Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

“But never mind that, dear friends,” Dumas finished, wiping his own eyes from his enjoyment of the tale. “How do you like my dindon?”

  Sounds of approbation from all sides.

  “Good, good. I only wish that I could cook you my favourite delicacy of all time, but it’s almost impossible to acquire.”

  “And what would that be, Alex?” asked Beauvallon, wiping his lips.

  “Elephant trunk. Roasted, with potatoes and parsnips, a smattering of herbs—unbelievably good!”

  “Oh!” I couldn’t help it; I let out a gasp. How dreadful, how appalling.

  He focused upon me like a shot, little squinty eyes all inquisitive, peering down the table towards me. “What’s the matter, mademoiselle?”

  “I love elephants,” I said, as all heads turned towards me. “I grew up around them. They are graceful, intelligent—much more intelligent than we are, I sometimes think. I could never eat them. That is barbaric.” I couldn’t help myself, no matter what he thought of me for it. I shuddered, just thinking of a glorious elephant, being killed so that a gourmand could devour its trunk.

  Beside me, Henri took my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.

  “You are… Who are you?” Dumas asked.

  The Countess d’Agoult’s nostrils looked as if they could cut glass.

  “We are together, Alex,” Henri said with a smile. “Once again, mon ami, meet Mademoiselle Lola Montez, the love of my life. You were too busy when we first arrived to introduce you properly. But don’t forget her again.”

  There was a pause. Merde, what now, I thought. To my left, far down the table, I saw Countess d’Agoult’s face stiffen even further, and felt George’s eyes dart from me to her erstwhile friend. I chanced a glance at Henri’s profile: he was looking at Dumas with an open but challenging expression. Heads were turning back and forth between the two men.

  “Really?” Dumas said, finally. “Well, I see… It’s what I’d heard, but… I hadn’t believed it, Henri.”

  “Do.”

  “Well.” The writer might have been wrestling with himself, but he finally said, “Alors, mademoiselle. I envy you your love of elephants—and of this fine young man, whom I consider almost a son.”

  Alex fils made a quick, contorted motion of distress at this, before Merci was able to calm him.

  “Be good to him,” Dumas continued, “or you will have me as an enemy. I swear it most solemnly.”

  Diablo, this was very harsh! Henri rose, and then raised his glass. “Let us not speak of enemies. Ever.” He looked around at everyone with his affectionate gaze and then back to the writer. “To my dear friend, Alex—I thank you for your love, which I assure you is returned, and I thank you for your hospitality. And now we should return to our dining pleasures, before the dindon gets cold.”

  Around the table, shoulders relaxed and I could hear sighs of relief. The talk moved on and I was enormously glad. I hated being in that big man’s firing range yet again. I whispered into Henri’s ear, “Do you see now? Do you see what I mean?”

  The inevitable red curtain of rage had begun to rise behind my eyes but Henri patted my hand and raised it to his lips. He gave me a loving glance over my fingers. I willed myself to take a deep breath. Henri knows what he’s doing, I reminded myself, and what’s good for us: I am not solo now, I must think as part of a duo. Calm, Lola. I struggled to attain it through the waves of heat churning up through me.

  Just then Pier-Angelo, after downing a large glass of red wine, leaned towards us and said, “Henri, have you heard about this?—if you haven’t, let me propose to you an article about it. Being Italian, I know about these things, from years in Naples and other nefarious places.”

  “What things, dear fellow?” Henri asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a cult—seems to be a cult, or a brotherhood. Call themselves a brethren, I think. Quite disturbing. Preys on young, impressionable men—well, I say ‘preys,’ but perhaps that’s not the right word. Actually, the literal prey seems to be young women.”

  I felt the hair at the back of my neck begin to prickle, as some of what he’d been saying filtered past my agitation. “What—what was that?” I asked.

  “Pier was speaking about a group of odd brethren,” Henri told me.

  “What do you mean, Pier?” I demanded.

  “Well, this cult, or whatever it is—it’s hard to decipher—believes that our way of life is wrong, is hedonistic. That it’s fueled by drunken debauchery and loose women. That it’s weakening our moral fibre as men, as nations. Ridiculous.” Pier laughed, then continued more soberly, “It’s spreading like wildfire amongst certain susceptible men—Alex’s son there being one of them.” We glanced over: Alex fils had his eyes closed and hands linked piously in his lap. Merci, beside him, was downing yet another glass of champagne. Pier-Angelo continued, “Seems to have started in Spain, spread through Prussia and some parts of Germany last year, and now—somehow—it’s coming here.”

  My blood suddenly ran cold, a shiver jolting through me like a bolt of lightning. “Through Spain? And this is a cult?” I asked, extremely alarmed. “Do you know any more? Is it… Could it be…” I could barely speak the word. “…A society?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Pier-Angelo mused. “I only know that its appearance amongst us does not bode well. For us—or for our ladies.”

  “But what are these—this brotherhood—what are they proposing?” I quavered.

  “I’m not sure about that either. But I imagine… well, to stop us?”

  I was shocked beyond all expression; I could feel that my face had gone as white as a sheet. A cult against loose women? Against a liberal or artistic way of life? Is it possible? It’s not possible! He’s mouldering in Her Majesty’s jail in London, England.

  Oh sweet baby Jesus, let him be locked up in England, or better yet, have died of some lingering disease. Most horribly, though, this mysterious brethren sounded like an offshoot—or the thing itself?—of Father Miguel de la Vega’s demonic Society of the Exterminating Angel. And certainly, if it was, even with the hell-hound priest out of the way, there’d be others to leap in and take his place.

  Just then, Merci uttered a piercing cry, fell out of her chair and onto the carpet.

  *

  Luckily, Dr. Koreff was at hand and surged into action. Merci was moved into a nearby room and laid out on the bed, while everyone clustered around, shaking their heads and whispering behind their hands: “Too much to drink,” “She’s losing her looks,” “Such a shame, for she started out such a pretty little thing.” Alex fils was now downing glass after glass of champagne himself, and muttering about “this dissolute life.” His father, ever the ebullient host, was patting people’s hands and ushering them back to the dining table. “Let the doctor perform his magic,” he kept saying. “Give them some room; the girl needs air, not all of you breathing your turkey breath upon her,” and so on. I saw Dr. Koreff helping Merci to sit up, then handing her a glass of water and a small white pill. She was clinging to him gratefully.

  Soon after this, Dumas declared that unless some of us wished to stay the night—and we were welcome to bed down on any handy piece of furniture we could find—those who needed to return to Paris would have to hustle, for the last railway trip back to the city left in under an hour. “You know, they love me in this little town! Train revenues have increased twenty thousand francs per annum since I’ve come here!”

  Henri kissed me to comfort me and we joined the throng at the door. He placed the cloak over my shoulders and the muff into my hands.

  “Alex, a million thank yous,” he said to our host. “You’ll look after Mademoiselle Duplessis?”

  “Of course, and she has her doctor. They’ll stay the night and all will be well.”

  “And next time, my big friend, you’ll remember my darling Lola and speak highly of her?”

  Dumas and I regarded each other carefully.

  A pause, then he said, “I wi
ll try.”

  Fuck! I swallowed my ire and gave him a sweet curtsey. “As will I. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Dumas. I learned a great deal tonight.”

  George was rushing to the door, and joined us. She gave my waist a quick squeeze. “You did well with the devout wafer,” she whispered. “Come along, my hearties, or we’ll miss our carriage! Bon soir, Alex—entertaining as always! I can’t wait to see what Dantès will get up to next in your tale of vengeance! Keep it coming, mon amour! Fantastic food! Bon soir!”

  Flaming torches held aloft by servants, swirling cloaks and swirls of gaiety filling the air—the landau crowded to its maximum capacity and beyond—the demi-monde of Paris, oblivious to danger, laughed and caroused its way back to its nerve centre.

  *

  And though I’d been shattered by Pier-Angelo’s reportage of rumours about a mysterious cult, the whole thing—too quickly—slipped out of my mind. I let my guard down, let myself be distracted (so foolishly) because, in the railway carriage on our way back to the city, as everyone else hooted and hollered with artistic excess, I’d had an idea. I’d spoken the truth to Dumas at his doorway, that I’d learned a great deal. And yes, I was worried for Merci—who came back to the city a day or two later and seemed almost recovered (though much, much too thin and even paler than before)—but my new idea was so exciting and breath-taking that, for the moment, it drove everything else completely out of my mind. Everything except Henri, of course.

  One night, a few nights later, we stayed in to enjoy ourselves in bed, revelling in a just-before-Christmas sense of occasion—and a wonderful time we had of it, too! We nibbled and kissed and gently consumed each other. He made me throb at the first touch of a finger; my insides instantly began to melt. I think I have never spent so freely and copiously, and I told him so—and some minutes later, he swore that neither had he. Of course, those pleasures were simply the hors d’oeuvres, enjoyed individually before the rest of the feast. Not long after, “We are made for each other,” he murmured, with the first lunge of his prick up me, and I cried, “Oh yes!” We topped off the delights of the evening in a moving, twisting dance of togetherness, skin against skin. Oh, to be so in love, to each time die with happiness, as the hot spunk spurted and my salty fluids joined with his. Henri—the sweetest confection I’d ever known, and a name of endearment simply fell from my lips as we drew apart, sated.

  “Bon-bon…” I tried it out, and then once more. “Bon-bon.” I sat up, delighted. “Oh! That’s what you are, my Henri, my sweetheart! You’re my delectable bon-bon.”

  “I am?”

  “You know it, my heart. Mi corazón…” I drew my fingers through his short, silky beard. “I don’t like nicknames, myself, so I hardly dare say this, but… May I call you Bon-bon, with fondest love?”

  “Bon-bon… I don’t see why not.”

  Adorable man.

  “And what shall I call you, then, Lola?”

  “Lola—your Lola—will do very nicely.”

  We purred, crooned and cuddled, sipping cognac from delicate glasses while a fire glimmered in the corner of the bedroom, sending out warmth. Then my secret excitement bubbled up again, and I felt that the moment had come.

  “Oh, oh! Henri, let me tell you.” I sat up again, folded my legs under me, and took his hand. “Henri—Bon-bon—I’ve had an idea, and I think it’s so exciting! I know I can do it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “What, my darling?” He was smiling at me with such open joy, it gave me all the confidence I needed.

  “With your help, Bon-bon, this could be the success I’ve been looking for!”

  “Oh?” he said, a flicker crossing his brow—of what, I wasn’t sure, so I hurried on.

  “I’ve thought it all out; it’s all in my head! Everybody’s doing it, and if it works for them, then why not me? I want to try. I propose… I want to write a novel under a nom de plume! I’ve been considering carefully, and I think I’ve found the perfect name, but never mind that right now.”

  The flicker was turning into a little crease. Ignore it, carry on!

  “What I think is lacking in the whole novel business at the moment—and remember, my love, this is not a reproach, just an observation!—is that there are no female heroines. It’s all about men—and yet so many of your readers are women, is that not so?” I didn’t dare look at him any more at this point, so I looked at the fire and rushed onwards. “And my thought is… I’ll bet that, well, that many subscribers would like to read about a feisty young woman, a very modern young woman—maybe a young woman who rides like a cossack, can shoot pistols with deadly accuracy and perhaps even swing a sabre with the best of them—”

  Henri sat up at this point, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

  “—No, listen, Bon-bon, here’s what I’m thinking: at a crucial point, this heroine will rescue her dauntless lover, who has gotten himself captured somehow by an unscrupulous villain—in fact, by an evil prime minister who plans to murder the lover by firing squad—how or why I haven’t yet figured out, but—well, I can base it on truth, Henri, I do know what I’m talking about, I’ve admitted all this to you, so it can’t come as a shock—and surely it’s an amazing tale which other women would be thrilled and terrified by—and love, as a story!”

  I was galloping onwards, my tongue flapping like a riding crop being put to vigorous use against a horse’s sides. I daren’t stop until I’d got it all out.

  “It will be a disguised—deeply disguised, don’t worry—and fictionalized version of the terrors I went through in Spain two years ago, but I’ll place it in unknown India! To slake readers’ insatiable thirst for exoticism! And in my book, the heroine will rescue the hero—he won’t die, she’ll save him, it will be a happy ending. And no one will ever know that I’m writing from my own experience, but making it better—do you see?”

  Henri threw the last of his cognac down his throat, blinked, then kept his eyes closed. What that meant I wasn’t sure. But never mind.

  “And my nom de plume, Henri? I think this is the capper, this is what made me know that I was on the right track! It will be…”—with a flourish—“‘Lorenzo Milagros’!” I paused dramatically, then remembered his Spanish was not yet up to it. “Lorenzo means ‘ready and eager’, and Milagros is ‘miracle’. Do you see now? Don’t you love it? …Henri? …Bon-bon?”

  The nerve-wracking pause endured for centuries. Then he opened his toffee-coloured eyes to look at me, a loving smile creasing their corners. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. “You enchant me, Lola. You are so funny.”

  I pulled my hand away sharply and gave him a little slap. “No, Henri, it’s not funny. I’m perfectly serious. I know I can be a success at this.”

  His adorable lips pursed, ever so slightly. “Have you ever written anything before?”

  “…No. But I read voraciously.”

  “Not quite the same thing.”

  “Bon-bon!”

  He took my hand again and held it against him. He lay back, placing it on his bare chest, palm down. I stroked my fingers across his ribs and lay back with him, head on his shoulder. “Please, darling,” I coaxed, “please don’t destroy this idea…”

  “I won’t,” he said softly. “But let us think about it together.” Kissing my fingertips one by one, he went on. “You know that I love and accept everything about you, the woman that you are and all of your past—and I admire you greatly for your honesty, your trust in me. I’d never destroy or betray that trust.” He placed my hand once again on his chest. “My beautiful Irish mavourneen, whose secrets are as safe with me as my own.”

  (The only man I’ve ever told the entire truth. The only man I’d dare.)

  “So let us keep thinking. First, I think it’s spunky. I think it’s bold.”

  Hurray, I thought, and my heart lifted again.

  “Having said that, I’m not sure that you should expose yourself in such a way, just at the moment.”

  And then san
k.

  “But Marie d’Agoult—” I began.

  “Now just listen, my heart. Marie d’Agoult already has repute as a famous person, if nothing else. She is also a countess—these things have weight.”

  “I—!”

  “Lola, shh.” He stroked my hair, calming me as one would a nervous horse. “Secondly, as editor, I cannot say truthfully that I have—as yet—seen any writerly talent, though I have seen many, many other talents too private to name.” He kissed my forehead at my hairline, then drew back to look me in the eyes. “And thirdly, darling, and this is important: how do you imagine you’d be able to sit still long enough to write anything more than a stanza? Or a couplet, even?”

  I couldn’t help it; I snorted. Laughter exploded out of my lips, my throat—his image was so true! So ridiculously true. I buried my face against his chest and tried to desist, but it really was too funny!

  “You’re untried, Lola.”

  I sobered again. And felt so deflated. “Let me try, though,” I said, lips against his skin.

  He tilted my face up and kissed me. “I love you. Everything about you. Never doubt that.”

  “I don’t.” And that was true.

  “Let’s see how it goes, shall we?”

  I was silent a moment. I was going to protest with my usual bounce, but then thought again. “Bon-bon?”

  “Mm?”

  “You’ll consider it, won’t you?”

  “I will. With great thought. With great care.”

  “Love me again?”

  And he did.

  *

  Forces were gathering, inexorably. Meanwhile—oh, to think of it now!—I went along on my merry way, making plans and trying them out. Wishing to surprise Henri with my diligence and talent. Unsuspecting, distracted, excited with possibility… And maybe already (in hindsight, I wonder?) experiencing the strange effects…

  Henri and I would lie curled together, naked beneath our duvet, all night long, waking to cuddle and make love when the spirit moved us (which was blissfully often). Seeing him off to work every morning, I would then go through the connecting door into my lovely adjoining apartment and seat myself at a desk. And I’d start. Nibs, pots of ink, sheafs of paper. Doodling and creating elaborate, inky curlicues round the edges, simply to soften the curse of the big, white blank which awaited me. I wrote my name over and over again, for the pleasure of seeing it. Occasionally I would write ‘Lola Dujarier’—just trying it out—before crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it on the fire, thrilled but superstitious. This would be followed by a leap to my feet, several arabesques and a bit of spider stamping, perhaps ending by flinging myself into the splits on the Persian carpet with an enthusiastic “¡Hola!”—just to keep myself mobile. The thing was, I couldn’t believe the immense tedium of trying to stay put in a chair at a desk, minutes turning into hours, then into whole afternoons! I tried so hard!—heavy head propped on my hand, chewing the quill—then suddenly I’d leap up, race around, remembering things I simply had to do first in bedroom or study or our other apartment, finally returning to the desk, to stand, just looking at it. At the paper. At my doodles, and curlicues. Then I’d rush off again on some other urgent errand. Diablo! That bastardo paper!