Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (36 page)

We found the entrance to the cemetery, and from there, cantered into the street. There were still very few Parisians out and about, thank God. I clung as hard as I could to the saddle, the muscles in my thighs feeling like water. Calm, I counselled myself: keep breathing deeply. A block or two further along, I wiped at my cheek and discovered a smear of blood upon it. Shite, what do I look like? Am I covered in it? Will I be stopped? I glanced down at my bodice, my skirt, trying to gauge my dishevelment. From what I could see, now peering more closely and with growing dismay, there were a few spots and streaks here and there upon the fabric—from a distance, not alarming, surely? But then a lurch of fear: is it in my hair? On my chin? Then I spied a drying spatter upon my bosom, which had trickled down between my breasts—oh God! The idea of having the fiend’s essence upon me, anywhere—burning a hole through me by association alone—was suddenly hideous. I wanted to rip off all of my clothing, jump into a scalding bath with strong soap, and scrub and scrub. As soon as the thought of the blood’s taint had leapt into my head, it was all I could do to stop myself from screaming. Is he all over me? Oh Christ! Will I never get clean, will I never be free?

Just then Magnifique laid his ears back and began to careen more recklessly down the street. He was picking up my mania, letting it infect his senses, filling him with the desire to run, to leave behind the thing that was making him so nervous. No, no—bring him back, I realized: bring yourself back, Lola! The new necessity startled me into reality, to recollection of the needs of my horse and—for the moment at least—to let go of the crime and the gore. “Look out!” I shouted at a man with a cart who was just emerging from an alley, as Magnifique lunged past and onwards. “Watch what you’re about!” the man yelled angrily, then, with concern, “Careful, mademoiselle—turn his head!”

Luckily, we met with no further incidents and within a few minutes, I was able to urge Magnifique to slow, then to stop. We stayed where we were for several minutes, in front of a
pâtisserie
, while I stroked his neck, patted his shoulders; while he stamped a hoof and shook his head from side to side, bit and snaffle jingling. Inside the shop there were signs of life; I could smell delicious scents coming from their ovens.

Where do I go, I began asking myself in great alarm, trying to remain calm for the sake of the horse. I need to recover—I need to sit down, or lie down, or something—for a moment, for a year. I need a bath, I must get clean. I’ve committed a heinous crime—have I? I’ve murdered a man. No, a beast in the shape of a man. But, in the eyes of the law, a man.
Mon Dieu,
will I be hanged for it? At this fearsome thought, I looked about, up and down the street. It was a main thoroughfare. I knew that eventually it led out of the city and carried on, going north. Should I fly, should I kick Magnifique into a gallop again and ride out now? But I have no money, I don’t have a plan. I don’t want to start all that again, all that fleeing and failing. I can’t, I won’t—and I won’t run away, like a coward. Like a Beauvallon. I will tell someone. Not the police, surely not them—but someone. I must.

By instinct, I suppose, an image flared into my brain. Large brown eyes surveying me with interest—my first glimpse of the stranger who’d become my esteemed friend. Of course. Who else? I turned the horse in the direction of the Square d’Orléans—to George’s. A line from Eugène Sue’s
Mystères de Paris
began rolling around in my head, repeating itself: ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ A year after Bon-bon’s tragically unnecessary death, three years after Diego’s… Was it revenge I’d just taken, for Henri? For Diego? Or was it sheerly and utterly self-defence? God, I hardly knew. Magnifique had begun cantering in a stiff-legged, arched-neck manner, as if he too was cautiously avoiding a difficult truth.

When we arrived at George’s front door, I swung down and looped Magnifique’s reins through the post at the street, then ran up the short walk and banged the knocker, looking about to see if anyone was watching. I certainly hoped not be seen. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack and Chopin peeked out. His hair was rumpled and he had slung on a silk dressing robe, which was still open, revealing purple silk pajamas.

“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “you are so early…” He must have seen the desperation in my face, for then he added, “You are here for George?”

I nodded urgently.

“Is that… Blood?”

I nodded again, and his face blenched. “Come in.” He ushered me inside, then called up the stairs in a thin, reedy but very compelling voice: “George! Come quickly! It is Mademoiselle Lola, here for you—
szybko
!” He turned back to say, “She will be with you momentarily. I will take the horse to the rear, have it stabled.”

He left, closing the front door, and then I could hear George clattering down the stairs. She arrived at the bottom in a capacious silk dressing robe, with heeled slippers on her feet, and her dark hair in a tangle.

“Am I covered in blood?” I asked in almost a whisper.

Her eyes widened as she took me in, from top of my head to my boots. “Are you hurt?” she cried. “What has happened?”

“I have killed a man, George.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“
Mon bon Dieu
.”

She took my hand and pulled me after her into the sitting room.

“But your upholstery…” I protested.

“Pish, fuck the upholstery. Sit down, my sweet, and tell me what has happened.”

So I did, and as I tried to speak, my heart began to race again and my voice to shake. “I wanted to place flowers, see my beloved’s…” I couldn’t bear it, with these words I suddenly clasped my hands over my face, bent over my knees and sobbed. George jumped up and hurried to a cabinet in the corner, where I could hear rattles and tinkles as she brought forth glasses and poured something into them. She sped back.

“Hear, take this—no, take it!” And she pulled a hand away from my face, gently closing my fingers around the glass. “Drink.”

After a moment, I did—and so did she—a large swallow of superior cognac to help give us courage. “Somewhat better?” she asked, and I nodded. “Then go on.”

Now that I was with a friend, and safe, my body had dropped its brittle, coiled response to danger and left me wobbly as a jellyfish. “The body is lying in Montmartre Cemetery. There is blood everywhere.”

A slight pause, then, “Who is it?”

There were those eyes, gazing upon me steadily: the deep brown pools of thoughtfulness that had reminded me to hope. “The Jesuit priest I told you about. He came up behind, shoved me to the ground with his crutch. He has—he had—one leg. The other…”

“The other…?”

“Had been sawn off. Because of me.”

I saw George’s eyes widen, imagined I could read what was flicking through her mind: because of Lola? How could that be? What sort of devilry is she bringing into my house? Should I call the police?

I rose. I felt faint with the coming betrayal. “Do you wish me to leave?”

“Do I—?” She seemed taken aback. “Not at all, I wish you to sit down and drink up, my sweet.”

I did both things, and felt slightly better.

“Do you need—perhaps you should lie down?” she asked.

I shook my head, tried again to explain. “I ran, but—he came after me.”

“But with one leg…?”

“He could hop, George, he could hop like a gigantic reptile.”

At this she shrieked. “
Merde
!
Bon Dieu
!” She grabbed up a sofa cushion and held it under her chin, peering at me with eyes as large as two round saucers. Then, “
Sacre
!” she swore, throwing the cushion to the floor and holding a hand out, imperiously. “Glass.” She took it, marched with both our glasses over to the cabinet and poured another large measure each. Once she’d delivered it, and we’d both had a sip, she sat again. Strangely, her large reactions were helping me to understand, even more fully, the horror of what had just happened to me, and the miracle of my survival.

I told her the rest as quickly as possible; as I spoke, shivering, it felt as if the match had been fated, had always awaited me. A wail, quickly suppressed, from George, when I tried to explain what he’d vowed to do to me.

“Oh my God, that’s enough. Up, Lola, let’s get you upstairs, get you out of those things and—”

Drawing the knife from my soiled waistband, I showed it, flicked it open. It fell from my nerveless fingers onto the floor. George stared at the blood-smeared object with revulsion.

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked, now almost numb. Suddenly I didn’t know what would happen, and at that moment I was almost too tired to care. Would she deliver me to the authorities? Would I have to go through another trial, only to end up…?

She slid across the sofa to clasp me in her arms, squeezing me tightly. After a few moments, she said, “You’d better put that away,” with an appalled wave at the knife. So I did. We sat in silence as my heart began to settle. Then George became very practical.

“We must find out what’s happening. I can’t send Chopinsky, he’s useless at these things, and besides, he has a cold. No, I’ll go to Alex, send him to the cemetery—right away!—so that he can discover the body if it hasn’t yet been found. He’ll know what to look for. We don’t want the authorities to be able to trace anything back to you. Do you agree?”

“Oh yes.”

“Upstairs, Lola, come on! I’ll send my maid to make you comfortable, whatever you need.”

“A bath. Oh God, a bath.”

“Of course! Of course, a bath!—with lots of soap.”

The maid received instructions, I was taken upstairs to a pretty bedroom, and then began an enormous amount of bustling action as my bath was readied, warm towels were placed beside the tub, and curtains were closed for privacy. Along with all of that, I could hear doors banging, George’s voice calling out, then Chopin’s wheezy coughs as he climbed the stairs and got back in under his own covers. After that, silence. The efficient maid offered (with some trepidation, I couldn’t help but see) to take care of my clothing, and supplied me with a dress belonging to the countess. She also volunteered to wield the scrub brush, but for this I thanked her and sent her away. I sank into the water with relief, scrubbed myself almost raw before calling for fresh water and more towels—greedy for them—then plunging in again to the clean, hot water and splashing my face, my breasts, my neck, scrubbing at my hands and under my fingernails like a veritable Lady Macbeth, over and over again.

As the second bath cooled, I still sat in it. What if George changed her mind, and had gone to the police instead of to Alex? What if I came out of the tub and straight into jail? Anything could happen; nothing seemed real. Yes, I was alive. I still couldn’t quite believe it. This time I had done it. I hadn’t quailed or lost my nerve at the last crucial second, and that was the only reason I
was
alive. If you’re faced with a poisonous rat that carries a plague, should fear or morality cause you to pity it, or stop you from killing it? How can that be a crime? That’s what I asked the harpies in my head, and with the question, they flew up into a howling, gibbering mass of recriminations. Murderess! Bad, wilful woman! Harbinger of bad luck and unfortunate destinies! Life could be over as you know it, and it would serve you right, they yammered. I fought them off, their bat-like bites and shrieks. At the back of my head: the truth of it all. The monster on its back, covered in gore, still emanating evil. I wasn’t sorry, not a bit of it—though I was frightened. I would die if I was put in a jail cell, I knew it.

Courage, Lola. It hasn’t happened yet.

I toweled myself dry with an almost steady hand, dressed in what George’s maid had given me, and brushed my hair with one hundred brisk strokes. I am ready for whatever awaits, I told myself. I won’t run.

Finally—the sounds of chaotic life downstairs. “Lola!” George’s voice called up, and then I could hear two sets of footsteps racing up the stairs. George swung into the room, followed by Alexandre Dumas, and they stood there, puffing and blowing like dray horses, staring at me.

“Lola, you will never believe—” said George, but Dumas reached out and silenced her with his hand on her arm.

“Wait,” he ordered, and “
Mon Dieu, je suis
—ouff!” He plonked himself into a chair at the bedside. George threw herself down beside me on the bed.

“Tell, tell!” she urged, thumping the mattress.

Dumas raised one hand, took several deep breaths, and then began.

“I arrived at the cemetery, and at first wasn’t sure where to look,” he said. “I urged my driver to go slowly and to circumnavigate the entire place. However, once well inside the gates, I could see a large group of blackbirds circling in the sky, and I told him to head in that direction, thinking that—as scavengers—they must have already found the body, but perhaps were being kept from landing by humans who had found it, too, and were taking a closer look. As we approached, however, I did not hear human voices. I heard growls and yips, and other sounds that I could not at first place. I tell you, the hair on the back of my neck was rising—I felt like a cat with its fur gone puffed, all around! Tail like a bottlebrush, fat as a fox’s!” He leaned towards us with his little eyes wide and full of fear, then reached out to clutch at George’s hand, which he squeezed convulsively. “I had no idea what was in store, just ahead—if I’d known, I would have turned tail and run!”

George, with a shiver: “
Mon Dieu, mon Dieu
!”

Dumas continued, dropping his voice to a hushed whisper. “Never in my life… Such a horror, beyond my wildest dreams…”

George winced, retrieving her crushed hand and placing it over her lips.

“Here is what happened next. We rounded one of the large family vaults, and then—
sacrebleu
, I tell you, it was an arresting sight! My driver cried out, and I think I did, too! A pack of feral dogs—the kind of dogs that one sees in Paris, big, little—abandoned, all—were at the body, ripping and tearing away at the throat, and quarrelling over other sections. I could see a large mastiff, off to one side, must have chewed off the right hand and had taken it further away to devour. At the far end of the body, a little once-upon-a-time lapdog was there, yanking stoically at the foot, trying to pull off the shoe so it could get at the delectable morsels encased—”