Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  From Henri I was learning all the inside details about the serialization wars and how much money was involved, for the writers, for the publishers; it was a huge and lucrative business. Newspaper subscribers devoured the daily feuilletons, and every paper jostled violently to secure the favoured authors. This I already knew, of course—secretly and shamefacedly having partaken in The Three Musketeers, and ongoing with The Count of Monte Cristo, in my role as addicted reader. I’d now also added Eugène’s Le Juif Errant to the mix, blast him, though I continued to feel violated by the man himself, as well as by his snatching part of my story. He’d woven a duo of Jesuit villains into his fiction. But never mind, I told myself. Look where you are and what luck you’ve found, with Henri. You’re safe; you’re loved! And you’re in love, with the sweetest, smartest man in the world!

  And he really was smart. I was actually in awe of Henri’s mind, his abilities. Just at that time, he’d had the brilliant idea of lowering La Presse’s subscription rates and upping the amount the advertisers paid. This increased revenues substantially on both sides—for La Presse, and for the advertisers—because subscribers leapt in great numbers to sign up at the lower price. Everyone was a winner! Of course, Henri’s banking background helped, but it was more than that. Henri was truly a virtuoso of finance.

  And how he loved his work! He was level-headed and very organized. He had just instigated a larger format for the paper, too, so it was easier to read. There were exclusive contracts to negotiate with writers, there were jealousies and rivalries on almost every front—to say nothing of the huge vanities he had to deal with, some of them belonging to his closest friends.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got against him, Lola,” Henri remarked one evening, after seeing me throw the latest installment of Monte Cristo against the wall. We were sitting all cosy in front of a fire; my feet were tucked under me, Henri’s rested on a footstool in his stocking feet. Very domestic of us. “That crazy quartet in Musketeers was hilarious. He makes us laugh, on the one hand, and with Monte Cristo, he has us on the edge of our seats.”

  “I’ve told you the things he’s said to me,” I answered.

  “But, sweetheart, he’s brilliant! Perhaps at times he speaks harshly or off the cuff, but when you get to know him, he’s the dearest fellow.”

  “Everyone says that! I’ve never seen it.”

  “He’ll grow to love you, when he knows that you’re mine and I’m yours. He’ll behave himself then. I agree he can be naughty to beautiful young women.”

  “Naughty? Nasty.” I flung my hair back over my shoulder and let out a huff.

  “Lola, listen to me in my capacity as a businessman.”

  That made me smile, as he knew it would.

  He leaned towards me confidingly, the glow from the fire brightening his features. “Alexandre Dumas has discovered the secret formula to cranking out stories, day in and day out, and those stories are not just pap. They’re intensely gripping, or truly diverting—and sometimes both. That is unbelievably difficult to sustain and undeniably a sign of genius, in my mind. I only wish that Girardin had allowed me to secure him, for one or the other of those books, for La Presse. But—and I shouldn’t be telling you this, because it’s not quite set in stone yet—I think I’ve managed to get him for us, for a new one—say nothing to anyone!” He seemed very excited, agitating his hair so that it stood up in mad crescents.

  “Hmph.” (Again.)

  “I tell you, on a personal note, Alex would do anything pour un ami; he is generous and sentimental, lovingly kind. I consider him my best friend, Lola.”

  Oh, merde. I wanted to get off this subject; I was sick of it.

  “His temper is quick, it’s true,” Henri continued. “I think he suffers sometimes from slurs against his background—he’s mixed race, you know. His paternal grandmother was from San Domingo. His soldier father died when Alex was only four—some miscarriage of justice from his military days in Napoleon’s army, I believe—and Alex was raised by his seamstress mother. He’s dragged himself up by his own bootstraps and it’s made him somewhat prickly.”

  Now this I found interesting. It made me wonder about the big swashbuckling character, Porthos, in Musketeers. Was it a portrait of a father Dumas had never known? Did he write in order to remember, and was it comforting? Did the irritating man actually have a soft spot, a place where he too was vulnerable?

  Henri added softly, “He’s been called many names in the press, not all of them kind. You must understand how much that stings, sweetheart, and how it makes you want to lash out.”

  I nodded—that was very true. And I, of all people, should understand a quick temper. I thought for a moment, then said, “I’ve been told he employs other, younger writers, and they write most of his books for him.”

  “Oh no, no,” Henri protested. “That’s a vicious rumour. Yes, he has a few trusted collaborators who research the time period, the historical personages, and they may provide a story outline, maybe the sketching of scenes—but never fear, without Alex’s dramatic flair and passionate ability to flesh out his characters, those books would be nothing. Everything important in them? It’s all Alex.”

  Henri slid off his own chair and onto mine, tucking himself in tightly against me. His lips found my cheek, and then my forehead. “Sweet Lola, I tell you, you and Alex will become great friends. Ah!” he remonstrated, as I tried to pull away. “You carry a chip on your shoulder, my love. Don’t. Let it go. Enjoy the excitement of learning from great people rather than wasting your talents on jealousy. I should know, I see it all the time. You artistic people are far too volatile, and it can warp you out of all true alignment.” His kisses were calming my (I’ll admit it) inflamed opinions. Deep down, I knew he was right. I didn’t wish to be the kind of person he’d outlined. Should I give Alexandre Dumas one more chance, I wondered?

  “Let’s enjoy life, darling. We’re invited to Alex’s for one of his famous dinners—he’s the chef and he cooks for dozens. A mid-December feast, two weeks from now.”

  Triple merde, and mierda.

  *

  So off we duly went, by railway carriage, to a little town called Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where Dumas maintained a country residence. The carriage seemed to be full of boisterous artistic types all headed for the same place; only half an hour away, the writer was still extremely accessible to all his friends and acquaintances. I heard one fellow telling his group that Dumas’ son, Alex II, had warned his father that if he left Paris to seek peace and quiet to write, Paris would come and find him. “And so we have!” The group laughed uproariously and agreed. I was happy to see Pier-Angelo amongst the guests, and Eugène and I courteously kissed cheeks three times. For politeness’ sake. I spied Beauvallon sitting with another dark and ominous-looking blade.

  “Do you know them?” I whispered to my love.

  “Absolutely—they’re the competition. First rate men, though quick to temper. On the left is Jean-Baptiste Rosemond de Beaupin de Beauvallon, drama critic of Le Globe. And beside him is his brother-in-law, Granier de Cassagnac, the paper’s editor.” Henri leaned in closer and said into my ear, “Cassagnac used to work for me at La Presse—still owes me a lot of money, personally. He borrowed it, then used it to finance his own paper. No question, he can be belligerent. They’re from the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe, which is interesting, don’t you think?”

  When we arrived at the station, batches of us were carried off in Dumas’ landau to his residence in a huge, sprawling place called the Villa Medici, a part of which he was renting. Henri had told me Dumas was having a chateau built nearby and the costs kept rocketing upwards, but the writer would shrug and sign away another fifty thousand francs without blinking. My mind boggled.

  I was really very nervous, I must say. This was my first real outing—back into the turbulent demi-monde—since the fateful day of Olympe’s salon and the hideous death of the young girl, Merci’s sister. What would Paris make of me on Henri’s arm? Would
Olympe be there? As we stepped down from the landau onto the pea-gravelled circular drive, I took hold of myself and grasped Henri’s warm arm even more tightly. I knew that I was looking fine, thanks to my darling. I was wearing a demure but expensive diamond necklace (how I love diamonds!) to set off the ones in my ears. My dress was robin’s egg blue in silk and velvet—my favourite combination. I had a matching muff to keep my hands warm, and a luxurious dark blue cape against the cold. Henri was also looking his best in a mustard waistcoat, aubergine frockcoat, and his trademark, slim-fitting trousers (yum). We looked marvellous together, I knew it. And so did he.

  Alexandre Dumas welcomed us all effusively, waving us in and commenting loudly about everyone’s business. He was wearing one of his customarily overblown waistcoats—this one in a loud mélange of many colours—and he was covered in trinkets of various kinds: earrings, pins, and long fob chain. Overtop of all that sat an apron, liberally splashed with bits of goo and sauce and hand-prints of flour.

  “Welcome, welcome all!” he bellowed. “Wednesday night gatherings have hereby transformed into Saint-Germain Sundays, when the work of the week is done and we can imbibe with gusto!”

  A cheer went up from his doting friends. Nothing warms the heart of an artist as much as free food and drink.

  I looked about at the gathering, grouped around tables in the large foyer, all with glasses in hand and nibbles nearby. There was Alex fils and Merci—seeming thinner than ever, she was a mere stick. Dr. Koreff was lurking in a corner like a living toadstool. Pier-Angelo had already grabbed two glasses of wine and was making a move on one of the courtesans I hadn’t met but had heard about (he’d told me he would broach her sooner or later, so I guessed he’d decided that sooner was now). And, swanning her way across the room, there was George.

  Dumas grabbed his fellow writer’s shoulders and kissed her four times, from cheek to cheek and back again. “George! Mon bon ami, et bonne amie!” and everyone laughed again at his joke, while George looked pleased. Eugène headed over to join the two, so I turned away (I hoped he wasn’t about to say nasty things about me)—and, not ten feet from me, I saw a sight that chilled my blood. Marie d’Agoult! There she was, oh mon Dieu, what to do now? She was speaking animatedly with a rumpled looking middle-aged man and a lavishly attired woman in a hat with many feathers. Franz Liszt was nowhere in sight—and then I remembered that he was touring the Iberian Peninsula to escape from the woman and her disturbances. I gripped Henri’s arm fiercely, gave it a tug.

  “Henri, please! I must get out of here!”

  He looked about and immediately realized the source of my consternation. “Lola, no. Now or never, it’s a small circle and you must brave it. Come.”

  Oh, shite, and gobshite! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, be with me!

  The tall, stately woman glanced over as we approached. Her face allowed itself a stiff smile, her eyes fixed on Henri. She held out her hand and my love bent to kiss it. I could hardly breathe, there, tucked in to his other side.

  “Monsieur Dujarier,” she purred. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”

  “And for me as well, Countess d’Agoult, it is wonderful to see you,” answered Henri, gallantly. “Now,” and he looked at me with his toffee eyes and gave me a small, reassuring wink, “may I introduce mon chérie, Mademoiselle Lola Montez.”

  The ice cold eyes stabbed me briefly, then looked away. “We have met.” The air around us seemed to have been sucked from the room.

  The woman in the feathers began to speak animatedly, oblivious to the atmosphere. “Marie has finished her novel, Henri! And it’s delicious; it will be sensational! You really must consider it for La Presse or someone else will snatch it up.”

  “Mm, yes,” Henri murmured, smiling at the two women.

  “Émile tells me that it’s not his decision, it’s yours, is that true?” the feathered woman persisted. The rumpled man was staring at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s called Nélida, and the countess’ nom de plume is, I think, sheer genius! Everyone will know, but no one will be able to prove it! You’ll sell millions!”

  Henri was shifting now at the woman’s pushiness. “Delphine, this is not the time nor the place.”

  “I’ve been telling her that,” the rumpled man muttered.

  Henri took this opportunity to introduce me to him. “Lola, this is my partner and co-owner of La Presse, the great Émile de Girardin. Lola Montez.”

  The man took my hand and bowed over it. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  “And this lovely apparition,” Henri continued, smiling at the lady in feathers, “is Émile’s wife, poetess Delphine Gay. A genius in her own right.”

  Everyone relaxed and enjoyed these declarations except the tall blonde, whose nostrils were flaring—almost imperceptibly, but I could see it. I needed to get out of range, the situation was dire. I tugged at Henri’s arm again.

  “My dears,” Henri said, “we will continue this at another time and place, I have no doubt? And now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  We moved away (thank God and all his minions!) and as we did so, I saw George smirking away to herself, eyes upon us.

  At almost the same moment, Dumas returned from the kitchens (I presumed) and began waving a grease-laden wooden spoon in the air, declaiming, “I’ve decided! I cannot keep it in a moment longer! I hope I have your blessings, Émile and Henri, but if not it doesn’t matter. I am signed, sealed and—almost—delivered!”

  “What?” everyone asked, “What has happened, Alex?”

  “I’m signed to another book—this one with La Presse. It’s replacing Balzac’s. Les Paysans has been boring the customers right at the crucial point when they should be renewing their subscriptions, so it’s been dropped! Who wants to read about the hardships of peasants?”

  Henri was looking extremely alarmed. “Alex, for God’s sake,” he called out, but Dumas was charging onwards.

  “So I’ll have another one on the go! Starting in a week! Look for La Reine Margot, in serialization in La Presse! But now! Come eat!”

  And he turned on his heel, splattering grease everywhere, oblivious to the quiet oaths and glaring looks that were ricocheting amongst his guests.

  *

  Dinner continued at this break-neck speed; I was sure it would end in a collision of some description and found myself almost holding my breath. We were seated near Beauvallon and Cassagnac; Beauvallon kept trying to catch my eye, but I steered clear. Pier-Angelo was sitting opposite us, which was nice; Alex fils, Merci and the squat doctor were nearby. Dumas’ wife, Ida Ferrier, was beside Dumas at the head of the table, but she looked decidedly out of sorts—as well as perceptibly fatter than ever. She’d always been fat—she certainly had been large when I’d first seen her, two years before—but now she was enormous, and didn’t seem happy inside her skin. Her eyes were red and it appeared that she had been crying.

  Servants brought in trays loaded with meat, Dumas introducing it all by declaiming, “Dig in, mes amis! My dindon à la Sainte Menehould is made from only the right legs of the turkey—the left leg is too tough, because that’s the one they use to scratch themselves with!”

  A roar of laughter went up at this, and then tous les artistes dug in with the gusto that Dumas demanded.

  Once the first fury of chewing and consuming started to slow down, the stories began—of course, led by Dumas. He couldn’t help himself; he simply had to be the source, the centre of the evening. And poor Ida seemed to be the bait.

  “No, no! Roger, mon ami, can vouch for me—it was uproarious!” The writer’s voice was climbing in volume. I’d noticed that he never drank spirits, so that couldn’t have been the reason—no, it was simply the man himself, uninfluenced but immoderate. “Ida, as most of you know, has an Italian lover—a count! He’s very handy. In the good days, we shared her. Now I don’t want her.” Ida whacked Dumas, but he fenced the blow and put her hand aside. “She’s going to leave me for him, she’s promised. The sooner the better. I need
to trade her in for a young one—any takers?”

  “Oh God, Merci, here he goes again,” moaned Alex fils. Merci downed another glass of champagne; her eyes were beginning to glitter, her body to sway.

  “But let me tell the story!” Dumas resumed. “Roger and Ida were in bed together one afternoon—God’s truth! Before she got so damned fat!—and I came home.”

  The friend, who was Roger de Beauvoir (so Henri told me, in my ear), began to roll his eyes, and reached over to pat Ida’s shoulder.

  “I came home,” said Dumas, “entered the bedroom, and she was sitting there with the sheets pulled up, looking guilty as hell.”

  My heart jolted at this, remembering myself in the same position. I glanced down the table at Marie d’Agoult, whose baleful eyes were fixed upon me. Fuck a flaming duck à l’orange!

  “So of course I knew,” Dumas was continuing, “and it was a cold day, sometime in the winter. I crawled under the covers with my dear wife, let the fire burn down, wouldn’t let her out of bed… The room grew colder and colder. And finally he had to give in! Roger peeked out of the closet, teeth chattering like icicles in a breeze. He started to sneeze uncontrollably. So I said to him, ‘Roger, you idiot, get in here before you catch your death!’ Soon we were all tucked up together, with a fire raging, sleeping happily!”

  “It’s all true, God help me,” Beauvoir concurred, tears of merriment running down his cheeks.

  Hailstones of laughter! Gusts and waves of hilarity rippled around the table. Poor Ida was crying and shaking her head, covering her eyes.