéra! I was scheduled to appear after the evening’s regular performance of
Der Freischütz
and—thanks to some more advance press by my new friends Gautier and Fiorentino, who mentioned my beauty, charismatic spirit and gypsy energy—the house was packed to the rafters. In the crowd were plenty of Jockey Club patrons and the women they knew, as well as ballet devotees and the critics.

I’d rehearsed once with the orchestra in the afternoon, and had a light supper with Eugène after that. Thrilled and agitated, I asked his advice.

“So now you’ve seen
El Oleano
—am I good? Will it be everything I wish?”

Cool as a river trout, as always, he said, “It will astonish and delight, never fear.”

“Should I add something, do you think? Is there anything missing?”

“Just follow your instincts—as you yourself say, you’re inspired by the moment and carry on, regardless.”

There was something in the way he said that… “But—”

“Remember the garter. And the whip. At the Club? Have those be your recourse, if you get into difficulties.”

I checked his face carefully to see whether he was serious. He seemed to be.

So, two hours later, I was standing backstage, waiting impatiently for the German opera to come to an end, then being jostled and pushed about by the singers as they came off, following their curtain calls. I was flushed and excited, and perhaps a tad over-strung. One tubby soprano half-crashed into me; I gave her a little surreptitious cut with the riding crop, just below the elbow on her bulging red flesh. She couldn’t discern where the sting had come from and stumped off, cursing in German.
Touché
! In another heartbeat, here it came: my turn on the boards! The music began, and with the opening bars, my heart suddenly lurched with fear (a never-before-experienced, and unwelcome, phenomenon!—oh fuckity,
merde
, what do I do now?) Then—
¡santo cielo, gracias a Dios!
—inspiration seemed to indeed kick in, and I let it rip. I rushed on stage, made a mighty antelope leap for the centre, and repeated the move that apparently I’d performed at the Jockey Club: rise up on my toes, raise one leg high in the air, and—hold! Swish the crop, swish, swish! The enormous applause that had greeted my entrance began to dissipate somewhat. They’re just waiting, I told myself, don’t lose your nerve now. I whipped off the garter on my raised leg and flung it at a gentleman in the front row. This provoked some loud whistles and cheers from masculine throats. Good, that’s done it, then! That’s loosened them up!