Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  I was aghast. “What, for dancing?”

  “In a public dance hall, yes.” The doctor’s thick thigh, pressed tightly against my own, was making me sweat, and I was hugely relieved as I saw the cab pulling in front of the Porte Saint-Martin.

  As we were getting out, the doctor said softly into my ear, “If you ever have need of me medically—for anything at all, or even if you are simply not feeling perfectly well—I am at your disposal. In fact, I would be delighted.”

  Eugène whisked me away—on our longer legs we could move much more swiftly—and asked, with a smirk, “So, has he added you to his stable yet?”

  “Not on your life,” I retorted.

  “Now, now. A good man to know in a fix, surely. Every young woman in your position needs a Dr. Koreff.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Exactly.”

  And we were inside the foyer. Another crush of bodies—we’d just missed the last of the entertainments, but Eugène wasn’t concerned. “I’m here more for the libations. Can I get you another?”

  Just then I felt a large, hot presence over my left shoulder and, suddenly, an uncomfortably sharp pinch of my posterior—almost as bad as the pinch-twist combination for which I was known and feared as a boarding school girl in Bath.

  “Ouch!” I shrieked, as the man who’d accosted me surged past and drew Eugène into an enormous bear-hug.

  “Good fellow, well met!” the man enthused, embarking upon a long-winded story about everything he’d seen that night on the stage, during which Eugène laughed immoderately, looked over at me with an amused shrug and carried on listening. I had full opportunity, therefore, to study the giant with the crusher pinch. It was Alexandre Dumas himself. He was immensely large as well as tall, with the habit of leaning into the person to whom he was speaking, almost resting his chest and stomach upon them in exuberant fellowship.

  “And what are you working on at the moment, mon bon ami?”

  Eugène ducked his head, dissembling a bit. “Oh, I’m readying something new for Le Siècle, but not prepared to talk about it.”

  “Ah,” cried Dumas, “but I’m running in Le Siècle, as you know, and don’t plan to be finished for months! You’ll have to wait!” And he was off again, gesticulating, laughing and bragging about his infernal Musketeers and their adventures.

  Finally Eugène managed to turn off the tap of the other writer’s overflowing words and direct his attention to me. “Alex, stop a moment. We’ve just come from a big success of our own. My charming companion’s success—at the Opéra. Do you know our dear Lulu?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I remonstrated, squeezing Eugène’s arm and giving it a shake. “Call me my proper name.” To the narcissistic giant I said, in Spanish, “Me llama Lola Montez.”

  Dumas’ large head was weaving a bit, trying to focus, then his eyes caressed my body lasciviously. I thought, ha, this should be good—the monster of self will see that the young girl he insulted is now a young woman of substance. A success. I drew myself up to my full, and full-bodied, height.

  “Never seen her before.” Clapping Eugène upon the back, “But that’s why we write for the theatre, isn’t it? Easier access to the latest young pieces.” He guffawed and moved off.

  Once again, Alexandre Dumas had left me speechless. And maddened beyond belief.

  I don’t remember what time it was when Eugène and I left the Porte, but it was very late and many drinks later. There was some rather coldly detached sexual congress in my bed afterwards, I seem to recall. Eugène, when tired, was abrupt and unwilling to look out for my needs and wishes. Perhaps it was his training as a surgeon—having viewed too many bodies on a slab or coming off the field of battle sporting bloody stumps where limbs had been—and he no longer gave a damn. I don’t know what it was, but kisses and caresses were of little interest to him. Perhaps because I was drunk and unsatisfied, I do remember some angry blubbering, followed by indignant fury at the memory of Dumas’ latest slight. That bum-pinch, plus the crass snub, set me off on a jag—I got into a state!—of railing and ranting against the large writer, then against all men who were cads, or selfish beasts—or depraved monsters. I ended by pouring forth my final encounter with the Jesuit madman, Father Miguel de la Vega. It just spewed out, amid violent tears and thumps of the mattress. When I finally stopped, depleted (as well as regretful for having said so much), Eugène looked more thoughtful than usual. There seemed to be a certain new something in the back of his mind.

  Lying on his back, smoking and staring upwards, he said almost tonelessly, “But you’re all right now?”

  “Well,” I began and took a deep breath, but he cut me off.

  “Count your blessings. And don’t read the reviews.” He sat up quickly, then stubbed out his cheroot. “Now I must work—I’ve had some ideas, need to get them down. Adieu.” That man could dress more quickly than a trout slipping upstream.

  Jesús! Would I never be given the credit that is due me? Must I always play second-fiddle to some man and his great deeds? Time for some heavy-duty target practice, I thought with a huff, then turned over and fell to sleep like a stone.

  *

  Later that day, I was poring over the newspapers and holding my head—for several reasons. First, I was beginning to think that Eugène Sue might be bad for my health. This was only one of many days on which I’d woken with pounding noggin and tongue like a sock. Really, he was too smooth for words, and everyone seemed to be part of his own personal hypothesis test: how much will she drink? Will she really do such and so? Let’s see what happens then, if she does. In the light of day, I suspected the garter episode had not done me any good before the Opéra audience of Parisian snobs.

  Second, that pompous shit Théophile Gautier had written some dreadful things about my dancing! “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has nothing Andalusian about her except a pair of magnificent black eyes,” I read in La Presse. “What country is she really from?” he asked in the next line. Dammit! I jumped ahead. “We could say that Mademoiselle Lola has very pretty legs—as for the way she uses them, that’s another matter.” Merde! The turd babbled on about my run-ins with the police (how on earth—!) and my “horsewhip discourse” with Prussian officers (that damned cartoon) and the closing line: “Having heard of her equine achievements, we suspect Mademoiselle Lola is more at home on a horse than on the boards.” Fuck! I wanted to rip his wild, flowing hair from his head.

  The other papers followed similar themes. None of them were kind to my dancing, though many flattered my personal attributes. This alleviated the hurt to a small degree, but not for long. I suddenly realized it was of paramount importance that I scoot off to Leon Pillet’s office at the Opéra to confirm my second appearance, scheduled for that Friday evening. I rushed around my tiny appartement, getting prettied, wearing my finest and then hailing a cab—head dully throbbing the whole time.

  At Pillet’s office, my fears were confirmed. “I am sorry, mademoiselle,” he shrugged, “but I have canceled that performance. Your services will not be required.” I could see the morning’s papers lay scattered across his desk. “I will arrange for the payment we owe you, if you will be so good as to wait in the hall.”

  Triple merde! The gobshite! The snotty lump of unsavoury pooh!

  So then I found myself at Lepage’s shooting gallery, clasping a Smith and Wesson pistol and discharging it, reloading, then discharging it repeatedly into the target fifty yards away—an evil concentration having taken hold of my mind, and uncaring of anything else that might be going on around me. I remember thinking that this was the most satisfying thing I’d done in weeks. And—bull’s-eye!

  Clapping and low whistles followed this display of accuracy. I came to and glanced about: the gallery had gained another six or seven shooters since I’d begun.

  “Lovely. Deadly,” said one of the gentlemen, stepping forth and coming to preen in front of me. It was the chestnut-haired fellow I vaguely recalled from the Jockey Club, the one who’d
caught my garter that night. “Rosemond de Beauvallon,” he intoned, reaching for the hand that wasn’t holding the smoking pistol, and bowing over it.

  “Try to beat that one, right off,” another of the gents said, waving his pistol at the target I’d hit.

  “We dare you, Beauvallon,” added a second.

  Beauvallon dropped my hand, whipped around and delivered a bullet directly into the heart of the circles. “Done!”

  More low whistles and commendations. “Why don’t the two of you have a contest?” one of the wags said, proud of himself for such an audacious suggestion, and looking around at his chums like a large water spaniel that’s just dropped a duck at its master’s feet.

  Oh, my, this wasn’t what I’d expected—I’d simply wanted to come, be alone, and blast several dozen bullets at something inert that, in my mind’s eye, had acquired an unnecessary monocle and a high, giggly laugh. The other sportsmen, however, were very excited by this new idea and clapped Beauvallon (whose dark face began looking decidedly stormy) on the back several times.

  “I will not fight a woman,” he said finally, “and that’s an end to it.”

  “I will fight you, if you like,” I rejoined, before I even knew that the words were forming. The others hurrahed, and one of them dashed off to find a fresh target.

  “This is absurd, gentlemen,” growled Beauvallon, before turning to me. “Forgive them their crassness, mademoiselle. I am the best shot in Paris, everyone knows this. They are simply setting you up for laughter later.”

  “Is that so?” I wondered whether this might be true—and perhaps they’d all been there the night before, at the Opéra? Perhaps, too, they’d all read and snickered at the reviews that cut me to ribbons, that insulted my very soul. I tossed my hair away from my shoulders, then straightened them. “Let us put it to the test.”

  “I can’t advise it,” said another man, stepping up. “Do you remember me, Mademoiselle Lola? At the Jockey Club that night? We spoke for a little bit—you were with Eugène Sue.”

  “Of course,” I said, recalling that the red lips and the mustache belonged to the Italian, Pier-Angelo.

  “Fiorentino,” he nodded, with a shy smile. “I enjoyed your performance last night. Never mind what they say, it’s just to sell papers.”

  My brain fizzed suddenly. He meant well, I’m sure, but I could feel it coming, that rising surge that occasionally overtakes me. I never know when it will happen. It’s been the same ever since I was a little girl. A surfeit of restlessness?—a lack of familial care or reprimand when young? I have no idea. I fight against it, but most often to no avail. It is an uncontrollable phenomenon borne out of a concatenation of conflicting emotions: a volcanic eruption of molten fire, and I must follow where it leads me or I will burst. I bent my head and reloaded, swiftly. To my left, I could feel Beauvallon’s indignation mounting. Bueno.

  Ready, I raised my head and my arm. “I like a challenge. Do you?”

  And I fired into the target, just as the weedy sportsman who’d retrieved the new one was setting it in place. The bullet went true, straight to a bull’s-eye; the man leaped to safety, tumbling as he went.

  “Parbleu,” Beauvallon muttered under his breath. I looked over in time to see him reload at speed, aim and fire again. The weedy fellow stood up, dusting off his knees, and raised his hands in the air.

  “Shall I check, Beauvallon? For God’s sake, don’t either of you shoot me.” He loped across to the target, peered at the centre, then turned and cried, “Yours followed hers! No second hole!”

  Incredulous whistles and murmurs from all the others, who raced over to examine the thing for themselves. Beauvallon gave me a smile from his very brown face; his teeth sparkled white, his tongue very red, where I could see the tip of it sticking out between those teeth. “Satisfied?”

  “Not quite,” I answered, then called, “a fresh one, if you please.” The weedy chap and another dashed around, searching. I could see someone else joining us at this point; it was Grisier, the master marksman and instructor, the one who’d given the nod to my membership.

  “What’s this then, Beauvallon? Is the lady giving you a run for the money?” And then there were new hoots and hollers, as everyone else realized they could be betting on this, and the wagers began flying around the room at top speed.

  “A change of pistols, I think,” Beauvallon said.

  “Do you agree?” Grisier asked me.

  “Very well.”

  “I shall bring two,” Grisier promised, “and they shall be fine ones. Duelling pistols.”

  This gave me pause. I hadn’t often handled large ones such as those the duellists used, and didn’t think this fresh test was terribly fair. I hadn’t counted on the gentlemanly nature of Master Grisier, however. He did indeed bring duelling pistols, but they were smaller and lighter than I’d expected. “Choose the one you want, Mademoiselle Montez,” as he held them out for me, in their case. I indicated the one on the left. “I shall load the two, and you shall see me do so,” Grisier told us. “Of course,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and a glance at us both, “you are firing at the target, not at each other.”

  During the loading, Beauvallon and I regarded one another. Beneath the dark colour of his skin, I could sense that he was blushing—with anger, I assumed. No matter. I squared my shoulders again; everyone was watching me with great attention, and I drank that in. They didn’t believe I could do this and were wishing me well—but I believed I could, and then they’d see. Grisier handed me the pistol I’d chosen, and gave the second one to my opponent.

  Then I said, “Monsieur Beauvallon goes first, if you please.”

  Absolute silence, absolute shock!

  Fast as a striking snake, his arm shot out and the target was despoiled.

  “Bull’s-eye!” the weedy one chirped with glee.

  I raised my arm, took aim. Beside me, Beauvallon cleared his throat loudly. I dropped my arm, glared at him coldly. “Do you mind?”

  “Yes, I do.” Very softly, under his breath.

  I took aim swiftly then, and shot. Weedy one dashed forth and peered, searching in and around the centre, then—unbelievably! The cheek of him!—his head dipped and darted, checking the outer rings, and finally the sawdust-covered floor and paneled walls. Some of the others began to titter and mutter behind their hands. Fiorentino called, “What are you doing, man?”

  “I’m just making absolutely certain,” El Weedo reported, then turned to face us with face ablaze. “That shot followed Beauvallon’s, as well. The lady aced Beauvallon’s bull’s-eye, if you can credit it!”

  Men rushed in from all directions, and I found myself lifted into the air and galloped around the shooting gallery upon their shoulders, Fiorentino following and yelling at me, “Never fear, all of Paris shall soon hear of this! I’ll sell the story to the highest bidder, and make us all happy!”

  By the time the jolly sportsmen had set me down, apologizing and patting my crumpled skirts, my chestnut-haired opponent had vanished.

  *

  Eugène thought that my spree in the shooting gallery had been a stupid thing to do, but I told him I didn’t need his opinion, thank you ever so. Pier-Angelo had penned a snappy little piece for the Corsaire the next morning, and I was pleased with it: “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has outdone herself at the Shooting Gallery of Lepage. Her first practice session left a card entirely perforated from firing rapid double coups. To top it off, the Andalusian’s astonishing prowess then vanquished Paris’ most famous shot, Rosemond de Beauvallon, in a double bull’s-eye.” I crowed about that when I took it to show Eugène.

  “Doubly stupid, Lulu,” he said, throwing the paper down. “Now you’ve made an enemy.”

  “Pooh on that,” I retorted. “He’ll get over it soon enough.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “And don’t call me Lulu.”

  That afternoon we were heading, together, to an important event: I was going as Eugène’s gu
est to Olympe Pelissier’s Saturday salon, where artists, writers and courtesans mingled, read out loud to each other, and discussed issues of the day. In honour of the occasion I had bought myself a felt hat with blue feathers (to augment the sapphire blue of my eyes, though it had depleted my purse sadly), and Eugène had stumped up for a pearl-grey velvet jacket and a skirt of corresponding blue satin (bless him).

  “You need to outshine the queen today, and I want to be there to see you do it.” His eyes glittered as he added, “Revenge is a dish best served cold—and I’ve been waiting for this one a long time.”

  “That’s a line from Les Mystères, isn’t it?” I laughed.

  “Indeed it is; well spotted. Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  “Let’s go get her.”

  I suddenly had a thought. “Who else comes to these things? Will George Sand be there?”

  “Oh, George might come, you never know.”

  “What about—I don’t know—Countess d’Agoult?”

  “Marie? Shouldn’t think so, no. She holds her own salons. All the same men attend hers as Olympe’s, but Madame d’Agoult wouldn’t be caught dead with courtesans and lowly lorettes. Why, do you know her?”

  “No,” I said, quickly.

  “Ah!” he rejoined, grinning suddenly. “Of course! How could I be forgetting…”

  “Forgetting what?”

  “My little not-so-innocent, you’ve been in all the papers, as you so love to brag. Could this—? No, wait—Oh! I know! Is that how you met her?” A sly grin creased his face. “Nasty. Do tell.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” I had promised Franz, and I had meant it.

  “Everyone knows you were on Liszt’s arm for at least three weeks, in far off Dresden. And haven’t you heard? The god of music and his lady have just had a fatal falling-out. How did you miss that story?” I must have looked shocked, which prompted another grin. “Very acrimonious, yes indeed. Apparently the children are being used in a tug-of-war. Serves them right, of course—the adults, not the children. For years, Marie’s been obnoxious about the blissful love she engenders in the man. Her goal in life? To be admired.”