Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

My ears had pricked up. Princess—the youngest—Madrid.

  “Which Spanish princess is he speaking of?” I asked George.

  “Infanta Luisa Fernanda of Spain. Pretty thing, I hear—only thirteen years old, but Alex says the Duc de Montpensier thinks she’ll scrub up well.”

  I examined the tall aristocrat with interest at this news. I wished little Nanda all the very best: sweet child, now approaching womanhood. When I’d been in Madrid, she’d nearly been dragged from a masquerade ball, but I’d interrupted her assailant—the Jesuit fiend—and she’d fled back to safety, gracias a Dios.

  How very peculiar, the way the circles were aligning, on this strange afternoon! The Spanish princesses… Who’d have thought I’d be reminded of them, in this Parisian salon? Then—more pressingly, as I looked about again—where had Henri Dujarier gone?

  “Where’s d’Artagnan headed next, Alex?” someone asked Dumas.

  George, looking wryly amused, called out, “Why don’t you write a female protagonist for a change, my friend?”

  Dumas swung his big head, his face lighting up as she approached. “George! A vision, as always.” Then to the others, “A woman main character? No one would read it! Everything must be geared to make the money fountain gush!”

  “Why not a female antagonist, then, for a change?” someone else asked.

  “That would certainly spice things up,” said Beauvallon, looking me up and down before letting his gaze linger upon my décolletage. “Not every woman has to be virtuous, surely?”

  A burst of merriment from everyone.

  Dumas’ little eyes were also resting on me, for some reason. Our eyes locked, and I saw something pass through his. I wouldn’t stand for it this time, I vowed, preparing to fight back with choice words or whatever else seemed required.

  Instead, he broke his gaze and turned back to the duke. “A woman antagonist,” he said thoughtfully. “Une vrai possibilité…”

  My blazing heart had to settle again. At least I’d been ready this time, I told myself. George was now cheek-kissing Dumas’ fat wife, Ida, and then Beauvallon. I was forgotten.

  With an upsurge of tigress energy, freshly ignited by Dumas and Beauvallon, I resolved to move through the apartment, actively seeking. A tigress on the prowl. I would find the handsome Dujarier, and Olympe would have a harder time pulling him away. She wouldn’t succeed, I would see to that.

  Armed with this resolution, the apartment suddenly felt too hot. Although every window was open, the spring breezes couldn’t penetrate through the fug of smoke and sweating humanity. I pushed my way between bodies, murmuring, “Pardonnez-moi… je m’excuse…” All these strangers, important artists and writers, all focused intently upon themselves: tall, thin, fat, beautiful, ugly, long hair, bald heads, and everything in between. Even a man with one leg and a crutch, at the far side of the room. How many of them, I wondered, had gone to the Opéra and seen El Oleano? Already it was yesterday’s news. It was so unfair. When would I ever dance again? Part of me longed to hire a horse, gallop off and forget about the ambition and undeniable envy that had begun eating away at my insides. Was this what a craving for Fame did to one? I didn’t like it, if so. It was giving a nasty biliousness to my whole outlook. And what if—oh horror!—what if my search revealed Henri Dujarier in flagrante delicto with the hostess, in one of the inner rooms? My heart would shatter. But surely he wouldn’t, he couldn’t…? Surely fate had something else in store?

  I moved along, squeezing between people holding wine glasses aloft. Near the vermilion bedroom, with its womb-like linens and fancy pouffes, there was a closed door on the left. The water closet, it must be. Now that was a good thought. At least I could be alone for a moment in there, as well as accomplish a rather pressing requirement—and also I could see just how classy our hostess really was. A water closet is the be-all and end-all of advanced sophistication or smelly dilapidation, and I’d soon find out which.

  And then. It’s hard to remember everything that happened and in what order at this point. I opened the door, about to slip inside, before realizing that someone was in there ahead of me. On the commode, but slumped against the side wall, was a small female figure with its eyes open—its eyes popping, in fact, and its tongue hanging out, covered in froth! Just then the figure thrashed out an arm, groaned loudly as if choking or trying to speak, and then—painfully, unbelievably!—her eyes rolled, her head flew back and hit the wall. Then she flopped over on her side, crashing off the commode and onto the floor. There, the torso straightened with a dreadful jerk before the legs, too, arched horribly backwards, as if now trying to meet the head! I let out a mighty scream; everyone turned towards the sounds, some of the wine glasses smashing as people collided and began screaming, too, though they didn’t yet know what they were screaming about. Dumas was there first and shoved me aside. “Sacrebleu!” he swore, staring in, then, “Docteur! Where in Christ’s name is the doctor?”

  Tubby Dr. Koreff showed up out of nowhere and pushed his way past the enormous writer. He knelt down as the poor thing continued to batter herself against the walls of the tiny room, making horrible sounds but no sense. There was another awful spasm of the body, backwards, a gargling gasp, then all was still. Dr. Koreff put his fingers against the small throat, feeling for the pulse, before turning to look out at the rest of us. He shook his head, turned back and gently tried to close the bulging eyes. At that moment, I recognized who it was: the pale girl from Normandy—Pierrette. Merci Duplessis’ sister. Mon Dieu.

  Over the next few minutes, many things happened. The majority of guests slipped away quickly, horror-struck and fearing implications. The police were summoned, the girl’s body removed from the water closet and covered with a blanket, though still in its frightening bow-shape, and her mouth in gaping rictus. Olympe Pelissier was sobbing hysterically in Henri Dujarier’s arms; Merci knelt beside her sister’s body, crying quietly. The two Alexes, père et fils, as well as Beauvallon, were drinking steadily, while George looked on, dry-eyed. Dr. Koreff stood ready, short arms folded over his chest.

  “Poison, I believe,” he had told the assembly. “We won’t be sure, of course, until later—but it has all the signs.”

  The police came, and hours went by as everyone answered questions and put forth theories. By the time it was over, I felt completely wrung out. The girl’s body left in a police wagon to go to the morgue, Merci and Dr. Koreff with it. Eugène was nowhere to be found, so as soon as I was released, I went down the stairs and into the street to hail a cab and take to my bed. I was as shaken up as anyone and craved only quiet.

  By then it was dusk. The apartment building was on a corner, and as I was stepping to the curb, about to raise my arm, I was violently shoved from behind by something hard thrust against me. I went hurtling into the middle of the road, sprawling face down onto the cobbles. Completely winded, I was trying desperately to catch my breath—when suddenly, behind me again, I heard a male cry of alarm, along with the sound of galloping hooves and jangling harness, swiftly approaching from the left. Yanked to my feet by strong hands, I was dragged to safety in the nick of time as a cabriolet rushed past in the exact place where my head had been only seconds before. The driver hadn’t seen me there because I’d been just out of sight, round the corner from his view. I sagged into the arms of my saviour, as he let me down gently onto the pavement.

  “Here now, you’re safe,” he said. “Can you talk to me? Are you hurt?”

  I looked up and—yes, it was! It was Henri Dujarier. I melted into his toffee gaze and never wanted to come back out.

  *

  Of course it wasn’t as easy as that—falling in love, I mean. There are always complications. Many people and events kept barging in between.

  The entire artistic community was dreadfully shaken by the death of the girl—from poison, no less! Where had it come from? Who had it been meant for? Because, the rumours went, that little thing couldn’t possibly have been the intended target. It was a classic c
ase of fatal strychnine poisoning, Dr. Koreff reported to the press. This sent shivers down many spines, and sold many thousands of papers, too. A few conservative enthusiasts even claimed that someone—or more than one—had obviously decided to clean up the sordid mess of artists currently polluting Paris with their filth.

  Henri hadn’t seen anyone else in the street when he’d come to my rescue. He’d escorted me home, gallantly. All the way in the cab, we’d locked eyes, as a kind of silent pact began to move through us. We spoke quietly of the horror we’d just witnessed, of our sorrow on behalf of Merci. Our hands sought each other’s, and our fingers entwined… I knew that he felt it too, that shivery quickening at the core of one’s being that signals emotional and carnal attraction. By mutual accord, though, we seemed to believe that we could take our time—that it would ripen, if we let it. If we made it a priority. Was I sure this was a mutual intention? I wasn’t absolutely positive, to be honest. And yet I sensed that this was not the time nor the place to bring him back to my rooms, that he would not react well to such forwardness. How dastardly. How could I find out what he felt and not ruin the possibilities with unbridled enthusiasm? The cab pulled up to my building.

  “Are you sure you’ll be fine now on your own?” he asked.

  “I will. I’ll rest. And you?”

  “I’ll return to the office. Many things to arrange and to put in place. Changes to be made, some of them difficult.” He’d been looking out the cab’s window with these words; now he turned back to me. “But necessary, suddenly—for future delight. I must disentangle myself, so that I am free. Do you understand me, Mademoiselle Montez? I hope you do?” Those warm brown eyes regarded me intently.

  “Lola—call me Lola.”

  “Lola, yes—merveilleuse. Henri.”

  “Henri, yes. I… Think I do understand, and I feel the same. I will do the same.”

  “Wonderful. Well, then. Á bientôt, chérie.”

  He opened the door for me, and helped me descend, then his lips against my fingers sealed my desire. We parted almost shyly, standing there in the street. He stepped up, the cabby cracked his whip and the horse clip-clopped off, taking the handsome Henri away.

  This time, for the first time, I would have to wait.

  Did this mean that I was growing up?

  Undressing that evening, I discovered a bruise the size of a large coin in the centre of my back from whatever it was that had shoved me into the street.

  *

  Two days later, a note arrived from Henri. It said, ‘My dear Lola, I have been warned against you.’ My heart skipped several beats in consternation as I leapt to my feet with a gasp. Reading on, I saw, ‘However, I am not one to listen to anonymous letters. Do you have an enemy? If so, be circumspect. But do not doubt me. If your mind has changed, send this back by return post. If I do not receive it, I will know that you feel as I do, and I will be filled with joy. HD.’

  I danced about, excited and thrilled. I read it a hundred times to be sure I was doing exactly right by doing nothing. Henri is a gentleman, I told myself. His ethical code is a chivalrous one. He cannot make me any promises until he is unencumbered, in whatever sense such a state means to him. But waiting? Dammit! So challenging, and such an unknown accomplishment, for me. I vowed that if it all worked out—if I waited patiently, and Henri was mine—I would make sure he realized what a trial and a difficulty this had been for my spirit, and beg the darling never to torture me thus in the future!

  Days passed as I paced and fretted, then a week. And then two. I tried to keep busy. Merci Duplessis, understandably, had fallen into a sad slump, and was being treated by Dr. Koreff. “I trust his kind touch and gentle words,” she told me, when I visited to offer what comfort I could. I still thought the doctor was horrible, but, one morning shortly thereafter, I did have urgent need of his services.

  I had woken with tell-tale symptoms. During my unfortunate early marriage, while living in India, I’d contracted the disease and still occasionally suffer from sudden bouts of it. I knew what I needed, so I dragged myself off to Merci’s, thinking she would be able to direct me to Dr. Koreff’s office.

  When I arrived, he was there, and consented to see me at once. Merci let us use her bedroom while the dwarfish doctor examined me, gloatingly and lingeringly, wiggling his little fingers and passing them across my body in a strange manner. He also made me remove more clothing than I thought was strictly necessary. Ugh.

  “I know exactly what it is,” I told him. “Malaria. I need quinine immediately.”

  His sycophantic voice murmured, “And I believe that it may be something else. Something more—womanly.”

  Gag! “No, it is not.”

  “You have been quite—active—with the men in our circle, have you not? There is a great deal of energy in this room, I can feel it. Lie back and let me take a good look.”

  I sat bolt upright, straightening my bodice and covering myself. “No! You’ve handled me and listened to my heart, and I tell you, I need quinine!”

  “My dear, calm yourself. How can I put this? I don’t wish to alarm you, but—you may be pregnant.”

  Oh! What would I tell him? I knew he was wrong and I knew exactly why—but did I want to put that secret knowledge into his smarmy head? Not on your life.

  It had happened in India. My erstwhile husband, Thomas James, had been given a posting in Karnal. It was a tiny post near a wetland, and I didn’t know this to be a threat (I was at first glad of the relative coolness).

  India had seemed different than I’d remembered it from my days there as a child. Of course, I’d returned as a respectable nineteen-year-old, married woman, expected to behave, to set an example. No more running barefoot. But it was more than that. There was a new feeling of repression, of fear almost, as if the English were no longer enjoying themselves in India, no longer sure of their footing. I was instructed by the memsahibs not to let on that I knew several dialects, not to become “chummy” with the servants, that such a thing was “bad form.” One of the wives told me early on, “Learning the ropes is the only safety. Ignore them at your peril, Betty.” Oh, yes, they called me Betty—my hated childhood name. Imagine continuing to call someone a name she cannot bear simply because it is “more English.” I tried to ignore them. I lived inside my own head a lot of the time, and my ears would listen for the lovely sounds of the ayahs singing, their bangles jingling. What they wore, I felt, was as sensible as it was beautiful—whereas we, in our stays, looked and felt as stiff as lobsters in their shells.

  Then all of a sudden I’d been taken ill with chills and fever and the kind of intense headache that makes you long to die. I didn’t understand until the doctor had prescribed a large dose of quinine. “Malaria?” I’d groaned.

  “Indeed. You must be very careful, Mrs. James, particularly now. You are expecting a baby. Did you not know?”

  I did know. I was about five months gone. I’d been hiding it as much as I could, enduring Thomas’ comments about my growing belly by claiming I couldn’t help myself at the table. Why did I hide it from him? Oh, why not? We were so terribly incompatible as husband and wife; we’d understood nothing about each other’s souls and had never tried to do so. He felt I’d tricked him into eloping with me, and it was true—I had.

  At first it had seemed like a fine adventure, leaving my scheming mother behind, imagining her chagrin at having to explain to the old judge she’d tried to marry me off to that her wicked daughter had already run off. In the middle of the night, I had crept down the stairs and into a waiting carriage with Thomas inside it. We’d headed out of Bath towards Bristol and traveled for several hours. I’d chattered away about my excitement and the honour he was doing me; he’d sat ramrod straight. Eventually we pulled up at an inn. He was beginning to seem troubled in earnest, so I’d gabbled on with all my might as we’d signed the register (Mr. and Mrs. Smith, if you please), as we’d climbed the stairs, as we’d closed the door behind us. Immediately, he’d thrown me ont
o the bed and it happened very quickly, with all of my layers still upon me. There was one piece of luck: my courses were just finishing for the month, and Thomas James was the sort of man who checked his handiwork. He was satisfied, he thought I was virginal. I wasn’t. I’d already (secretly) given birth to Emma years earlier, three months after I’d turned fifteen.

  When I’d woken in the morning, Thomas had been sitting in a chair, staring at me with creased brow. He was considering his options, but I knew that he didn’t really have any. I had not yet come of age; I was the step-daughter of a highly ranked officer. He would have to marry me. I think he was also imagining my mother, back in Bath—a woman he had flirted with, now a woman he had insulted in the highest degree.

  By the end of that day, we were traveling again, headed for Ireland. He had proposed and I had accepted. We were married in Rathbeggen, near Dublin. His older brother officiated (I lied about my age), and we sent out the news. We were received at Ballycrystal, the family home, and settled in there until Thomas’ leave was up and we would head back to India.

  His father was the local squire, Protestant gentry. It was the first time I’d lived in the country of my birth (that I could remember), and I was not impressed with it. The village people were superstitious and full of malice towards the “big house.” The Irish women I saw in the village, in the kitchens, were lively, fresh-faced, vicious things, quarreling like banshees and jealous over their men: I could sense my lineage. At least there was life there. I’d imagined the world of the gentry to be one long round of fun, but in fact, it was tedious in the extreme—certainly for the women. Rich, and idle. Plump bottoms, spreading across their chairs. Tea. Cakes and other sweets. More tea. I’d suddenly understood why the entire population of the British Isles have no teeth. The endless cups of sweetened, lukewarm swill, drunk with methodical conscientiousness in the same quantities, in the same rooms—taken as if replete with sacred or medicinal properties—became immediately repellant to me. I haven’t been able to stomach the stuff since. I wanted to ride: the family wouldn’t allow it. My sisters-in-law had chided me unctuously for my tiny rebellions. Their long English faces, whispered cautions, folded hands—dreadful. I had complained to Thomas, at night, about his family. That’s when he’d first struck me. The second time, I’d struck back, and we had stared at each other, aghast. By the time we’d reached India, the situation had become quite appalling. And dangerous, in fact. We hated each other with mutual distrust; feared each other, too, I believe. A baby with that man? A child who’d grow up like him? Who would hate me like him? No wonder I’d been trying to hide my pregnancy from Thomas.