Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (17 page)

As we parted at the door of my building, Pier-Angelo told me that Henri Dujarier went riding in the early morning hours every day of his life, and that his favourite route was through the Bois de Boulogne. For that, I gave Pier’s apple-red cheek a kiss and headed inside. Behind me, I knew that a vivid blush would be climbing into his receding hairline.

*

The next day at dawn, I made my way to the nearest stables, hired their most spirited saddle-horse and had him accoutred in their showiest tackle. Then the grey gelding and I headed out at a gallop.

The Bois de Boulogne is an enormous forest on the western edge of Paris near the 16
^th
arrondissement. It contains riding
allées
and luxurious fields, and although in the not-so-recent past it had been the haunt of bandits and therefore not a safe forest to find oneself in, by the time I was living in the city, the Bois had become both a favourite place to ride, and the usual spot for duelling at dawn. Because of its immensity, duellists could choose a particular field from dozens of options and get their business over with before the police could find them. Duelling, after all, was illegal—though unfortunately this hadn’t stopped it from happening with alarming regularity. The edge of the Bois was also the site of the Jockey Club and its race track, so sporting gentlemen and others were very familiar with its amenities.

Once inside the forest, I cantered along the wide packed-dirt path, enjoying the relative coolness of the leafy canopy. It was a fine morning, I was on a fine horse and knew I was looking in peak condition in my form-fitting amazon riding outfit and jaunty hat with its veil. I am coming, Henri Dujarier, I thought. We will meet ‘accidentally’—and you’d better give me an adequate explanation.

I wasn’t sure exactly what path he might take, and was growing a bit apprehensive after a half hour’s ride. What if I missed him? What if he was on exactly the opposite trajectory through the trees? Occasionally I stopped to listen for hoof-beats, but there were very few other horsemen around. An amiably rotund gent paused to try to engage me in conversation and flirtation, but I simply smiled at him and cantered onwards.

There was one particular grove of trees that seemed to repel all of the light that sparkled and glistened through the other glades. I remembered having passed it once before, and realized I must have ridden in a full circle. My usual lack of direction, at work as always, I thought. I always joked that I couldn’t find my way out of a hatbox, but it is a very annoying trait, in truth. As I rode towards the dark grove this second time, a part of my mind noted its murk and wondered why that might be. My horse became skittish suddenly, bouncing and bucking with nerves. I pulled him up short, stroking his neck. “Never mind, my beauty, let’s carry on, shall we?” As I urged him onwards, I spied another horse—a black one—standing in the centre of the grove, harnessed to a black cabriolet with its hood up. The occupant or occupants could not be seen. I rode past, trying not to stare into the interior: was it a courting couple, wishing for privacy? Or something else? At that very moment, a hand encased in a black glove and with a black sleeve shot into view, cracking a whip. As the whip touched its flank, the black horse snorted and charged out of the undergrowth, straight towards me. Completely startled, I yelled, “Have a care, do you not see me here?” My horse reared and took off, racing ahead of the vehicle. We galloped along at breakneck speed, and, although not frightened exactly, I was angry at the brainless driver’s negligence, and determined to tell him off severely! I was urging my horse towards the side of the path, about to let loose a string of salty reprimands, when—off in the distance, but drawing steadily nearer—I caught a glimpse of the one I’d been searching for on a white horse.

What is it about the particular shape of the one you crave that you can recognize from afar—even when you haven’t seen him for ages and he’s astride a mount that you don’t yet know? He was sauntering along on horseback, enjoying the morning sun.

Just as I registered who and what I was seeing, the black horse and cab passed at a mad pace! It almost clipped us, causing my horse to rear again and myself to brace energetically to stay aboard the cursed side-saddle. I could see the shape of two figures inside; one seemed to be struggling to take the reins away from the other. The horse and vehicle with its battling occupants tore off down the road past the approaching rider, then disappeared around the corner through another grove of trees.

Henri, looking alarmed, had ridden towards me to help—and then was relieved to see me bringing my horse under control; he reined his lovely mount a few feet away, and touched his hat, gallantly. And there we were, at last. It was as if time stopped; I forgot immediately about the reckless half-wits in the black cab. In the middle of the Bois, with the sun burning the last wisps of mist from the ground, there was Henri Dujarier, before my eyes: handsome, real, and longed for.

At first he seemed flustered, and very formal. “Mademoiselle Montez, you are an excellent horsewoman—are you quite unhurt?”

“Indeed, Monsieur Dujarier.” I matched his formality with my own, heart in my throat with dread. My horse continued to skitter and dance and I danced along with him, reining him gently but firmly. Finally, both of the animals nodded their heads, pulling at their reins and snorting, then my grey gelding settled.

We made comments about this and that, and then—I couldn’t help it—I simply had to know.

“You were warned away from me again, and this time you listened to them—is that what has happened?” My heart was hammering now like a drum.

“Yes,” Henri said, “it is.” And oh! I was devastated! How could he have told me that he wasn’t one to listen to what others say! He had lied!

“My mother…” he added, then paused. “Finally, it is because of my mother. Well, this is the way it has gone, mademoiselle… Lola… Please, let me try to explain.” He looked away, I suppose to gather his thoughts, and my eyes raked his beautiful appearance, from his sculpted cheeks to his form-fitting trousers, on this day a vivid mustard colour, oh God…

“I have been engaged to a young woman for half a year,” he finally said. “It is public knowledge, the banns were published… She is the daughter of my father’s colleague. It is awkward; my mother wishes the marriage very much. I do not.” His face became filled with sorrow. “I cause my mother great pain. We lost my father to illness last year, and…”

“Oh! Oh, no…” This I hadn’t known. But I could imagine how difficult it would be to go against the wishes of a beloved relative, and one who has just recently lost the love of her own life. This was terrible…

“Yes, it is very unfortunate.”

I reached out to touch his cheek, softly. What was I going to do? I couldn’t imagine life stretching ahead without knowing this lovely man. He took my hand in his and kissed the palm—such a sensuous feeling! Perhaps all was not lost? Then our horses moved apart a bit further and he had to let go of me. I’m certain we both had the same unhappy look on our faces, filtering through our bones and into our spirits, as our hands parted. That’s when—thinking as one and without further words—we suddenly turned the horses off the track and rode deeper into the woods. Over a small rise and into a hollow we went; there we dismounted, dropped the reins, and fell together into an embrace, kissing and murmuring sad endearments. I didn’t know what was going to happen; in truth, I was terrified. Was he about to tell me goodbye forever? I couldn’t bear it. His arms felt so good, his body so warm, and his kisses were completely enthralling. I have no idea how much time passed in that embrace, but inevitably—
merci
to our instincts,
gracias
for our bodies—the sadness began to shift to another emotion. Our breath came more rapidly, our mouths opened wider as we drank each other in. He drew me over to a massive oak, and we sat beneath it. There, we found our voices again, in contemplation of each other’s perfection; we spoke sweet words of wonderment.

“You are so beautiful, Lola. So splendid…”

“And you—oh, at last, at last.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking—I suppose I was trying not to think.”

“I’ve been waiting so long, Henri—I knew something must have gone wrong. I had to come to find you.”

“Yes, you did. I would have kept away.”

“Why, oh why?”

Soon enough we were clasped in each other’s arms again, there on the ground. Then somehow I was in his lap, and his lips were kissing my throat; I could feel his excitement hard and insistent and beckoning through those well-cut trousers and, oh God, I was in a state of absolute melt. But, though delirium was approaching, there was still too much that needed to be said. Our words rushed headlong:

“I promised, Lola. I would have to break a promise. Several promises.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“You are right, I do not.”

It was like speaking in code.

“Do you love me?” I asked him. It popped out before I could restrain the words, I just had to know.

“I adore you,” he answered. “I cannot stop thinking of you; you are under my skin like no woman I’ve ever dreamt of.”

Oh
mon Dieu
, what glory, thank God!

Amid another storm of kisses and fondlings, we learned more about each other, about what he had been going through. His family had arranged for him to be engaged, earlier that year, to this young woman he didn’t love, and so, after intense and on-going arguments, he had finally broken with them—his mother, his sister and brother-in-law. That was what he’d told me he had to do, to put in order, before we met again. He hoped there could be a reconciliation with his family in the future, but in spite of their pressure, he’d held firm to his resolve.

“I could never marry without true love.”

And now, I wondered fearfully—will he believe that he can find it, with me?

“Then I heard the rumours,” he said. “And I wondered whether you’d been playing with me. Whether I was just another admirer to you. Whether you’d become an Olympe Pelissier—Olympe, whom I have also abandoned, and who hates me for it.”

Oh my God, I cried inside, why haven’t I lived like a nun these past months, instead of fretting and drinking and whoring—yes, whoring—with the blasted Eugène! What a fool, what a colossal
boba
. Without a doubt, this could be the most hideous mistake of my misbehaved youth! Is there always a reckoning? Was I to lose the love of my life because I’d been slow to untangle myself, because I’d been anxious over money—how callow of me!—or selfishly lonesome—and loose? An immoral being? Like the third-rate Angel, scrabbling naked across the parquet? And for what? For nothing—not even for pleasure. For worse than nothing. How dreadful. How—sobering.

I took a deep breath. I knew that on my next words rested all of my hopes—but at the same time, I wished to tell him only the truth: a new and daunting experience for me. I admit (in my heart of hearts) that I’m a practised liar. I prefer to call it prevarication, or augmentation of truth—it’s storytelling, with set-up, build up and then the pay off: usually laughter. It’s as natural as breathing to me. But Henri is the one, and I can’t lie to the man who I know is the one! I wanted him to love me as I
am
, not fall in love with some pale or seemingly innocent semblance of myself which I’d then have to try to live up to, and which might forever blunt me—and then, inevitably, blunt our love.

So I spoke slowly and truthfully, terrified all the while. I told him of my ambition to dance on the world’s best stages and my increasing worry that I would not be successful. I said a lot about my desire for freedom and to make my own way, and a tiny bit about my year in Spain, when I’d faced danger, confronted evil. I held his hands as I finished with the hardest part, “And I haven’t been an entire innocent. You know that, you’ve seen that, Henri. And yet, I’ve never been so immediately in love with a man as I know I am with you. I will never do anything to harm that, ever again. I promise you.”

In turn—and as the early morning sun turned into the brilliant heat of the day—he gazed into the distance, thinking. He told me that most of the women he knew were either simpering, girlish creatures or bold strumpets who made their way by bedding rich men, and that because he was rich, he’d become a target for both. (Fear rose again with these truthful words: did he really regard me as one of the second kind? I supposed he’d been burnt once too often, and so of course I’d appear that way to him.) On the other hand, he said, there was something about a woman who’d travel to another country on her own that made him happy, that filled him with curiosity. He admired the unusual. Oh yes, my adventurous spirit was part of the attraction, that’s what he told me. And—thank God—he didn’t think less of me for that recklessness, that ambition, he felt more. This was a revelation, and a colossal relief.

“And as far as your experiences with other men go…”

My heart stopped. “Yes?”

“I’d heard all the rumours about you and Franz Liszt, long before Eugène Sue. Didn’t Liszt break it off and lock you into a hotel room so that he could steal away before you woke?”

“What?” I pulled back to look at him.

“And when you did wake up, you broke the furniture?”

“I did what?”

Henri began to laugh. “That’s what I’d read—some story from Dresden. How much did you break? Did Liszt have to pay for it?”

“It’s a complete fabrication!” I retorted hotly. “
I
left
him
!” Then I kissed Henri all over his lovely cheeks and upon his eyelids.

Before too long, we were so engrossed with each other’s charms again that we’d become entangled by my stocking garter and I couldn’t help him disengage us, having been reduced to the state of a pat of melted butter in a warming dish.
Mon Dieu
, Henri was so beautiful that—!

All at once, he pulled himself together, rubbed his hand over his whiskers and said, “Come home with me, Lola. Let us do this up in style, not on the ground like desperate adolescents. I have silk sheets and a bedroom with a breeze. Champagne, caviar. Whatever you wish.” He kissed me ardently. “What do you think?”