by Kit Brennan
Also in attendance, handing the valet his overcoat, was Pier-Angelo Fiorentino, an Italian. He’d been an actor in his country of birth and escaped to Paris after a duel gone wrong in which he’d killed the other duellist. Eugène told me this just before the Italian swirled around, eyes crinkled with mirth, to greet his friend and to meet me. Pier-Angelo was thirty-eight, somewhat good-looking except for very thick, red lips which he covered with a large mustache. He wrote for the papers too, he told me, and had at one time been part of Alexandre Dumas’ play factory. As I was to discover, Pier-Angelo (like many Italians) loved to give and receive all sorts of gossip.
“Play factory?” I asked, over the rising din of excitable voices.
“Oh, yes! He doesn’t write them all by himself; he’s got a stable of collaborators, young hopeful scribblers—but he takes all the credit!”
Eugène was standing by, a wry grin on his face.
“Really?” I said. “His plays for the theatre?”
“And probably his new stuff, in the feuilletons, oh yes,” Pier-Angelo continued. “How else could one explain the unreasonable output? He’s writing novels for five different papers at the same time. He’s unstoppable, soaking up cash, taking all the work from everyone else!”
“What’s the trouble now, Pier?” asked Eugène. “There’s something behind this.”
“Sure. He’s just turned down one of my plot ideas for a novel, the bastard—and it was terrific.”
There, in a nutshell, the ever-present enormity of Alexandre Dumas was confirmed yet again. He had ascended to the throne of Fame; the dragon lay at his feet, conquered. The week I’d arrived, two of the main newspapers were just beginning two separate novels in serialization. One was called The Three Musketeers, and the other, The Count of Monte Cristo. I’d begun reading them, thinking I’d be able to throw them down in high dudgeon—but was disgusted to find myself becoming undeniably addicted to the characters and their adventures. Musketeers was hilarious, Monte Cristo deeply dramatic and suspenseful—how appalling! It was like a secret vice, and I had to have my fix of them, daily, like every other Parisian. How was he doing it?
“Come along, Lulu,” said Eugène. “Time to crawl deeper into the bowels of the beast.” He took my arm again and we moved on, leaving the Italian arguing with the valet over the treatment of his overcoat.
The Jockey Club was a lavishly appointed building full of smaller rooms where different circles of men (and women) could gather. There was, of course, a race track outside, as well as stables and housing for jockeys and trainers, but the main business of the Club seemed to be the talk afterwards, and the drinking, smoking, canoodling and gambling that usually surrounds gentlemen of leisure who follow the sporting life.
One main room—a very large one, like a ballroom—was at the heart of it, and that is where Eugène steered me. Here I could see a number of brightly dressed women laughing and sipping at garishly coloured liquids. They reminded me of hummingbirds, flitting quickly about the room, stopping to speak with someone and then someone else.
“Paris’ finest,” Eugène said, “all in one place. Very convenient, don’t you agree?” “Finest?”
“Les lorettes,” he said, “and a few of the newer filles en carte. Courtesans, my darling—your direct competition, don’t you think?”
I was outraged. “I certainly do not! I am a working dancer—”
“I know, and a grieving widow. But widows are better than virgins, anyway. They know what they’re missing, and sooner or later they come back, starved for it.”
I whacked him with my fan, hard.
“There’s money to be made here, too, Lulu. Lots of it.”
“I have an engagement at the Paris Opéra. I don’t need to stoop so low.”
“Look around—do these women look as if they are unhappy? Or stooping low?”
Each and every one was gorgeously attired. In fact, on closer inspection, I have to say that I have never been in a room so literally stuffed with incredibly beautiful young females. Eugène began to point them out for me. “That one is named Olympe Pelissier, the reigning queen—so gorgeous and so in demand that she can actually make her own choices. She was mine for a while—not exclusively, but… Well, we’re adrift. Over there is Anäis Lievenne—she’s a crazy thing, an actress in musical plays of sorts and a terrible cheat at cards, but fun in bed. Or so they say. And the thin, pale girl—see over there?—Marie Duplessis. We call her Merci. Kind and sweet.”
The girl he was pointing out was coughing delicately, fingers on her lips, as she listened to a rumple-haired young chap who was speaking at her in an agitated fashion.
I suppose I was very naïve. “Do they do anything?” I asked. “I mean, other than…”
“Some act, some dance. A lot like you.”
I hit him again. He seemed to like it. Then he bought me a drink and we moved through the crowd, chatting and flirting; many of the men were ones I’d met the previous week at the theatres and supper clubs Eugène had taken me to, so I smiled and vamped ingenuously. There was something about the highly-charged atmosphere that was making me nervous, so unfortunately I probably began to accept one or two drinks more than I should have. I don’t really remember.
The large room was still filling up and it was long past midnight. Some of the women and a few of the men began disappearing upstairs. One fellow had sat himself down at the upright piano in the corner and started playing, not very well, but with plenty of fervour. Eugène’s amused face swam closer as he asked, “Isn’t this the kind of thing you like to dance to?” I listened and shook my head, then listened again. Maybe it was. In fact, very much like it, I decided. Perhaps I should just…
And before I knew it, I was up and twirling. I sashayed over to the man at the piano and placed my drink down. There was a riding crop sitting there, across the top of the instrument. “Do you know a cachucha, perchance?” I asked, picking up the crop, just on a whim.
“I know what they are. I’ll give it a whirl.”
He did, and so did I—whirl, that is. People moved away, clearing a space, and as the notes continued (though haphazard and not very Spanish in flavour), I was becoming inspired. I’d been quiet too long, docile and toadying for favours even longer—I needed to move, to fling, to kick! And stamp! And swish with the whip! I followed my instinct and (so Eugène told me later) did something quite unique in the history of the Jockey Club. Taking aim, I made a mighty leap—like an antelope—into the centre of the cleared space, before rising up on my toes, almost en pointe. Balancing there, with a movement of great agility, I then raised the other leg high into the air and stayed in that difficult pose for quite some time, while with my free hand I flashed the crop about and made it whistle through the air (the brightly-coloured women regarding me with confusion, while some of the gentleman jostled for a better position). Somewhere, in my imagination, the whip was punishing a certain countess with a blanched almond complexion, I seem to recall… Then I got bored of that. So I brought my leg down, detached my garter and flung it at the closest gent, a dark-skinned, chestnut-haired fellow with an insolent appearance. He snatched it up, brandishing it with a laugh and a flash of his eyes at me. A short, fat individual with tiny hands began clapping loudly, gazing at me with the kind of fixed intensity that I abhor—I ignored him pointedly and turned away. There, off in a corner, was another fellow, and it’s odd but through all the haze I do remember him: medium height, slim build, dark hair and whiskers, and a revealing pair of tight, buff-coloured breeches, with a thin cigar in hand and a lovely laugh pealing from between his lips as he watched me…
Then—well, there’s a blank. I’m not sure how Eugène got me home. In fact, when I woke I realized I wasn’t at home, I was at Eugène’s. In his bed. For the first time. He was lying beside me, smoking thoughtfully. It seemed to be morning. And my head was pounding like a bugger.
“Oh, merde.”
He looked over. “Hurts, does it? I’m sure it does.”
/> I realized I was naked. “Did we—?”
“Oh yes.”
“Was I—?”
“Very much so. The inspiration continued, believe me. You are extremely flexible, Lola Montez.”
I lay there, silent, for a few moments. “Did I make a fool of myself, at the Club?”
“Certainly not. You did get yourself noticed, that’s all. Great advance publicity for your dancing next week, is my bet. Dancing like that? And at the Opéra, too… Mon Dieu, the grey hairs won’t know what hit them—if they don’t collapse first, from the stimulation. Management had better have the medics standing by. The throwing of the garter was a nice touch.”
“The what?”
“You threw your garter—the ever-pompous Rosemond de Beauvallon was the lucky recipient. He’ll add it to his collection. He’s drama critic at Le Globe and one of the city’s finest marksmen. You don’t get into an argument with that young duellist if you know what’s good for you. Quite the womanizer, as well.”
“Hmpf. More than you?”
“I am an innocent lamb in comparison, believe me. Anyway, never mind all that. I need to get you up because I’ve got work to do.”
“Did you like it? I mean, me?” What an idiot, why did I ask that?
“’Course I did.” He threw back the covers and surged to his feet. “But that was then; now it’s today. What’s ahead?”
I sat up carefully. “Was there a man, over in the corner, dark hair and whiskers…?”
“He noticed you, too. That’s Dujarier, co-editor of La Presse. One of Olympe’s current inamoratos. The one she bumped me for, in fact.” He looked up from pulling on his trousers. “You remember him, do you? Why?”
I lay back down, holding my head. “I … Don’t know. I made him laugh.” My temples throbbed abominably, and I was sure I would soon be sick. “Is there a basin handy anywhere?”
*
On the evening of the 27th of March, I made my French dancing début—at the Paris Opéra! I was scheduled to appear after the evening’s regular performance of Der Freischütz and—thanks to some more advance press by my new friends Gautier and Fiorentino, who mentioned my beauty, charismatic spirit and gypsy energy—the house was packed to the rafters. In the crowd were plenty of Jockey Club patrons and the women they knew, as well as ballet devotees and the critics.
I’d rehearsed once with the orchestra in the afternoon, and had a light supper with Eugène after that. Thrilled and agitated, I asked his advice.
“So now you’ve seen El Oleano—am I good? Will it be everything I wish?”
Cool as a river trout, as always, he said, “It will astonish and delight, never fear.”
“Should I add something, do you think? Is there anything missing?”
“Just follow your instincts—as you yourself say, you’re inspired by the moment and carry on, regardless.”
There was something in the way he said that… “But—”
“Remember the garter. And the whip. At the Club? Have those be your recourse, if you get into difficulties.”
I checked his face carefully to see whether he was serious. He seemed to be.
So, two hours later, I was standing backstage, waiting impatiently for the German opera to come to an end, then being jostled and pushed about by the singers as they came off, following their curtain calls. I was flushed and excited, and perhaps a tad over-strung. One tubby soprano half-crashed into me; I gave her a little surreptitious cut with the riding crop, just below the elbow on her bulging red flesh. She couldn’t discern where the sting had come from and stumped off, cursing in German. Touché! In another heartbeat, here it came: my turn on the boards! The music began, and with the opening bars, my heart suddenly lurched with fear (a never-before-experienced, and unwelcome, phenomenon!—oh fuckity, merde, what do I do now?) Then—¡santo cielo, gracias a Dios!—inspiration seemed to indeed kick in, and I let it rip. I rushed on stage, made a mighty antelope leap for the centre, and repeated the move that apparently I’d performed at the Jockey Club: rise up on my toes, raise one leg high in the air, and—hold! Swish the crop, swish, swish! The enormous applause that had greeted my entrance began to dissipate somewhat. They’re just waiting, I told myself, don’t lose your nerve now. I whipped off the garter on my raised leg and flung it at a gentleman in the front row. This provoked some loud whistles and cheers from masculine throats. Good, that’s done it, then! That’s loosened them up!
I began El Oleano in earnest. As always, it passed in a blur of concentration and exertion: the young girl frisking about in a meadow, stooping to pick flowers. She steps unbeknownst on the hairy tarantula’s nest, and then—the twirling and stamping. Get them out, the tickly spiders crawling up my legs! And now I had a riding crop, too—so I used the whip to sting them out, lightly—ankles to knee, flick, flick!—flashing my skirts, higher and higher! From the audience’s angle, glimpses of frothy crinolines were being revealed, as well as the garter on the other thigh, and—wait!—is she whipping her own legs, her thighs? Does that hurt? Is that—ethical? And ever higher it goes, the whip, the skirts! Are they simply imagining, or is there…?—a glimpse of black lace, beautiful, black Spanish lace, between those thighs. The kind the widow ladies use on their heads when they enter a church, but for this dance? Oh, there are other uses for lace than going to church! A kind of strangled, masculine roar erupts, then recedes. ¡Deliciosa! And now—aha!—the innocent girl pauses, breasts heaving, before spying the hideous, demonic spider protecting its lair. Rush towards it, and stamp! And stamp! It is dead, it is vanquished, and the girl at last is free.
I came to a breathless halt and curtseyed deeply. In front of me, a sea of Parisian faces—and silence. Then my journalist friends seemed to remember themselves and led the charge, clapping and hollering. I curtseyed again before being signaled offstage by the bossy stage manager, gesturing at me madly from the wings. Underscoring my new friends’ hollers I could hear—mon Dieu, what was it?—a frightening “Boo!” followed by other sounds of the same nature, swelling and becoming meaner. As I nimbly skipped off, a belligerent couple rushed on. The orchestra kicked up again and the two began dancing frenetically in circles to a kind of organ-grinder melody. This was the avant-garde (and supposedly sensational) polka, the other “new” billing of the evening. I stood backstage, watching them, not sure what had just happened.
The rest of that night—as always, after performance—was also a blur, due to excitement, nerves, cheek-and-air kisses with dozens of well-wishers and jealous types, and too much to drink too quickly. George Sand had come, I noticed, along with her Chopinsky and children. “Did you like it?” I called, and she smiled, nodded and waved through the sea of bodies between us, and they moved on.
Then I caught a glimpse of the slim young man in the buff-coloured breeches. I was sure it was him, though at that moment he was just slipping into an evening coat and hat. Beneath the expensive overcoat, I could see well-cut and close-fitting dark trousers set off by a dashing violet-coloured waistcoat. My heart gave a bounce, and there was a quick, involuntary thrill in another area as well. He was by far the handsomest man in the room—in the whole of Paris, perhaps?
“Who is that man?” I nudged Eugène with urgency.
“Dujarier again,” he said, and added, “I told you, he’s taken.”
All the pushing and pulling, as the crowd ebbed and flowed. I strained to gaze one last time at the finest-looking stranger I’d ever seen, in the violet-coloured waistcoat—the angel in tight trousers who had laughed a beautiful peal of laughter as I danced at the Club and had come, tonight, to see me again. Perhaps he would seek me out, perhaps he was thinking of me as a black-haired vision of femininity, and whatever is she doing with Eugène Sue? Perhaps…! But off he went, into the street and gone.
Eugène seemed largely amused by the whole crazy melée and had the idea that we carry on to the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin to take in the last of the events there before the night was truly over, so that
’s what we did. We gave a lift to the short, fat, balding man who—it seemed—had also been at the Club on that sketchily-remembered evening.
“Come with us, Doctor,” Eugène drawled, holding the cab’s door open.
“Don’t mind if I do,” as he lurched up and in. He threw himself down beside me, close against my skirts, and looked up into my face. He was very wide and squat. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, taking my hand in his own short, fat fingers. “I am Dr. David-Ferdinand Koreff.”
“Society doctor to all the ladies,” Eugène added. “Originally from Berlin, held a chair at the University in animal magnetism. Now, in Paris, he’s keeper of all the secrets—am I right, doctor? It must be maddening, to be so relied upon and yet so ignored.”
“Oh, believe me, Monsieur Sue, I am never ignored.” The short man turned again to me. I judged him to be in his early sixties, perhaps, but full of a rather frightening vital force, and possessing a thick German accent. “You were intoxicating, mademoiselle. Congratulations.” He brushed his lips against the back of my hand. They were very wet, and I could swear he gave it a bit of tongue, too. I pulled my hand away—graciously, I hoped—then wiped it surreptitiously against the seat.
“So what did you make of the dancing that followed our fair one?” Eugène asked.
“The polka,” the doctor nodded. “Well, it’s a wonder they haven’t excited morality charges yet, those two.”
“Listen up, Lulu,” Eugène said languidly. Why, I had no idea.
The doctor continued. “The Sixth Court of the Correctional Police of the Seine is on the march against indecency. I know the judge, he’s a martinet—sentenced one young girl to six months’ prison just recently, for profound corruption.”