Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (33 page)

“Not guilty, Your Honour.”

Beauvallon leapt to his feet, fist in the air and a huge smile on his dark, handsome face. One of the people he looked at in those first few seconds, with jubilation and a repulsive sense of triumph, was me. His eyes sought me out; mine blazed back at him, and I turned away, heart full and heart sick.

*

Outside in the street it was past midnight, and yet there was a task that I had to fulfill. I had one hand in my reticule, grasping the handle of Maurice’s pistol, while ducking and weaving through the milling bodies that were impeding my frustrated progress from the courtroom, through the hallways, out onto the wide stone steps and thence onto the pavement. I was becoming frantic to reach him before he stepped into a cab, though the cabs were fully occupied and unable to move forward because of the surging people all around. I was well aware that a crowd such as this would be a perfect place to distribute the kind of Spanish justice that the English journalist had referred to—yet I had to risk it. I had to speak to the detestable shit before he disappeared.

On the corner of the square in front of the courthouse I finally caught up to him, grabbing his arm to turn him to face me.

“You!” he gasped, trying to turn again and flee.

I grasped his collar and neckerchief as I had once before, in his office, and twisted it with all my strength, forcing his wide soft face to remain where it was.

“I know about you,” I hissed at him. “I know what you were doing, and have been doing all along. You killed Merci Duplessis!”

“No, I never—!”

“Did you go to her funeral, you parasite, as if you were sorry? Standing there, hat in hand, pretending that you’d tried so hard as her doctor but that it was only a matter of time? And how many others are you killing, little by little, with your vile experiment?”

“It’s not true, you could never prove—”

“Anäis Lievenne, perhaps? With her crazy moods? A different kind of dose, just to see what might happen? A centigramme? One or two at a time?”

His eyes were darting from side to side, hoping that someone would chance by and see this mad woman, this scandalous Lola Montez, throttling the eminent physician, and thereby reach out to help him.

“I know what you did to me,” I said. “And I know that your colleague was murdered that night!”

“
Mein Gott
…” He was startled by this and stopped twisting about. He reached up to his throat, hand on my hand, trying to pry mine loose.

“Where is the other one?” I shouted directly into his face. “The man with one leg—what do you know about him? Hurry,
bastardo repulsivo
! You
cochon
!”

He began twisting about again, but I tightened my grip and pushed the short barrel of hard steel in my reticule up against his fat ribs.

He whinnied with fear, then took a deep breath. “He appeared, sometime last year.” Koreff began panting and rushing his words. “Promising debt relief for troubled individuals, if they would listen to some possible options. My brethren and I… We’ve extended ourselves…”

“And you were stupid enough to let him lure you in,” I finished. “What else?” I poked him hard with the pistol to ginger him along.

“It wasn’t until the night in question… The night when you…”

“Speak!” Another poke.

“Only then did I realize the extent of his madness… Oh, I so much regret… I am a ruined man…”

“And the sweet doctor from the Black Forest, that was your fault as well.”

Koreff began to snuffle wetly. “I had no idea…”

This was getting me nowhere. Koreff was just as mad as de la Vega, that was the truth, but not as violently, immediately vicious and deranged.

He was weeping openly now. “I’ve never seen such malignancy, and when he lets himself loose, claiming the blessings of—”

“Where’s he gone, the Jesuit?” I demanded, cutting off the babble. “Is he here, in Rouen? Was he here at the trial?”

“No, no, I don’t think so! He didn’t wish… Too tangled up in it, his distrust of authorities… And Cassagnac… Well…”

I leapt at this. “Cassagnac, what?”

“Had joined, too, I think. The society… So the priest didn’t want—”

“Wait! Cassagnac, brother-in-law of Beauvallon and owner of the pistols used in the duel with Henri—are you telling me he has joined the Society of the Exterminating Angel?”

Koreff whinnied again and ducked his head. Tears leaked from his eyes. “Don’t say that name, please, do not speak it… Lured, yes… The promise of slipping free of debt… The society pays it, or helps one devise another way to wipe a debt clean…”

My jaw dropped open. “Another way… And so Beauvallon made up a reason to challenge Henri…”

“What can one do?” he snivelled.

“Ugh!” I let go of him and shoved him away. “You’re scum,” I said. “I despise you.”

He turned and ran off into the night as fast as his short legs would carry him.

¡Mierda!
Oh my darling, my sweet trusting Henri… I stood there, staring at nothing, as the crowd continued to rush and flow, pouring eventually down the streets and away.

*

I was up very early, despite little sleep. It was a relief to get moving. The trial was over, I was free to go, and was now certain that keeping my life would depend on swiftness and secrecy, on my ability to disappear from sight. Paris was well and truly behind me. How I would carry on and how I’d live, I had no idea—but was determined to do so.

I’d arranged with Pier-Angelo for my luggage in Rouen to be forwarded to his apartment; he promised to keep it and all my other things safe until I sent for them. So I had the saddle horse I’d hired brought round to my hotel, intending to return to my tiny Montmartre apartment—paid for all this time by the courts—pack the rest of my belongings, and then travel somewhere very far away. Maybe I would go to the coast, near Bordeaux, just to see it… On second thought, perhaps I would not.

I swung up onto the horse and cantered along through the streets of Rouen, heading for the south-east and the main road to Paris. I was keeping my eyes peeled in case of trouble, and I had the little pistol tucked into a reticule close at hand on the saddle. It was a beautiful, fresh morning. I recognized others that I’d seen in the courtroom also travelling the road, most of them in coaches and carriages. I felt freer than that, up on my steed, and urged the horse to stretch out into a mile-eating gallop. Though perched upon him like a meringue on a cake’s edge, thanks to the wretched side-saddle, I still felt the joy of motion, of good health and life surging through my body.

Well. I’d mourned my sweet darling for a full year. I no longer believed in the trappings of justice. But if one is to go on living, it’s just as well to rise to it, isn’t it? Leave it behind and look ahead?

That’s what I was thinking, when suddenly I could hear a commotion on the road further back. There were female screams and a male voice, raised in alarm. I turned to look and saw a coach and four charging along the highway, quite far away but gaining upon me swiftly. What could have happened? It seemed as if the horses were out of control. Within seconds, I could hear the pounding hooves and the breath coming snorting out of the animals’ nostrils, getting louder and louder as they hurtled towards me. Other riders and carriages were desperately trying to get out of the way, one horse rearing violently and its rider tumbling off backwards, passengers screaming out in alarm or surprise from inside their vehicles.

I had the flash of an idea, and before I could think again soberly and talk myself out of it, I put it into action. What did I have to lose? I’d already lost everything that mattered. Rise to it! Rather than rein my horse to the side and out of harm’s way, I used my riding whip to encourage his pace, and we continued flying along down the road. I could hear the coach and four gaining upon us: I began to wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, but pushed this away and concentrated fully upon what was about to happen. The galloping horses—spooked as they were by whatever had caused them to run away with themselves and their coach at this pell-mell speed—were coming up on us. I chanced a glance back, and it was only at that very second that I recognized the lead animals, and by extension, the coach itself and its passengers. Magnifique had his head fully extended, along with the others—Enchanté was across from him in the front harness. Breath came snorting through their noses, manes and tails flying, with the screams of the terrified actresses, clinging to each other and to Alex
fils
, spurring them onwards, the sound trailing backwards and across the landscape like the wails of eldritch spirits.

As the horses drew alongside, I urged mine slightly closer towards them. This was a hellishly dangerous game I was playing! I leaned across the neck of my steed and began speaking loudly but gently into Magnifique’s left ear. The ear was laid back against his head, however, and I needed to do more. I reached out and took hold of his reins, but didn’t attempt to yank or pull at them. Urging my own horse onwards with a few snaps of the riding whip to ensure he kept pace, I leaned closer to the chestnut gelding and began speaking more urgently into his ear.

This was crazy! We flew along—at any point, one or other of the horses could swerve, or hit a stone, and I would be tossed from the saddle, a cracked and broken meringue. The women kept screaming, though now I could hear a gruff male voice exhorting them, “
Merde—fermez les bouches!
” They finally quieted, except for occasional hiccups of hysteria—but we were still out of control! I carried on, trying for Magnifique’s attention, for my words to perhaps soothe him, for him to recognize my voice and come back to himself, come back to his bearings, and perhaps to his equanimity—I didn’t know, had no idea if this was working, but couldn’t bear the thought of letting go and seeing a smash-up. A runaway carriage can so often end in disaster: passengers terribly wounded, horses ruined, in agony, and having to be put down.

And then—oh, hope—it began to work. Magnifique’s ears started to twitch, to move forwards and backwards, his pace to slow, little by little; and perhaps Enchanté was also listening? For she too was slowing, yoked to Magnifique. Perhaps my voice, my familiar voice—I liked to believe—had soothed her too? It took another three or four miles before I was sure, before we were all sure, and before the driver—Alexandre Dumas—was able to take charge of the reins again, bringing the lathered, labouring horses and the terrified humans to a shaky halt.

I dismounted, dropping my horse’s reins over his head, then placing my hands on my knees, bent over and panting to catch my breath. The coach’s passengers were sobbing and hugging each other, Alex
fils
included. After a moment, Alexandre
père
staggered out of the coach and came over to me.

“
Sacrebleu
,” he swore. “I’ve never seen anything like that before!”

I panted a few more times, then looked up at him, sideways. “Maybe not, but you’ve written about it.”

He stared at me, briefly, threw his big head back and let out a huge bark of a laugh. “Jesus, you’re right!” he said.

“Though the dappled-greys were violently injured in that scene,” I added.

“All for the sake of the drama, I swear.” He stood there a moment, shaking his fuzzy-haired head and blowing air through his lips. Then he flung out his right hand for me to shake. “Lola Montez, I salute you!”

The following evening was my last in Paris. George Sand had invited me to supper at her wonderful apartment in the Square d’Orléans, promising that it would be a very quiet event. When I arrived, the only other guest apart from George’s family was Alexandre Dumas.

During the meal, animated conversation ensued. Solange, now a headstrong and sulky almost-eighteen, was still making Chopin’s life a misery with her flirtatious nature. Now she included wild talk of marrying someone—anyone! as soon as possible!—into her repertoire, and the agony this caused in the heart of Le Chopinet was painfully obvious.

Afterwards, Solange coaxed Chopin and Maurice off to the billiard room, where their game could be heard from afar: cries of delight and moans of despair.

George swirled cognac in her glass, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. Dumas stretched his legs, resting a bowl of nuts upon his waistcoated belly. He was reflecting upon his unenthusiastic reception by the people of Rouen.

“I cannot say that I am surprised,” he mused. “They burnt Joan of Arc there, didn’t they? No sense of humour, obviously. Not a grunt or a giggle. They thought I was a buffoon, I think!”

George laughed quietly at her friend. “Never mind, Alex. We all love you, and that’s what counts.”

He looked over at me, his large face troubled. “I have a story for you, mademoiselle… Mademoiselle Lola. It is a strange one. But, I think, important.”

“What is it?” I asked, with caution. What now, from this man?

“Henri’s mother, Madame Dujarier, kept this information back. Until after the trial. Why, I couldn’t tell you for certain. She came to me this morning, showed me a note. Henri had attached it to his will—the one he’d written the night before the duel.”

“My God.” George and I exchanged glances. “What did it say?”

“The words were this: ‘My love, my Lola: B has convinced me to go to the field. There, I will also meet this man with one leg. I would do anything to protect you, darling. B claims that one meeting will satisfy the man, and that he will then leave France at once. Pray God that is so. I love you forever.’”

We sat in silence for a moment; my mind raced, trying to work out what this meant. What had Henri hoped he could do? The black cabriolet barrelling out of le chemin de la Favourite, hot on the heels of Beauvallon and d’Ecqueville, carrying the phantom second… And Koreff, the attending physician, as planned in advance: he was their henchman, their poisoner. Pretending to be there for Henri.

“Madame Dujarier nearly destroyed it,” Dumas continued softly, “because of its loving tones to you… But she did not. And it troubled her, finally. And now, it troubles me.”

I took a deep breath. “The man with one leg is a Jesuit priest, a Spaniard,” I said, “and an evil madman. All of you were right to be afraid of the influence he’s been spreading. He’ll stop at nothing. Henri was afraid for your son; I think he did everything he could to save Alex, and all of us.”