Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (38 page)

“I intend to.”

“Some independent wealth is the usual first step for pursuing fame, among respectable women. Look at Marie d’Agoult. Look at me, for that matter.”

“I have neither wealth, nor fame, nor respectability,” I countered.

“The beginnings of notoriety, perhaps,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, that’s true.”

I finished my glass of wine, and held it out for George to refill.

“There is no question—men can be useful,” she mused, tipping the delicious cabernet into the glasses, first mine and then hers. “To get yourself a title, if nothing else. I did, and it’s worked out splendidly.” She raised her glass in a toast. “But think about it, won’t you?—the other thing?”

I rolled my eyes, amused. She didn’t want to give up. I tried to imagine the kind of love she was speaking about. Then tried to imagine myself, in love again… It was very hard… It really was.

“I’d miss it too much,” this prompted me to tell her, thoughtfully. “You know… the prick.”

“You’d be surprised.”

At this, I snorted, and then had to be patted on the back from a sip of wine going down the wrong way. Once recovered, we laughed, clinked and both cried, “
Salut
!”

Later, as I lay there, George snoring quietly to my left, my mind began drifting, one thought to another. Banned from British soil? Ridiculous. It’s where I’m from, they can’t do that. And then to imagining: England. Rolling green countryside. Sheep, and their bleating; the gambolling lambs at this time of year. Long snakes of drystone fences keeping the flocks in order. The city of Durham, where Aunt Catherine and Uncle Herbert live—with their charge, their surrogate offspring, my sweet little daughter, Emma. Emma, who’ll be eleven years old this spring: next month, in fact. Emma, the very thought of whom my darling Henri had welcomed into his loving heart…

The only family I have, Emma is: the only person in the world I’m connected to, by blood. Well, except for my mother, but let’s not think of that… And further, I have no home, have never had one, though I long for the idea. Then, shockingly, is Emma ‘home’? Should I go there, and find out? But then I remembered: I murdered a demon. How would I explain what I have done, to my daughter? It puts me, somehow, beyond the pale—doesn’t it? A new kind of person. How should I think of myself? Where do I go from here?

Henri’s sweet face swam into my mind. “Lola, stop now.” His beautiful smile. I curled up around it, and little by little my limbs relaxed… You’re right. I’ll try.

*

The next morning I was off (again). Big hugs all around, including from Chopin, while George and I had a little cry. But I felt quiet and almost hopeful as I rode away on my horse.

On this morning, Montmartre Cemetery seemed tranquil; this time, there was a funeral in progress, and people about. With some trepidation, I rode to the scene of the fatal struggle, and dismounted. I couldn’t believe what I saw: nothing. There was absolutely no sign of disturbance. No trace of the buckets of blood that had been spilled, nor of trampled grass, nor of swordsticks flung into the earth. Everything was completely fresh and pristine. As if combed by a loving hand. There were even spring flowers in bloom.

Shocked, I cast around a bit, to make sure that this was indeed the site—and I knew it was. But not one single clue remained to alert a soul to what had happened, just here. Erased. What can
this
mean, I wondered. And with the thought—like Dumas—the hair rose at the back of my neck. Thank God that he had seen the corpse, too, or I might have doubted my senses! He had reported it: why weren’t there signs of police investigation, or…? Something. Anything.

Out of the corner of my eye, just then, a flash of movement. I looked over; behind one of the stones, there was something there. I froze. It moved again: a small, scruffy dog stepped out, little legs spread, and gave one loud bark. I nearly jumped out of my skin. After a moment of staring at each other, I clapped my hands hard, thinking to drive it away. But it stood its ground. Then bared its teeth, growling. I tried not to gorge—oh, proof enough.

I led Magnifique back to the Dujarier headstones, looking about warily the whole way. The white rose that I had dropped lay on the earth just above Bon-bon’s grave, still almost perfect. I lifted it gently; it was scented with a heavy sweetness, so deep it almost made me cry to think of the magical energy that had created it, petal by petal—tightly furled, but designed to open. These things of beauty, forming year after year, serenely determined on their wordless path, unshaken, unwavering. Following their destiny.

The scent of the rose brought him back to me, in that moment. I could hear him exactly: “I love you, everything about you. Never doubt that.”

Kissing and then placing the rose on the top of Henri’s stone, I traced his carved name with my fingertips: Henri Dujarier. The heartbreaking moan.

“Farewell.”

I turned and swung up onto Magnifique. I was leaving behind my one true love, I knew it. But Henri was gone. Whether I stayed or not, he was gone; there was nothing of him here. Remember George’s words, I told myself, as the horse moved about restlessly and I took one final look. Something solid to fall back on, something that can help me prosper. Something like… Countess. Why not?

I gave the gelding a nudge with my heels and we moved away, a gentle canter towards the gates. All around was birdsong. I wondered: how does one go about…? I had no idea, but would put my mind to it. Perhaps my mind was not that of an Aristotle… but really, Cleopatra didn’t do too badly. I’d simply avoid the heartache that had brought her down. After all, I was through with love.

So what else
was
there—out there—to find?

I’d go forth and see.

We emerged into the street. With a sassy flick of the whip, Magnifique and I kicked the dust from our heels and headed north at a gallop.

FINIS

About The Author:

KIT BRENNAN was born in Vancouver and grew up in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. She is a nationally produced, award-winning playwright, and teaches writing and storytelling at Concordia University in Montreal, Quebec. The Victorian era and its personalities have always been a big interest for Kit. Her play
Tiger’s Heart
explores the life of Dr. James Barry, who was a woman who lived her life disguised as a man in order to practice medicine, which was not an option open to women at the time. Kit divides her time between the vibrant city of Montreal and the quiet wilds and beautiful lakes of Ontario, with her husband Andrew and a variety of animal friends. Brennan is the author of
Whip Smart: Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards
. Visit her online at
www.kitbrennan.com
.

Forthcoming from Kit Brennan and published by: Astor + Blue Editions:

Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution! – Fall, 2014

Whip Smart: Lola Montez Seduces America – Fall, 2015

The years covered in this second novel in
Whip Smart: The Lola Montez Series
are more extensively documented, as far as the real-life Lola’s adventures and lovers are concerned, than the mysterious year in which the first book in the series began (
Whip Smart: Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards
). Consequently, the list of historians and biographers I wish to thank for their excellent works about Lola or the historical personalities with whom she interacts is also longer. I should reiterate, however, that—while based on truth—
Whip Smart: Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume
pours the factual meetings, love affairs, animosities and dangers into an overflowing champagne fountain of adventure and intrigue. It’s a tall tale, with the kind of excess that Lola might have adored—and adored toppling, too, if she’d felt so inclined.

For books about George Sand, I consulted Belinda Jack’s
George Sand: A Woman’s Life Writ Large
(
Chatto & Windus, London UK, 1999); Joseph Barry (translator and editor) for
George Sand: In Her Own Words
(Anchor Press/Doubleday, New York, 1979); and Andre Maurois’
Lelia: The Life of George Sand
(Transl. from French by Gerard Hopkins, first published by Jonathan Cape, 1953. Reprint of the 1953 ed. published by Harper, New York).

For Alexandre Dumas, firstly, of course, I thank the man himself for his incomparable
The Three Musketeers
(Transl. and with an introduction by Richard Pevear, Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition, Penguin Books, 2006) and
The Count of Monte Cristo
(Transl. and with an introduction by Robin Buss, Penguin Books, 1996). Both of these novels were originally published during the same years: 1844-1845. For lively and informative biographies about Dumas, I consulted Claude Schopp’s
Alexandre Dumas: Genius of Life
(Transl. by A. J. Koch, Franklin Watts, New York, 1988); André Maurois’
Three Musketeers: A Study of the Dumas Family
(Transl. by Gerard Hopkins, Jonathan Cape Ltd., 1957); and
Alexandre Dumas
by Michael Ross (David & Charles Inc., Vermont USA, 1981).

Alan Walker’s masterful three volume biography of Franz Liszt was a pleasure to read. For this novel, I consulted the first volume,
Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years 1811-1847
(Vol. 1)
, Revised Edition. Cornell University Press, New York, 1987. First ed. 1983.

For historical information about Lola Montez, the following biographies are invaluable: Bruce Seymour’s
Lola Montez: A Life
(Yale University Press, 1996);
Lola Montez
by Amanda Darling [pseud.] (Stein and Day, Inc., New York, 1972); James Morton’s
Lola Montez: Her Life and Conquests
(Portrait Books: Little Brown Group, London, 2007) and the odd but fascinating volume by Horace Wyndham,
The Magnificent Montez: From Courtesan to Convert
(New York, Hillman-Curl, [1936?]).

A curious enthusiast should also delve into Lola’s own interpretations and amusing
bon mots
, by reading
Lectures of Lola Montez Countess of Landsfeld Including Her Autobiography
. Kessinger Publishing’s Rare Reprints. First published by Rudd & Carleton, New York, 1858.

I would like to thank my wonderful publishers, Astor + Blue Editions in New York, for believing in this series and giving their enthusiastic go-ahead to a long-awaited dream.
Merci beaucoup
to Robert Astle and Tony Viardo, for everything.

Thanks as always to my fabulous partner, Andrew Willmer, who has lived patiently with Lola for so long, and whose storyteller’s ear, well-timed grins and chuckles, insightful suggestions and finely-tuned heart have fueled this novel, as much as the first.

Thanks to friends and colleagues at Concordia University for their ongoing support. Huge thanks this year to Raymond Marius Boucher. Also thank you to Ted Little, Robert Reid, Nancy Helms, Marisa Lancione, Fiona Downey and Renée Dunk; to Jess Dionne, for assistance along the way; to Jose Luis (Louis) Martinez for help with Spanish. Thanks, as well, to my students in the Theatre Department for their enthusiastic interest in Lola’s adventures over the past year.

Merci
to Seán Roberts and Ann O’Brien, Jonathan and Sandra Willmer, Caroline and Gary Davis.

A few historical notes:

The Beauvallon/Dujarier case was truly an international scandal, and may have helped change the judicial outcome and acceptance of duelling as an ‘
affaire d’honneur
.’ For a full and contemporary account in English, please see Fraser’s Magazine for Town and Country, Vol. 33, May 1846, “On a Late French Trial,” pp. 621-630.

Dr. David-Ferdinand Koreff was indeed a society doctor in Paris at this time, and he had held a university position in Berlin in animal magnetism. There was rumour that he was implicated in Marie Duplessis’ death due to his prescription of minute amounts of strychnine (Walker’s
Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years 1811-1847, Vol. 1
, p. 391, footnote; also Gros, Johannès,
Un Courtisane romantique: Marie Duplessis
. Paris, 1929.) Koreff did not, however, attend Henri Dujarier during the duel; that was a physician named Dr. De Guise.

After Marie Duplessis’ death, Alexandre Dumas
fils
wrote his first novel,
La Dame aux camélias
, based upon his love affair with her. It was published in 1848. When he adapted it for the stage in 1852, it became an immediate success. One year later, Giuseppe Verdi set the story to music and it became the opera,
La Traviata
, with the female protagonist, Marguerite Gautier, renamed Violetta Valéry. The romantic, melancholy
romans à clef
about the small courtesan made the fortune and fame of the younger Dumas.

© Copyright 2013 by Kit Brennan

The following is a promotional chapter of the author’s next book in the series: Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution! © Copyright 2013 by Kit Brennan. The promotional chapter is an uncorrected proof. Readers are requested to check all quotations against final bound book and or eBook.

In the third and most rambunctious novel in the series, Lola Montez gallops to Bavaria and on an outrageous dare, seduces King Ludwig I. For her command performance she pulls out all the stops—demonstrating her moves as a Spanish dancer—but in the grande finale she has a hilarious and revealing wardrobe malfunction in front of the King. For her audacity and beauty she is awarded an enormous home and given the title of the Countess of Landsfeld! Lola now has it all… power, jewels, money, royalty… but can she keep enthralling Ludwig, while the pious Bavarians and rioting students are burning the city of Munich? Whip Smart is based on the true and wildly energetic Lola Montez, aka Eliza Gilbert: The Sensation of Europe.

…the tale bubbles with high adventure, intrigue, murder, humor, and—of course!—dollops of bodice-ripping whoopee.

Ken J. Cuthbertson,
Queen’s Alumni Review
, Kingston