Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  He shoved me away, turned his naked back and grabbed up his wine glass, still half full. Then, glancing over at the clock on the mantel, he took me completely unaware.

  “I’ve another woman waiting downstairs, told her to come up at midnight. That’s now. I’m celebrating—two at once is my favourite treat, and she’s game. She’s very game. I’ve got a number of little things planned. Handfuls of coins are a feature: what a capacious woman can do with them. You don’t mind, do you? You can keep what you manage to keep inside. Are you game?”

  I just looked at him.

  “It’s over, Eugène.”

  “It certainly is.”

  *

  By then, the summer was sizzling, and poised to begin its tumble into fall. I couldn’t believe it. My life seemed, once again, to be moving in useless, treacly circles. Paris, beautiful in springtime and early summer, becomes hot and cranky in the intense heat. Tempers flare, jealousies are stoked and burn with quiet ferocity. I was feeling again such a sense of despair, not eating much—not able to afford much, truth be told. I feared my swiftly-ignited love for Henri Dujarier would never be returned. I feared that perhaps he’d heard I’d still been with Eugène after we’d made our pledge in the carriage, and I cursed myself with tearful lamentation. What kind of morally flabby, stupid young woman was I, anyway? But Henri had a courtesan, so wasn’t that…? I’m not a courtesan, my thoughts would protest—and besides, he was breaking it off with Olympe so that he could come to me! But where is he, after all this time—what has happened? The waiting was truly killing me. I decided that somehow, even if it proved me to be too bold, I had to take matters into my own hands, find out once and for all how things stood. Had he changed his mind? Was I—after all this time—only imagining his love?

  Merci, meanwhile, was becoming thinner and more transparent with each week’s passing. In my opinion, she was relying on Dr. Koreff far too much, and drinking far too much as well. She wouldn’t consider going to another specialist—Koreff was a kind of god to her. She told me his medicines gave her courage. Alex fils had found out about his father’s dalliance with Merci on the “I have a block” afternoon and had gone insane about it, raving and pushing his beloved around, even landing a blow which left a black eye and caused her to hide out for over a week while the mark went away. As if she didn’t have enough woes without that. I was beginning to wonder whether all men were brutes at the core, but couldn’t bear to dwell on this possibility.

  And, as if to underscore that conjecture, Dumas’ Musketeers finished up with a bang: the trio of Musketeers and D’Artagnan brought about the death of the female antagonist, the beautiful Milady—by having her beheaded! Beheaded? My God, it was vindictive, and shocking. And sold out immediately. It gave me the shudders. What was the world coming to, I wondered.

  To settle my jitters over the silence of Henri (and my dreadfully lean pocketbook), at the beginning of August I asked Monsieur Grisier whether he’d consider giving me private instruction in the use of the rapier and the use of the sabre. I imagined it would be fun, and good exercise—and, well, why not? I needed to burn off some steam. Pier-Angelo, the Italian journalist, was becoming a friend and, when I mentioned the idea to him, said he’d “adore” to stand in as my opponent in practice sessions. I warned him I wouldn’t go to bed with him, at which he laughed and shrugged.

  “Once you see my willingness and agility, Lola, who knows? Oh, yes, and my excellent thrusts and parries.”

  “I’m serious, Pier. I’m just telling you, that’s not part of it.”

  “Very well.” A big pout of his big lips. “But once you realize—”

  “And you’d better be careful,” I smiled in return. “I always have this.” Small enough to remain unnoticed, for each dress I had made or altered, a slim pocket was created in the waistband for me to hide my little switchblade in. I drew it forth for him, then slipped it back.

  “How frightfully Italian of you!” Pier-Angelo joked. “Actually, you know, I’ve never used a knife nor a rapier in my life, only pistols. As a Parisian hack, though, paid to have opinions, perhaps I’d better become proficient with all possible weapons, and let it be known. I don’t wish to be called to the field again, early one morning.” He shivered. “Dreadful thing, duelling. It’s why I left Italy, why I left acting. Don’t know what comes over one… Leaving a man dead as a stoat, for some sort of twisted male pride, or trophy-keeping. It’s crazy.” Then he flashed me a red-lipped grin. “Ah well.”

  So Grisier instructed us in the back room of Lepage’s Shooting Gallery. We parried and thrust on Wednesday mornings and had a grand time. Pier-Angelo was gentleman enough, too, to pay for my lessons—and Grisier gave us a discount, because I was game and (I suppose) it was a novelty to be teaching a young woman, whose bodice was low and whose legs and arms were strong and shapely.

  On one of our mornings, the door opened and jaunty Beauvallon came in to see what was happening. He considered himself a good friend of master Grisier, and he’d heard a rumour that there was a woman within who was learning another of the skills at which he excelled. A second challenge to his arrogance? I certainly didn’t intend it to be, so I decided to ignore the fellow.

  “Of course,” he called out, “I should have known it would be you, Mademoiselle Montez.”

  Grisier smiled, his small greying mustache bristling as he did so. “She’s getting quite good.”

  Pier-Angelo had stopped our practice and was very still. “Don’t be drawn, Lola,” he murmured.

  Beauvallon stepped towards me, twirling a lock of his long, chestnut hair between his fingers and licking me from head to toe with his eyes. “Last time we met here I said I would never fight a woman. I believe that, now, I’ve changed my mind. Will you fight me?”

  “I’m not ready yet,” I told him, chin high. This barefaced aggression had taken me by surprise. Why was he doing this?

  “Why aren’t you dancing anymore, mademoiselle?” he continued. “I’ve been waiting to see you again on the boards. As you may know, I’m drama critic for Le Globe—and I need some drama to critique. Can you not supply me with a little drama?”

  Pier-Angelo was shifting nervously beside me. “Rosemond,” he admonished, “why don’t you stop now? You’ve made your point, whatever it is.”

  “No, I know what it is,” Beauvallon said, coming very close and tilting my chin up with an index finger so that I had to look directly into his dark brown eyes. “You can’t get another gig; no one will take you. Pity. But I will—take you, that is. No time like the present—what about coming off with me now? A steamy afternoon between the sheets? I hear you’re good for it.”

  Eugène, the bastard—what else had he been blabbing? I dropped my weapon to the floor and slapped Beauvallon hard. “I will not. Now leave me alone.”

  His eyes blazed with fury, before settling again into an insolent stare. He didn’t react to the welt that I could see coming up on his cheekbone. Oh merde en double, I thought. These men, so touchy!—how can I defuse it?

  “That’s enough, Rosemond,” Grisier said. “I will not allow this in my gallery; you know the rules better than anyone. Shame on you, man.”

  “I’ll go,” the fighting cock replied. But before he did, he leaned towards me and added deliberately, “Didn’t you know? Dujarier’s been warned by everyone to break off his interest in you. So if you’re saving yourself for him—” (what an ugly sneer!) “—then you’re wasting your time. And mine. Á bientôt.”

  He swirled away, the door banged behind him, and Pier-Angelo let out a pent-up whistle of relief. Grisier picked up my rapier, shaking his head, and with some reluctance he finished our lesson. I left that day, furious about everything—God dammit! Bunch of turd-balls, the stinking sack of them! Am I always to be some little pawn in their infernal chess game of aggrandisement, of sexual gratification? Leave me alone! And Dujarier? Was he such a coward that he’d left me dangling instead of telling me directly? I’d find him, I decided, and gi
ve the handsome, heartless gentleman a piece of my mind!

  As we parted at the door of my building, Pier-Angelo told me that Henri Dujarier went riding in the early morning hours every day of his life, and that his favourite route was through the Bois de Boulogne. For that, I gave Pier’s apple-red cheek a kiss and headed inside. Behind me, I knew that a vivid blush would be climbing into his receding hairline.

  *

  The next day at dawn, I made my way to the nearest stables, hired their most spirited saddle-horse and had him accoutred in their showiest tackle. Then the grey gelding and I headed out at a gallop.

  The Bois de Boulogne is an enormous forest on the western edge of Paris near the 16th arrondissement. It contains riding allées and luxurious fields, and although in the not-so-recent past it had been the haunt of bandits and therefore not a safe forest to find oneself in, by the time I was living in the city, the Bois had become both a favourite place to ride, and the usual spot for duelling at dawn. Because of its immensity, duellists could choose a particular field from dozens of options and get their business over with before the police could find them. Duelling, after all, was illegal—though unfortunately this hadn’t stopped it from happening with alarming regularity. The edge of the Bois was also the site of the Jockey Club and its race track, so sporting gentlemen and others were very familiar with its amenities.

  Once inside the forest, I cantered along the wide packed-dirt path, enjoying the relative coolness of the leafy canopy. It was a fine morning, I was on a fine horse and knew I was looking in peak condition in my form-fitting amazon riding outfit and jaunty hat with its veil. I am coming, Henri Dujarier, I thought. We will meet ‘accidentally’—and you’d better give me an adequate explanation.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what path he might take, and was growing a bit apprehensive after a half hour’s ride. What if I missed him? What if he was on exactly the opposite trajectory through the trees? Occasionally I stopped to listen for hoof-beats, but there were very few other horsemen around. An amiably rotund gent paused to try to engage me in conversation and flirtation, but I simply smiled at him and cantered onwards.

  There was one particular grove of trees that seemed to repel all of the light that sparkled and glistened through the other glades. I remembered having passed it once before, and realized I must have ridden in a full circle. My usual lack of direction, at work as always, I thought. I always joked that I couldn’t find my way out of a hatbox, but it is a very annoying trait, in truth. As I rode towards the dark grove this second time, a part of my mind noted its murk and wondered why that might be. My horse became skittish suddenly, bouncing and bucking with nerves. I pulled him up short, stroking his neck. “Never mind, my beauty, let’s carry on, shall we?” As I urged him onwards, I spied another horse—a black one—standing in the centre of the grove, harnessed to a black cabriolet with its hood up. The occupant or occupants could not be seen. I rode past, trying not to stare into the interior: was it a courting couple, wishing for privacy? Or something else? At that very moment, a hand encased in a black glove and with a black sleeve shot into view, cracking a whip. As the whip touched its flank, the black horse snorted and charged out of the undergrowth, straight towards me. Completely startled, I yelled, “Have a care, do you not see me here?” My horse reared and took off, racing ahead of the vehicle. We galloped along at breakneck speed, and, although not frightened exactly, I was angry at the brainless driver’s negligence, and determined to tell him off severely! I was urging my horse towards the side of the path, about to let loose a string of salty reprimands, when—off in the distance, but drawing steadily nearer—I caught a glimpse of the one I’d been searching for on a white horse.

  What is it about the particular shape of the one you crave that you can recognize from afar—even when you haven’t seen him for ages and he’s astride a mount that you don’t yet know? He was sauntering along on horseback, enjoying the morning sun.

  Just as I registered who and what I was seeing, the black horse and cab passed at a mad pace! It almost clipped us, causing my horse to rear again and myself to brace energetically to stay aboard the cursed side-saddle. I could see the shape of two figures inside; one seemed to be struggling to take the reins away from the other. The horse and vehicle with its battling occupants tore off down the road past the approaching rider, then disappeared around the corner through another grove of trees.

  Henri, looking alarmed, had ridden towards me to help—and then was relieved to see me bringing my horse under control; he reined his lovely mount a few feet away, and touched his hat, gallantly. And there we were, at last. It was as if time stopped; I forgot immediately about the reckless half-wits in the black cab. In the middle of the Bois, with the sun burning the last wisps of mist from the ground, there was Henri Dujarier, before my eyes: handsome, real, and longed for.

  At first he seemed flustered, and very formal. “Mademoiselle Montez, you are an excellent horsewoman—are you quite unhurt?”

  “Indeed, Monsieur Dujarier.” I matched his formality with my own, heart in my throat with dread. My horse continued to skitter and dance and I danced along with him, reining him gently but firmly. Finally, both of the animals nodded their heads, pulling at their reins and snorting, then my grey gelding settled.

  We made comments about this and that, and then—I couldn’t help it—I simply had to know.

  “You were warned away from me again, and this time you listened to them—is that what has happened?” My heart was hammering now like a drum.

  “Yes,” Henri said, “it is.” And oh! I was devastated! How could he have told me that he wasn’t one to listen to what others say! He had lied!

  “My mother…” he added, then paused. “Finally, it is because of my mother. Well, this is the way it has gone, mademoiselle… Lola… Please, let me try to explain.” He looked away, I suppose to gather his thoughts, and my eyes raked his beautiful appearance, from his sculpted cheeks to his form-fitting trousers, on this day a vivid mustard colour, oh God…

  “I have been engaged to a young woman for half a year,” he finally said. “It is public knowledge, the banns were published… She is the daughter of my father’s colleague. It is awkward; my mother wishes the marriage very much. I do not.” His face became filled with sorrow. “I cause my mother great pain. We lost my father to illness last year, and…”

  “Oh! Oh, no…” This I hadn’t known. But I could imagine how difficult it would be to go against the wishes of a beloved relative, and one who has just recently lost the love of her own life. This was terrible…

  “Yes, it is very unfortunate.”

  I reached out to touch his cheek, softly. What was I going to do? I couldn’t imagine life stretching ahead without knowing this lovely man. He took my hand in his and kissed the palm—such a sensuous feeling! Perhaps all was not lost? Then our horses moved apart a bit further and he had to let go of me. I’m certain we both had the same unhappy look on our faces, filtering through our bones and into our spirits, as our hands parted. That’s when—thinking as one and without further words—we suddenly turned the horses off the track and rode deeper into the woods. Over a small rise and into a hollow we went; there we dismounted, dropped the reins, and fell together into an embrace, kissing and murmuring sad endearments. I didn’t know what was going to happen; in truth, I was terrified. Was he about to tell me goodbye forever? I couldn’t bear it. His arms felt so good, his body so warm, and his kisses were completely enthralling. I have no idea how much time passed in that embrace, but inevitably—merci to our instincts, gracias for our bodies—the sadness began to shift to another emotion. Our breath came more rapidly, our mouths opened wider as we drank each other in. He drew me over to a massive oak, and we sat beneath it. There, we found our voices again, in contemplation of each other’s perfection; we spoke sweet words of wonderment.

  “You are so beautiful, Lola. So splendid…”

  “And you—oh, at last, at last.”

  “I don’t
know what I was thinking—I suppose I was trying not to think.”

  “I’ve been waiting so long, Henri—I knew something must have gone wrong. I had to come to find you.”

  “Yes, you did. I would have kept away.”

  “Why, oh why?”

  Soon enough we were clasped in each other’s arms again, there on the ground. Then somehow I was in his lap, and his lips were kissing my throat; I could feel his excitement hard and insistent and beckoning through those well-cut trousers and, oh God, I was in a state of absolute melt. But, though delirium was approaching, there was still too much that needed to be said. Our words rushed headlong:

  “I promised, Lola. I would have to break a promise. Several promises.”

  “But you don’t love her.”

  “You are right, I do not.”

  It was like speaking in code.

  “Do you love me?” I asked him. It popped out before I could restrain the words, I just had to know.

  “I adore you,” he answered. “I cannot stop thinking of you; you are under my skin like no woman I’ve ever dreamt of.”

  Oh mon Dieu, what glory, thank God!

  Amid another storm of kisses and fondlings, we learned more about each other, about what he had been going through. His family had arranged for him to be engaged, earlier that year, to this young woman he didn’t love, and so, after intense and on-going arguments, he had finally broken with them—his mother, his sister and brother-in-law. That was what he’d told me he had to do, to put in order, before we met again. He hoped there could be a reconciliation with his family in the future, but in spite of their pressure, he’d held firm to his resolve.

  “I could never marry without true love.”

  And now, I wondered fearfully—will he believe that he can find it, with me?

  “Then I heard the rumours,” he said. “And I wondered whether you’d been playing with me. Whether I was just another admirer to you. Whether you’d become an Olympe Pelissier—Olympe, whom I have also abandoned, and who hates me for it.”