Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (42 page)

I wrote to Lionel, who was terribly lonesome in Berry, but who remained there to prove to the world that he was not seeing me anymore.

One day, at four o’clock, M. Richard was announced. I would have preferred not to see him. He held his hand out to me but made no rep-rimands.

‘‘My dear Céleste, I have just arrived. Be assured that I made inquiries and was told that M. Lionel is at his estate, so here I am. I ask for nothing more than permission to come see you sometimes.’

‘‘But of course, as often as you wish.’

Now that was very reckless. I was still writing to Lionel, but I did not see the necessity to inform him of Richard’s return. I do not know who did. . . .

,   ,

 ,   

One day I invited Maria to dinner.

Maria is a tall woman with a pretty figure, but she has a harsh appearance and is extremely skinny. I met her in the days when I was going to Versailles. I ran into her again at a masked ball at the Odéon, a ball given by M. Lireux,1 stage manager of the theater in those days, and Louis Monrose had hired me to dine with the other actors.2 On my right was a fat girl with wide nostrils and large prominent eyes. Her name was Clara Fontaine. She was enviously eyeing Maria’s costume.

The dinner was magnificent; we put away cases of pâté de foie gras and truffles, and the champagne flowed freely. Maria ate carefully because she had kept her gloves on. Clara asked her in her pretty, high-pitched voice, ‘‘Why in the world are you eating with your gloves on, do you have the mange?’’

I thought her remark so mean that I asked Clara, ‘Are you hoping you gave it to her?’

‘‘Me!’’ she said, placing her two large hands on the table.



Unfortunate Encounter

‘‘Please, hide this,’ I told her. ‘ This is not proper in front of people.’

Maria came to thank me. Lireux, Monrose, and Bernard-Latte took my side, and Maria became my friend.

Across from me was the actor M. Milon. He looked very smug and planned each of his gestures. He would examine himself and seemed so pleased with his person that I left my seat to give him a view of the mirror behind me.

I asked Maria, ‘‘Do you want to dance?’’ She was wearing a man’s costume, so she took the lead. And just as I was performing some step, I do not recall which, I stepped on the foot of a woman wearing a domino.

She shoved me, first calling me stupid, then, horrid woman!

I turned around and yanked on the bottom of her mask. What I saw was a monkey face. I began to laugh and said, ‘‘Look, does Madame have the kind of face that allows her to call me a horror!’’

Oh! My goodness! What had I done? There was one, only one upstanding woman at the ball, and she was the one who had called me stupid and whom I had unmasked.

I was advised to flee. I did not and I should have, because someone came to tell me to go to the police station. Thank goodness for me, Louis Monrose, as kindhearted as he is a good actor, proved to the commissioner that if this lady had not put her foot under mine, I would not have stepped on it. He obtained my pardon and took me upstairs.

Lireux had a good laugh over this story. We often went to see him because he kept large crates of oranges in his office. I always went away with six of them.

So that is how I met Maria; then I lost sight of her until the day she was named Maria the Polka Dancer and I became Céleste Mogador.

She is the daughter of a manual laborer. She had become very elegant and would walk along the Champs-Elysées wearing velvet dresses with trains. And when by chance I would run into her on my way out of the Hippodrome, she would look down her nose at me and would not greet me. She took the name Mme de Saint-Pase.

Long after placing herself under the protection of this new saint of her own invention, she took on airs and told me her father was a great lord, that he threatened to have her locked up if she continued to wear his name, Saint-Pase. I told her quite frankly that, whatever she did, people would always say when seeing her, ‘‘Here is Maria the Polka Dancer.’

She almost had a fit.

A month later I inquired about her of the concierge who replied,

‘‘Don’t know!’’



Unfortunate Encounter

I walked away irritated. Fortunately she looked out the window and called me back.

‘‘But why are you leaving?’’

‘‘Well, I was told they do not know you.’

‘ Oh! I understand. Today my name is Mme la Comtesse de Bussy.’

She was taking her name seriously. Everything in her home had a crown on it. I told her, ‘‘You look like you got your furniture and your clothes at a secondhand shop. When things are really ours, they seem beautiful, but if we dress up in those we have no right to, they make us look ridiculous.’

Obviously my opinion was dim-witted, because she came to my house for dinner in a carriage marked with three crowns as big as the moon.

     

It was five o’clock and the table was set for two when Richard came to visit.

Right after that, the doorbell rang. I thought it was my guest arriving and asked Richard to open the door. It was Lionel!

‘‘Fine!’’ said Lionel looking at the two place settings on the table. ‘‘I know what I wanted to know.’

Then addressing Richard, he told him, ‘‘You wanted to marry this girl; you can have her. She is yours now.’

I joined my hands together and looked at Richard. He probably understood, because he replied in the most natural way, ‘‘I thank you for the advice, monsieur. You have known her for four years. Well! Four years from now, I shall give you an answer.’

Lionel left, casting a look full of loathing in my direction. I asked Richard to leave me alone.

Maria arrived. She tried her best to console me. She had her qualities.

She came over several times to try to chase away my sad thoughts.

To salvage his self-respect, Lionel found, at a table d’hôte, a girl from the provinces a man had brought to Paris for the sum of

. He

offered her double what the other one had promised. She knew he had a mistress he loved. She accepted the position and fulfilled it with boldness.

And of course, my resentment settled on Richard. I reproached him for everything I was suffering. He would ask forgiveness for the anguish he had not caused.

I received a note from Lionel. He had bought a magnificent apartment. He wrote:



Unfortunate Encounter

Come see me, I need to talk to you about your interests.

Richard arrived as I was reading this note.

‘‘Your Lionel is spouting all sorts of things about you. Yesterday, he told one of his friends that you would go to his house anytime he wanted.’

Furious, I crumpled up the letter.

Once Richard had left, I replied to it: What would I be doing at your house? Looking for scorn! I know what you think of me and what you are saying about me. Adieu!

An hour later, he wrote again:

I wanted to see you briefly at my house, not in the hopes of asking for your sympathy, but so I can wallow in the misery of hatred you have left me in.

I want to end up between the bottle that supplies the drunkenness it promises, and a pistol that will grant me forgetfulness. One day the letters that I have taken back from you will be returned to you. They have been the essence of my heart and my life. Enjoy your life of pleasure, but be careful; old age creeps up, and it is dreadful to find nothing but reproaches, hate, and spite among one’s memories.

As if on purpose, not once was I alone that day. I was in need of distraction, but everyone exasperated me.

I told myself as I hid my letter, ‘‘I shall go see Lionel tomorrow.’



32

o TheGirlfromtheProvinces

A Lot of venom, a Little Blood—After the Storm—

Richard Cannot Live ‘‘Without’ Either—Stroke of Luck, No Cartridges—How the Favorite Dismisses a Rival

‘    to the Cirque,’ Richard suggested. ‘‘It will distract you.

There is a beautiful benefit performance.’

The room was resplendent with lights and costumes. Sadly . . . it all seemed dreary to me. Suddenly the room lit up . . . my eyes were dazzled, my head began to swim, and I felt faint.

Richard looked at me, then, taking my arm impatiently and angrily, he squeezed it and said, ‘‘How pale you look!’’

I looked up and found myself facing Lionel. Standing on my right, he began talking with this woman I had been told about and who began to gesture extravagantly to attract my attention. . . . Ten times I thought I could see her kissing him! I asked Richard to take me home. ‘‘No,’ he said, ‘ he would notice your agitation. I beg you to remain calm until the end of the show. Spare my pride; you know I have never given it much thought, but today, in front of these people who are observing us, make the effort, only for one hour!’’

I let myself be taken home like a child. Once at my door, Richard said,

‘ Céleste, I thank you again. I am expected by friends at the Maison-d’Or. I would have invited you, but you need rest.’

   ,   

I went to bed hoping to calm down, but in vain. As if a voice were summoning me outside, I got up and got dressed.

‘‘Louise,’ I said to my maid, ‘ come with me; let us go after him or this is the end.’



The Girl from the Provinces

And picking up Lionel’s letter, which bore his new address, I ran along the boulevards. Once on Rue Joubert, I rang at the porte cochere.

It was almost one in the morning. I was let in and I went upstairs without asking anything, leaving Louise under the covered way.

Once on the second floor, I rang powerfully enough to make the house shake. I heard a door opening and a voice, Lionel’s, asking, ‘‘Who can that be?’’ Then, appearing on the landing and lighting my face with a candle, he continued, ‘‘You, here! What do you want from me now?’’

‘‘What do I want?’’ I said, shaking all over and showing him his letter.

‘‘I am here because you wrote to me yesterday!’’

‘ Oh,’ he said, laughing, ‘ so I did, after lunch! If that is all, then you can go back home; there is no danger, I am very happy! How is it that M. Richard lets you go out so late at night? . . . It is unsafe. I shall let him know tomorrow.’

The snide way he had said all this gradually made my violent temperament return. He saw the flashes in my eyes.

‘ Come in,’ he told me uncovering the door. ‘‘I do not love you anymore, but I am too polite not to invite you to rest a few minutes.’

The room he had let me in was a dining room with carved walls and ceilings.

‘‘It seems,’ he said, ‘ that this visit on your part is without objective, my dear Céleste; you did not choose your timing well, because I am not alone. I have been in love with you; today I do not love you anymore.

Go back to your Richard.’

‘‘Now really, Lionel, do not blame me! . . . How could I know that this letter contained nothing but lies and trifles? You mentioned killing yourself. . . .’

‘‘No,’ he replied, ‘ no, you did not come here out of concern for me! . . . You came because you saw me with another woman. She is here, this woman, behind this door. She can hear everything I am saying to you. . . . I love her! She is beautiful, as beautiful as you are ugly!’’

‘‘Lionel,’ I stood up and said, beside myself with anger, ‘‘what you are doing now is craven! You insult me in your house; you should respect yourself by not insulting your past weaknesses. Why did you write to me in London? . . . Without your letter, I would be married, I would be in Scotland, and I would not be annoying you.’

I turned to leave. He stood in my way.

‘‘No,’ he told me, ‘‘you are too agitated, do not go yet. . . . Anger becomes you! I despise you, you miserable wretch whom I picked up out of the mud, and in gratitude, you have defiled me! You used me as a



The Girl from the Provinces

ladder. You placed yourself on the auction block and sold yourself to the highest bidder.’

I looked around me. I saw a knife on the sideboard. I picked it up, and holding it tight, I yelled, ‘‘Not another word! Leave me alone, or I shall kill you!’’

‘‘Finally,’ he said, laughing, ‘‘I see you suffering a little! Put this knife down, you are going to cut your fingers.’

‘ Oh,’ I said, ‘ do as I tell you, or I am going to kill you! Banish this woman who has heard everything you said to me!’’

He shrugged his shoulders and did not budge. So twice I plunged the knife into my chest. He did not see any blood and probably thought I had been pretending. He walked up to me to take my knife away . . .

and I stabbed him in the right arm. Blood flowed. . . . At the sight, I regained my wayward sanity and asked his forgiveness. I took a few steps and brought my hand up to my chest. . . . My head began to spin and I collapsed.

  

When I came to, I was in a large bedroom draped in garnet velvet with gold braids. I was lying on a François I–style bed trimmed in white satin with four gilded posts. My chest felt cold. A large sponge dipped in water and vinegar had been placed on me. Voices were coming from the next room.

‘‘Forgive me, my dear friend,’ Lionel was saying, ‘ for such a terrible night. . . . As soon as daylight appears I shall send for a carriage. Her wound is not serious.’

I remembered everything and I burst into tears. He drew near my bed and said, ‘ You are feeling better? . . . My word, you are insane; you knew what you were doing when you left me; I want to be free.’

I looked at the door, which had remained open; this woman was listening.

‘ Close this door; I am leaving. Louise, come help me get dressed.’

I wanted to get up, but I could not stand. Louise shouted, ‘‘Madame is fainting! . . .’

‘Again!’’ Lionel replied. He came to help her support me.

The woman I had seen at the Cirque came in and spoke to Lionel.

She had a pronounced provincial accent. Her hair was short and curled in the ancient Roman style. I simply asked her to leave the room so I could get ready to leave. . . . She did so, laughing, and I heard her kiss Lionel.