Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  “The mosquitoes in the wetlands,” the Karnal doctor had explained, as I lay there sweating and shivering, “are dreadful this year. Malaria comes and goes, Mrs. James. Once you’ve been infected, it never completely leaves you. You must be very careful; you have a delicate constitution.”

  Balls, I’d thought! Why was everyone trying to turn me into a piece of bone china? I would not have it! I did not wish to be a brood mare!

  Had I hoped it would all just go away, or something ridiculous? I don’t know what I was thinking. I believe now that I was suffering from a deep-seated though fiercely suppressed despair. Certainly, even after his warning, I did my best to ignore the doctor’s advice. I rode, fast and furious. I ignored the women’s reproaches and played badminton, pulled with the best in archery contests and badgered the men about letting me try the newest craze, kanjai-banzee, or as it was nicknamed, ‘pulu’, wherein you chased a wooden ball with a mallet on horseback (“Sport is sound, not enjoying sport is unsound”—it was a fetish with them). I’m sure that all of this, along with the recurrent bouts of fever, did in fact precipitate events.

  I’d just received news that my mother had invited me to the hill station of Simla for the hot months, August and September. Simla’s a fashionable British resort in the Himalayan foothills, at a cool altitude, surrounded by pine forests. It appeared that I had groveled sufficiently and she had agreed. I could get away from Thomas, see my beloved step-father, Craigie, and be in a safer place—with them—when I’d grown huge and ready to deliver. Surely, afterwards, I told myself, they would help me find a way to live, away from the terrible marriage. The fact that there would be a baby, too, was still somehow unreal to me—awful as I’m sure that must seem.

  So, longing for Simla, and as a final lark in Karnal, I took part in a treasure hunt on horseback. Though by that time I was rather ungainly, I cinched myself tight (or my servant woman did, shaking her head and muttering) and headed out to the fray.

  A foolhardy decision. I had managed to organize my partner, an older woman named Mrs. Lord, into helping me find the first two treasures—a bangle and a black feather (not ostrich). The third took some agility and I was in hot pursuit. The treasure was a long red hair, and there was only one woman in the garrison who boasted such a colour. Poor little Mrs. Henley was also taking part in the hunt, and when she (belatedly) realized what the third item called for and saw me swooping down upon her, she squealed loudly and clapped her heels into her pony’s sides. Off we charged across the dusty plain. Mrs. H was giving it a good try, to-ing and fro-ing like a jackrabbit. We must have made quite a sight, both of us in our voluminous skirts, balancing in side-saddles—an idiotic invention that is notoriously difficult. You can’t get a grip; it’s as if it was designed that way on purpose to keep women slow and careful. Anyway, Mrs. H fro-ed when I to-ed, I hit the ground hard—and began writhing in pain. I was carried at the run to the infirmary by four native bearers, my husband was fetched, the doctor came from his dinner.

  At first it was hoped that I would be able to keep the baby. There was a period of lull and Thomas was attempting to come to grips with the astonishing fact that he was soon to be a father. He was beginning to admonish me for my willful secrecy when the tide turned again and the horror began. I can’t really describe it in any other way. There were the frantic faces above me, my heaving, straining self, and one quite big baby, not old enough to enter the world. Ready or not, it was being catapulted forth. I gripped Thomas’ finger so hard I broke it and he was requested to leave. It was a wonder he’d been there at all; it was not the ‘sound’ thing, but this emergency was also a wonder and a shock, and I was unaware of everything and anything except the agony of pushing and waves of pain.

  The baby was dead. I was alive, but barely. It had been a boy. Thomas wept obscenely, and I was terribly sorry. Sorry for everything that had happened to that guiltless creature, and for what I had done to Thomas, and for myself. How had I become so… Hardhearted? That question terrified me, and I didn’t know the answer. It was not until a few days later, when I was slightly stronger, that the doctor gave me the rest of the news.

  “You must prepare yourself, Mrs. James,” he told me.

  “Oh, God, what more?”

  “Your insides—have been damaged. You will be able to live a normal life, but… There will be no more children. It is not only inadvisable, it is—impossible. It will never happen. I am most sincerely sorry, Mrs. James.”

  Now, I have never pretended to be a steady woman who knows her own mind and is solidly comfortable with all of her choices, but when it was gone—and all possibility gone—well. It was a profound, a dismaying shock. I’d always seen myself as a creature with time on her side, as resilient and supple as a fish or an otter, going about its daily business, with tomorrow always ahead and no regrets for the day before. This news forced me to revise that opinion.

  When finally I was well enough to travel to Simla, I told my mother that I had made a great mistake. I begged her forgiveness, and pleaded that she and dear Craigie help me untangle myself from the miserable marriage. Craigie did so with tact and forbearance; she joined in, as her conscience allowed.

  As time went on—once I’d left India, and had begun to enjoy life and its adult passions—I’d learned to love my secret. The truth is, I realized that it made me free, free in a way that most women could only dream about. No fear of endless pregnancies and childbirths, nor of dying from them. I no longer mourned my childless state—and of course, in point of fact, I wasn’t childless. Though Emma only knew about me as a distant aunt through marriage, and one who never visited or sent her gifts (Aunt Catherine discouraged it), she was blood. She was mine, though she didn’t know it. How I had longed to reveal myself to her in the early days! Now—in my new life in Paris—I was not so sure. Would it harm her if the world knew that I was her mother? Possibly. Very likely.

  All of these memories had raced like a fork of lightning through my brain, as I sat there upon Merci’s bed, with my unlaced corset and Dr. Koreff’s little fat fingers poised to strike. I opened my mouth to tell Koreff, once again, that he was mistaken in his diagnosis—but just then Merci hurried in, whispering at us to get up, and looking quite alarmed. She got out a little squeak of a gasp: “Alexandre!”

  “What?” Dr. Koreff asked. “Your latest? The bébé?”

  “Not fils, doctor, père! Through the key-hole, I could see him!”

  In the other room, we heard the door suddenly booming as if a rhino had run at it.

  “Before he breaks it down!” Merci pleaded, then called out, “Wait just a moment, I am coming!”

  I laced myself up quickly and followed her, while Merci unlocked and was about to open the outer door. Before she could do so, the handle was violently turned and the writer burst through, his grizzled hair all wild and unkempt.

  Alexandre père stood four-square in the centre of the room, stirring his hair about with one distracted fist, while examining us, moodily. “It was a bad night,” he mumbled, “for my Musketeers. I am coming to the climax—and it is treacherous, slippery. Never been done before.” His gaze flicked up and down me abstractedly, then fixed finally upon Dr. Koreff. “I came looking for you this morning, doctor, and your servant said you had come here. I’ve been up since midnight—other deadlines and goddammit! I stopped in at the pâtisserie for a jolt of café and realized I was nearby… I need pills, I need something… I need…”

  “Ah, I see,” Dr. Koreff nodded.

  Dumas’ glance had shot across to Merci and stayed there. “Have you finished, doctor?”

  “Not quite, perhaps, but the climate has changed. A storm cloud hovers,” the short man replied.

  “For me as well,” Dumas intoned heavily, eyes fastened upon Merci. No one now existed in his one-track mind except the pale young woman standing before him, her face welcoming and unafraid before this mountain of a man, so wound up with his inner turmoil. “Nothing would come,” he said, as if the sky ha
d fallen and there was no hope for mankind ever again. “Nothing. All night long. I had a block.” His head was moving slightly from side to side, like a bull trying to focus on a matador’s cape.

  Dr. Koreff put a hand on my back and began to steer me to the door. As he did so, the writer gave a great grunt, grabbed Merci’s tiny wrist with a grip which I was sure must have immediately caused a painful bruise on that delicate skin, and began to drag her away towards the bedroom, mumbling, “Then, sir, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Lola,” Merci called softly to me, “not a word to le deuxième! Promise!”

  Well, the upshot was that I did manage to convince Dr. Koreff to give me some quinine, and tried not to worry about Merci as we made our way to his office. I waited while the little gnome prepared the powder himself. Thank God, for by then I was extremely feverish.

  Emerging from the back room, he directed, “Two teaspoons in a glass of liquid and stir well—wine helps to disguise the bitter taste.” Then he handed over the large sachet of medicine. “Take one teaspoon every day even when you feel better, for—as you’re aware—the malaria sits in your system, waiting.” I turned to go. “Did you know?” he added, as I paused, clutching the doorknob. “Quinine is the ground bark of the cinchona trees, in South America.” What’s he going on about, I thought, head spinning. “Known as Jesuit’s bark; they first brought it to Europe. Luckily for you.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, doctor?”

  I managed to get myself back to my apartment, take the medicine and fall into bed, where I had the most nauseating dreams. One moment I was in the arms of my new beloved, Henri Dujarier, as he cradled me in the street, and the next, that great selfish lump of a famous man was mumbling that he had a block. And what’s the remedy? To scratch his itch on the woman he knows is his son’s favourite! “I had a block”—so Merci is to be crumpled and ravaged—no, worse!—to be used, like an enema, to get the shit moving again! Blood boiling, I tossed and turned against the pillows. I was worried for her. How dared he believe this was a reasonable way to behave, to either Merci Duplessis, or to his son. Oh, Dumas was vile in my eyes!

  When I finally woke, hours later, feeling a little better but very shaky, I opened the papers to get my latest fix—of The Count of Monte Cristo. Damn him.

  *

  During this whole time, although I’d been trying very hard, there were no dancing gigs for me on the horizon. The bad press I’d received at the Paris Opéra had closed those doors. What else could I do to make some money? I wracked my brains, I wrote lists and scratched them out. As a whole month passed, as spring began to turn into summer, I felt as if I was being lulled, in a sense, into the decadent world of the courtesan, and I adamantly didn’t want that. Eugène had been sponsoring me, yes, and I was grateful, but I knew I must end it, for Henri’s sake. I had ended it, in fact, and Eugène had shrugged, “Whatever you wish,” but why had I still not heard from Henri? I had no idea what might have gone wrong. Just thinking about it, my headstrong anger would rise—oh, I should give him a blast!—and I’d quell it again. I didn’t dare to risk losing a chance for Henri to be mine: I wanted it more than anything. I could wait, I told myself. I would wait. Though as time continued to slip sideways and still I didn’t hear from him… Eugène would spot me a dinner, and…

  Well, I was young and, I admit, very foolish. We didn’t sleep together often, just sometimes—usually when the wine had flowed more than usual. One night I had the shock I needed to wake me up to what I’d been doing by just doing nothing. Eugène had gotten me quite drunk on champagne and we’d been laughing about the Parisian snobs who’d disapproved of my dancing. I was feeling larkish, and at one point, kicked my leg into the air, grasped the heel, and repeated the pose I’d performed at the Opéra.

  “Do it naked,” Eugène had drawled, sucking on his cigar.

  Well, I suppose I did. I flung off my chemise and everything else, then threw up the leg to the level of my shoulder, put the tip of my toes against the wall and inclined my torso down towards the floor, balancing, with palm flat on the carpet.

  “What a sight,” he exclaimed, getting on his knees to take a closer look. I could hardly claim to have felt shy, but at this, I did begin to wonder. The evening was taking a different turn; what was he up to?

  “Can you stand again and turn, round and round, with your leg up?”

  “I might fall over,” I laughed.

  “Try.”

  I managed a few turns, I think. He had a large mirror in the bedroom, standing against the wall, and we then took various attitudes in front of it, as men holding female dancers in ballets, and so on—with Eugène, also naked, and stiff as a broomstick all the while, coldly observational throughout. I wasn’t very keen on that, and tried to make him more playful, but he was regarding our reflections in an intensely serious manner, almost chillingly so. I didn’t know what he wanted; I’d drunk too much champagne to be able to stop him or shift his mood.

  When he got bored, he went to the wardrobe and pulled out a leather belt with fifty or so peacock feathers attached to it. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but he seemed insistent, so I let him strap it around my hips. Then I really did feel like a peacock: it was heavy, and it rattled, and only looked fine if I was kneeling on the bed and the feathers stood high. I did so, and then he had more fun than I did, even though I usually like this position almost more than any other. On this night, though, I disliked both Eugène and myself. Intensely. He’d reached through the fan of feathers to twist my hair into a rope, and using this as reins, he rode me hard, centaur-fashion. It was rough—not in a sensually rough way, by consensus, but in the way of a man enjoying erotic sensations at the expense of the other.

  “Get this thing off me, Eugène, will you?” I said, finally, once he’d come with a bellow, released my hair, and pulled away.

  After a moment, he undid the buckle and the belt dropped to the sheets. “You look splendid in them,” he said. “Better than the bird.”

  “I should hope so, since they’re bloody prickly.”

  “Here I’d hoped that I’d be the one with the bloody prick. You certainly yelled your head off—didn’t you like it?”

  “No, as a matter of fact.” I was almost spitting. “Couldn’t you tell? Or didn’t you care?”

  It was like two tigers clashing, and I was surprised to find myself vibrating with barely-repressed fury.

  “God, I’m exhausted,” he laughed, falling back upon the mattress, throwing his arms behind his head and shaking the rails of the bed in sudden jubilation. “My story’s finally up and running, Lulu, in serialization—have you seen it?”

  I began pulling on my chemise. “Don’t call me that; it’s demeaning and stupid. And it’s not who I am.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, it’s a sign of affection.”

  “I disagree.”

  He reached under the bed and pulled out a newspaper, opened to the page. “It started today. I’ll run it for months.”

  I read the title, Le Juif Errant. “I’m happy for you,” I said. “Why hadn’t you told me about it?”

  “I was busy, it slipped my mind. What does it matter?” He slumped back and lay flat.

  I read and read. Beside me, Eugène fell asleep, his breathing slow and regular, not a care in the world. There were several chapters. The candle began burning down, and I read on. I couldn’t believe it; my mouth was dropping open. Finally, I threw the paper onto the floor and jabbed him violently in the ribs.

  “You’ve stolen this!”

  “What the—?” His eyes flew open, bewildered.

  “You’ve stolen my life!” I punched his chest, and it wasn’t a love slap.

  “Are you crazy?” As he rolled away, “what the hell are you—?”

  “Your villain’s a Jesuit!”

  “All Jesuits are villains, don’t be ridiculous!” He was shaking his head to clear the sleep.

  “You stole it, you stole the ideas!”

  “Nobody owns t
he Jesuits, Lola, and certainly not you. I can do what I want.”

  “You bastard, you fucker!”

  By this point I was back on my feet, realizing that words couldn’t hurt him—he’d simply deflect them. So I strode to the fireplace, picked up and threw one of his precious objets d’art. It struck the wall, broke with a clatter.

  “Jesus! What the fuck—?”

  I threw another one, which shattered in a satisfying cascade of shards.

  “Stop it, you—! Merde, I don’t have a sweet clue what you think I’ve done!”

  “¡Cabrón! ¡Bastardo!”

  He launched himself off the bed and grabbed my upper arm, hard. We stared into each other’s eyes, teeth bared.

  “Break one more thing, you vixen, and I’ll break you.”

  He’d do it, too, I thought.

  “Let me tell you something,” he added, with more passion than at any other point in the evening, “Alex Dumas wouldn’t be having the fucking success he’s having if he hadn’t stolen from me. Les Mystères de Paris inspired his publisher to say to Alex, ‘Turn the drab, historical manuscript you’re labouring over into a sensational adventure tale, like Eugène Sue’s.’ He’d never done it before, wasn’t sure he could. But look at him now! Count of fucking Monte Cristo himself—king of the fairy tales!” He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, hard. “We all do it. Steal like magpies. It’s part of the game, dear, didn’t you know?”