Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (25 page)

Henri seemed discouraged, and Dumas almost as ebullient as ever. It was the first time he’d been in our home, to my knowledge. Of course, as Henri’s dearest friend, I’m sure he’d been there many times in the past. He seemed very much at ease, smoking his smelly cigar and with his booted feet on a low table by the fire.

I lit one of my little cheroots and sat myself down beside my love. Dumas exhaled, releasing a huge cloud of smoke from his lungs, and lumbered up. “Well, Henri, never fear. It will all come right soon enough.” As surreptitiously as a large man can, he pushed a wooden box he’d had beside him on the floor with his foot to conceal it behind one of our wing chairs.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing.

“Not to concern you,” the writer answered.

I turned to my love. “Henri?”

A deep sigh. “I’ve borrowed them from Alex. He’s tried to talk me out of it, but I think I’ll just go ahead, get it over with.”

“What?” My hackles were rising with renewed alarm.

“An affair of honour,” Dumas said. “And as it’s Henri’s first, we need to be careful of his reputation. Let him undergo the baptism. It’s a rite of passage that all men must experience.”

I looked at Henri for immediate explanation.

“I’ve been drawn into a duel, sweetheart. It’s a stupid thing, all a mistake, but never mind.”

I jumped up. “No! Henri, you’re not a fighter, you know you’re not! I’ll go in your place!”

The two men looked at me, each aghast for their own particular reasons. Dumas burst out laughing, but Henri reproached him with a few strict words.

Then the writer calmed down and said, “Never fear for his safety, mademoiselle, for the affair is with our preposterous friend, Roger de Beauvoir—he of the hiding-in-the-closet with my fat wife, do you remember the story?”

“I do.”

“So it will all end well. It’s simply a matter of honour to be settled, one middle-aged man reasserting his virility and his young friend allowing that salve to be administered. I’ve brought
mon cher
Henri my best set of pistols.”

“Pistols!” I cried, appalled. “Everyone knows that pistols are more deadly than sabres in these stupid affairs! Even when neither of the gentlemen knows what the hell they’re doing!”

“A duel, for a gentleman, is one of life’s necessary episodes,” Dumas intoned. “One of those events that, as writer, you gear the action towards: the curtain line!—the suspense!—you’re kept hanging until the next installment, and life is consequently full of savour. The sex tonight, I assure you, will be mind-blowing.”

“It’s a clumsy comparison—a vile one in fact,” I snapped, and turned back to Henri. “Sweetheart, call it off, I beg you. Or let me go, to talk some sense into Roger.”

But the men, at that, circled their masculinity around them like a large, dark cape, and would not be drawn into any further disclosures. Finally, I left them to go up to our bed, for I was exhausted—staggering, myself. And feeling so nauseated… From the stress, I presumed—angry, deep down, that Henri would have allowed himself to be so distracted, so distant, from my final performance of ‘La Dansomanie’ and from the other, very real dangers that I now knew to be lurking just out of sight. Let him do it if he must, I thought, with the ridiculous Roger. And then, maybe quietly, maybe yes, we should leave. Right away. Start our new life, leave them all behind. Keep my darling safe. The decision, taken as I fell off to sleep, made me feel so much better.

*

The next night—March 10
^th
—I danced my solo ‘Dansomanie’ for the last time, and it was wildly elating. Bon-bon had been right; the mixed reviews on the 6
^th
had piqued interest enough that many other Parisians decided to take a chance to view the Spanish danseuse for themselves. I whirled and flung my skirts, stamped and clicked the castanets, showing my shapely legs with youthful pride. I may not possess the invariable correctness of a classically trained ballerina with all of the
pirouettes
and
ronds de jambes
that they seem to prefer—but I’m lithe, graceful by my own standards and wildly inventive. I add new things every time, and the orchestra has to keep up. I never wish to be constrained by rules when there’s freedom to be had and kisses to be thrown—to an audience that loved me.

The only damper on my happiness? Well, it was a big one, and we had argued again over it. Henri had begged off and remained at home, claiming that important paperwork had to be finished before the morning. At this, I was furious and said some harsh things of my own, unable to understand why he would choose to abandon me on my night of all nights, a night that he had arranged and given me as a gift of love! I couldn’t comprehend it. The valet, Gabriel, as well as the coach and driver, were to stay outside the theatre to ensure I’d arrive home safely—and we argued over that, too, I’m ashamed to say.

“You’re trying to make certain I come home directly afterwards, aren’t you, and not stay to enjoy the fruits of my very important evening? That’s selfish, Bon-bon! How could you?” I said nothing to him about my overnight decision, my willingness to leave Paris as soon as we could arrange it. Make him wait! I went off in a huff.

And stayed afterwards, air-kissing my congratulatory friends and exchanging gossip, before shivering finally back into the cold, damp night, ready to crawl into my lover’s warm arms and murmur to him of my happy adventure and my undying adoration. To say to him, “I’m so sorry that I was crabby, please forgive me, darling. It was all because of nerves—but I’m a success, Bon-bon, it was a triumph!” I could hardly wait to share my delight.

When I entered our apartment, after midnight, I found a note. In it, Henri asked me to sleep in my own room so that he could ensure he had a good rest for the morning. From this, I realized that the ridiculous duel with Roger would take place at dawn. Again I was miffed; he stayed home because of that? But then I remembered that my beautiful love had rarely, if ever, fired a pistol. Maybe he’d been reading up on it, or practising—but how? What a foolish thing they were up to! I thought, let’s hope the two sillies simply fire the guns directly into the sky—then pray that the falling bullets don’t kill one of them accidentally, as they stand shaking hands.

I guessed it would happen somewhere in the preferred site of such affairs—the Bois de Boulogne—and I resolved to be there ahead of them.

*

I dragged myself from my solitary bed long before dawn and went to the stables, equipped with my favourite pistol and a sabre in its scabbard, which I slung from a shoulder belt, to be ready at hand if I should need it—or simply to astonish Roger de Beauvoir, I thought, which would be fine too. Magnifique whickered a greeting as I entered his stall and offered his mouth to the bit. It was still dark in the streets as I cantered off, heading for the Bois.

I’d checked our bedroom door before leaving and found it still closed; then I’d been surprised and alarmed to also find it locked. My poor darling, I couldn’t understand why he was determined to see this farce through, but as I rode along, I decided I’d beg him to promise me afterwards that this was the first and last such affair he’d let himself become entangled in.

It was a bone-chilling morning, the air dense with anticipation of snow to follow. The kind of March day in Paris when the weather is changeable, and you don’t dress as warmly as you should because you think it will be warmer than it is. As we entered the paths through the Bois and I began to search out the most likely duelling fields, I realized that I hadn’t thought this plan through very carefully. I’d been so exhausted, and had fallen asleep almost immediately upon laying my head on the pillow. Somehow, I’d told myself, all would be clear in the morning. But it wasn’t so clear—there were numerous fields, and the Bois was huge. I wracked my brain to see if I could remember any particular ones that gents spoke of as ‘the’ field for fighting. Le chemin de Grandes Randonnées, perhaps? Or le chemin de Ceinture du Lac Inférieur? Damnation! There were two lakes, several waterfalls, reservoirs, race tracks, numerous fields—and many routes to each. And the immensity of the Bois, I suddenly realized, was matched by my stupid inability to find my way around anywhere at all. The foolish trait didn’t seem so amusing now. I urged Magnifique into a full-on gallop. The night’s darkness was lifting and snow beginning to fall—lightly, but as the sky became defined, heavy clouds could also be seen, very low and very dark.

This was an awful situation, I thought. Would Henri be rising at this moment and making his way here, only for me to be galloping around at the wrong end of the woods? And then I had another, better thought: I’m sure Alexandre Dumas is acting as his second, and I do know where Dumas’ city apartment is. Henri had pointed it out on many an early morning ride—and in fact, it was quite close. I’ll ride there immediately, I told myself, and if they’re already on their way, I can intercept them en route.

So I reined Magnifique around, and we galloped back the way we’d come. There were still no other riders in sight, and very few yet upon the streets.

When we reached Dumas’ building, I hurriedly tied the gelding’s reins to a post and talked my way past the concierge. She must have been used to young women coming and going from the writer’s apartment at all hours, for she shrugged and yawned as she waved me along. I ran up the stairs and pounded at the door that I believed must be his—from the messy collection of boots, hats and various bibelots left lying outside.

There was a long wait before I could hear footsteps within, and I jittered nervously about on the landing. “Hurry, hurry,” I was whispering to myself and wondering whether it would be Ida who answered. But no, it was Dumas. My heart plummeted; if he was Henri’s second, wouldn’t he already be gone? Or was I right on time?

“You?” he said.

“Are you with Henri this morning?” I said. “He’s fighting today, isn’t he?”

The writer rubbed his face, looking sleepy.

“Where’s the duel taking place?” I inquired, now frantically thinking of rushing off again, since he obviously couldn’t be involved or he’d already be awake, at least, and getting ready to go. “Please, in God’s name, don’t keep it from me!”

Dumas was now taking in my attire: the pistol in my waistband and the sabre on my shoulder.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Come in, my dear, and let me explain.”

My dear? He’d never said such a thing to me before. He put a heavy arm around my shoulder and ushered me inside.

What followed then, I know in hindsight, was a series of delaying tactics—prompting a rising agitation within me—as the faux count began preparing coffee and urging me to unburden myself of my “clanking weaponry,” which, according to him, was completely unnecessary and looked idiotic on a mere scrap of a thing like me. “We shall depart for the Bois as soon as we’ve enjoyed a
café
together, does that suit?” he said, implying—I assumed—that the time of engagement was set for later than dawn. I perched nervously on a chair, sabre resting on the floor, while Dumas left the room to go and dress. He was gone a long time and I’d begun pacing, wringing my hands, by the time he returned, sporting one of his larger-than-life waistcoats festooned with trinkets. He poured coffee, chatting of this and that; then when I asked again where Henri would be duelling, he began quoting from
Le Code du Duel
, attempting to reassure me (I supposed) that his young friend must fight like a man and that I mustn’t interfere in these important male rituals, blah blah. And that’s when it finally hit me: it was the supremely smug look on Dumas’ face, like a cat who’d swallowed a bird. A baptism, he’d said. Who had a bone to pick with Henri? Into my mind’s eye flashed the notice Henri had placed in the paper, revealing Cassagnac’s debt. Henri’s consequent argument with the man, and his moodiness… The stupid supper party, Cassagnac cheating…

“Wait,” I said. Dumas regarded me, eyes hooded. “You’re not acting as Henri’s second this morning, are you?” I asked, the blood draining from my face.

“No. A looming deadline,” was the answer.

A further surmise, which I now feared was true: “And his opponent isn’t Roger de Beauvoir.”

“Afraid it is not.” He smiled, not using his teeth.

“Then who? Cassagnac?”

A long pause while my heart jumped around in my chest like the imprisoned canary in Dumas’ wide jaw, awaiting the fat cat’s crunching and swallowing.

I must have looked anguished, for he finally said, with another appalling smile, “Don’t agitate yourself, I beg you. Would I send my best friend into danger?”

“Yes!” I cried, “If only to see what dramatic outcome it might have and how you could use it in your next escapade!”

“Too cruel of you, mademoiselle…” He looked triply smug.

“You huge turd!” I stamped and flung my arms into the air—then a terrible realization hit me in the solar plexus: if not Cassagnac…? Oh, worse? The best marksman in Paris? Pray God, it can’t be! “For God’s sake, who is Henri fighting?”

I saw him give a quick glance at a brass clock that sat on his mantel. Then he placed the cup back in its saucer, stretched his legs out against the carpet and said, “They needed to get it out of their systems, that’s all. Two gentlemen, laying a grievance to rest. It’s Rosemond de Beauvallon.”

I shrieked, “What have you done? Then Henri is lost!”

My limbs finally burst into action as I flung myself across the room and wrenched the door open.

“Beauvallon is a gentleman!” Dumas cried after me.

I turned back to spit, “He most definitely is
not
!”

Hurtling down the winding staircase, I could hear Dumas follow me to the landing and call down, in echoing words that ricocheted around the marble steps and walls, “It’s a baptism! Don’t shame him, you hussy!”

*

Magnifique could gallop like the wind, but it felt as if we were moving at a crawl. The streets were now busy: there were pedestrians and carriage traffic, carts piled sky-high with goods and many slow-downs. I gibbered and quaked and screamed at a few bodies and vehicles that seemed to move into our path just as we neared them. At last we reached the edge of the Bois again and entered the woods at a reckless pace. “Go, sweetheart, go,” I urged the gelding. “Find Enchanté, listen for her whickering, catch her scent—find her and you’ll find our darling!” I was bent over the horse’s neck, tears streaming from my eyes from the raw cold, the snow that had been falling and gathering on the ground, and from absolute stark-raving terror. Beauvallon! How could this be; how could Bon-bon not have told me! Somewhere, off in the distance, a loud, sharp sound rang out. Oh God, let me get there, let me find him! Galloping wildly, cornering dangerously, we bypassed several sedate riders, who called after me, crossly. I still didn’t know where we were going, but had given the gelding his head, hoping he would somehow, miraculously… And then I saw two riders who were stopped, speaking together, one of them pointing back the way he’d come; the other also began gesturing and pointing. Could it be? I reined sharply, and Magnifique almost reared. “What is that field?” I called to them.