by Kit Brennan
January came and went—a new year, a new beginning. I trusted that 1845 would be wonderful, replete with every fortunate thing—if only I could make a good start! One morning I had the happy thought of writing ‘Lorenzo Milagros’ at the top of a fresh sheet, followed by ‘The Adventures of…’ And then I couldn’t decide what my heroine’s name should be. Dammit. The problem was, I just knew that if Henri could give me a firm deadline, by which date my story would commence in La Presse, everything would begin to flow. But he kept hemming and hawing and would promise me nothing.
Some afternoons, staring out the window, wrestling with myself to sit again at the desk, I’d daydream of writing one thrilling chapter after another, longing for the time when I would be rewarded with the publisher’s formula, ‘To Be Continued’, perched jauntily at the end of each day’s installment. ‘To Be Continued’ meant that it would go on and on—and so would my pay cheques! One morning I penned a dense little paragraph about everything that would happen in my story, and felt very proud and ready to begin! When I reread it later, it lay there on the page like a limp, dead thing, so I crumpled it up and flung it into the fire.
To keep from going mad inside, I took myself to Lepage’s Shooting Gallery every second afternoon; it was good for the body and for mental stimulation. I began to urge Henri to come with me, since he’d told me that tempers were flaring; several journalists were raising hell about the ongoing serialization wars and what they perceived as the inequity of payments between writers. They’d come into his office, ranting and thumping their fists on his desk, voices high-pitched and loud with outrage. Henri had mussed up his hair in all directions and looked very tired when he told me this, one night in early February. I’d been alone all day, bored and restless; I was in his lap, straddling his legs, as we held each other in a loose embrace.
“Come with me to the gallery, then; it’s wonderful, Henri. You need protection, a line of defence from the hot-heads surrounding you at work. I think it’s important. What’s your best weapon, pistols or sabres, which do you prefer?”
“I don’t believe in violence, Lola,” he said.
“Think of it more for fun and good exercise, then. And we’d be together.”
“Shooting at things will never be fun for me, chérie. Nor will skewering living things.”
“You haven’t even seen what I can do—I’d love to show you, Bon-bon. I’m really very good. Please come?”
“I’d feel like a common thug, not a gentleman. Men with deadly intent… It’s crass, it’s stupid. Besides, everyone knows my stance against violence. If I were to change now, it would simply be giving in to ridiculous pressure. I can’t do it, my love.”
And I couldn’t budge him.
Later that night, as we cooled down on top of the sheets, he told me something marvellous: he’d been working on this secretly for a number of weeks. He’d spoken to a friend, the manager of the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin, in fact, and had secured me a dancing gig! The manager had seen my performance at the Paris Opéra, ages ago, and agreed with Henri that I’d do quite nicely in one of the dancing roles. It was to be a new fairy musical comedy called La Biche aux Bois, which promised to run for months. Rehearsals were to begin right away! I was over the moon with excitement and gratitude to my darling Bon-bon.
“And that’s not all, Lola,” he managed to say, around and through my delirious kisses. “Let me breathe, my lovely, and tell you more.”
I stopped, panting. “There’s more?”
His smile was wide, a deep satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. “I’ve hired the theatre for two independent nights in early March. It will be a dancing event of your own on those two nights—I’ve hazarded to call it ‘La Dansomanie,’ I hope you approve. The dates are March 6 and March 10. Two solo performances, to do with what you wish. What do you say to that, sweetheart?”
Never mind what I said, let me simply remember everything we did…
Destroyed, not a vestige of energy left within either of our bodies, as we were falling asleep—mind jetté-ing elatedly around the stage of my imagination—I couldn’t help it, I had to murmur,
“But my story, Henri… I’m still working on my story, with my nom de plume…”
A soft sigh. He must have been asleep.
*
Henri hired a little studio for me, and I began trying out ideas for ‘La Dansomanie,’ while I waited for rehearsals of La Biche aux Bois to begin on the first of March. We’d both return home in early evening, exhausted from our work days and seeking ease and comfort in our loving nights. I would be making money again! I had purpose, I was busy and useful, and again on the rise—it made me so happy!
Bon-bon and I were so busy with each other and so in love that it felt as if the rest of the world didn’t touch us. We had decided, on the quiet, that we would marry later in the year. Although this thrilled me to the bottom of my soul, a little warning bell did begin to ring at the back of my brain. Hadn’t there been some sort of decree, in the terms of my divorce from Thomas James, that I was forever barred from remarrying? Handed down by some crusty old fart with a bone to pick, in England? I couldn’t remember… Certainly at the time I’d never wanted to marry again and so hadn’t cared what the outcome had been. And then (another little warning tinkle) I wondered what would happen to our loving sweetness to each other—Henri’s and mine—once married? I’d had a taste of what can transpire the first time, and hated every moment of Thomas’ ugly transformation from suitor to jailor. Did that happen with all men, when their minds and their legislation turned an exciting mistress into a tiresome wife? Oh, but this was Henri Dujarier, a completely different and sweet-hearted being! I shoved the nagging worries aside—all would work out, I told myself. I was sure of it.
Still, somehow or other the word must have leaked because Delphine Gay—the poetess and Émile de Girardin’s wife—announced it at a dinner to which she’d invited us, along with many of the usual crowd (though not, thankfully, Countess d’Agoult).
“Listen, everyone,” Delphine trilled, clinking her spoon repeatedly against a crystal wine glass. “We have exciting news, hot off the press as it were, about our dear partner and his lady!”
Henri and I exchanged glances; the crease had returned between his eyebrows, along with a questioning look in his eyes. I shrugged, totally innocent.
“Yes,” she went on, “Paris’ most eligible bachelor is about to hang up his hat—before the year is out, he will wed! I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Henri Dujarier and Lola Montez!”
As everyone began to clap, she motioned us to our feet. Dumas, across from Henri, was looking like a thunderhead; his son, a few seats away, seemed disgusted. Alex was there without Merci, I noticed; instead, an actress I’d seen once before at the Jockey Club—name of Anäis Lievenne, a sly, highly-strung piece of goods—was seated beside him.
“May I accompany you on your honeymoon, wherever you decide to go?” a middle-aged gentleman near Delphine called with a laugh.
“It all depends, Méry,” Henri joshed back, “whether we need your skills in translation. Since we’ll likely journey to Spain,” and here he glanced at me with a small wink, “I think I can safely say that Lola will provide any translations necessary.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, my dear Dujarier,” rumbled Dumas, staring at me with something approaching real emotion. Since his Saint-Germain dinner party, when Henri had called him to task, the writer had remembered who I was—but it wasn’t until this moment, after Delphine’s announcement, that I recognized the hard look he was directing at me for what it had become: Dumas was jealous! He was jealous of me being loved by his friend! He saw me taking Henri away from him, and he couldn’t stand it.
“No curmudgeonly behaviour tonight, Alex,” chided Delphine. “This is a party! Let’s all be happy!”
And the talk moved on to other things, thank heavens. But Delphine was right, Dumas was in a stubborn mood. As the plates were being cleared after the first
course, he gestured around with the point of his knife and said heavily, “It seems to me that we are approaching a grim period, my friends. Many of our finest young men are deeply in debt—witness my son.” Alex fils didn’t seem to hear this, engrossed as he was with the sparkly blonde actress. “They’re judgmental of us fathers and elders; the liberal tide is turning against us. Though he behaves the way we do, he hates himself for it—and I tell you, that sort of extreme inner turmoil makes young men crazy.”
Henri was listening carefully and commented, “That’s interesting, Alex.”
I tried to focus, but my head was swimming. Had I had too much wine? Already?
Dumas leaned across the table. “May I have a few words later, Henri? There’s something preying on him, some weight. I do not appreciate the influence, or whatever it is, that’s begun to creep over him and cloud his judgement.” The little eyes surveyed me balefully, then returned to Henri. “I need to get the boy published; he needs some swift success. He’s becoming intolerably lazy and a drunk.”
Oh! My mind spun sideways. I couldn’t believe it. To hear the big writer demanding that Henri publish the work of his son, without any by-your-leave. And what about my book? I gave my love a little kick under the table.
He placed his hand over mine and lightly squeezed. I admit I was deaf to Dumas’ real subject matter—yes, I’m a nit-wit sometimes—but I was so appalled by the thumb-screws Dumas was using on Henri to publish his damnable son!
The writer swallowed a large glug of water, then slammed the glass down. “God knows I’d love to trade in that fat wife of mine, but even I wouldn’t go so far as my son’s new acquaintances are suggesting.”
I did feel a sudden frisson, then, at these words, though I couldn’t have repeated what he’d just said. What was it he’d—?
“Are we led by the nose by these women of ours, Henri?” Dumas asked, in a slightly louder voice to include others nearby. “What do you say, mes amis? Are we led by our lusts? Should we curb our insatiable desires, give them up?”
The son looked over at this and called, “Never mind bringing that up, père! You’ll get too agitated, you know you will!”
“Pier-Angelo was about to start on a story with that same theme,” Henri reflected, looking thoughtfully at Alex fils. Then, to his friend, “But the trail has gone cold, so Pier says.”
“There’s a man with one leg,” Dumas went on with a groan, “my son’s newest ami. He’s a strange one… I don’t like him.” He was speaking more to himself again than to any of us. I’d not seen the big boor in quite this sort of mood before, except perhaps the day he’d barged in to use and abuse Merci. And where was Merci tonight, I wondered? Had the son dropped her? I must go to see her, I told myself sternly, then Dumas distracted me again.
“Cassagnac at Le Globe—he’s another, Henri, that’s listening to this man. Be careful, I’m telling you—I remember that Cassagnac still owes you money?”
“Indeed,” Henri answered.
“They’re grumbling, these hot-heads, about ridding themselves of all free-thinkers: zut alors! Let’s change it up, change it all!” Dumas banged his fist upon the table, then left it there, forgotten. Inside me, a feeling like ice water trickled down between my shoulder blades as his words went on, the tone of them changing from dark to darker.
“It’s as if society as a whole craves a curtain line at the end of each day—a cliff-hanger to the chapter. Something tantalizing or terrifying. Something that makes you leap out of bed each morning to find out what’s next—and the action must begin at once and never ease up. That’s what these hot-heads seem to want to provide: the curtain line.”
Dumas was glaring down at the tablecloth. Several others were watching, seemingly concerned, then he shook his head violently and asked, “So, will you publish him? My son?”
I blazed my eyes at Henri, but he ignored me. Why was he ignoring me? Why did I feel so damnably odd?
“What is he writing?” my love inquired.
At this, the pompous celebrity’s energy was rejuvenated. He pushed back his chair, lit a cigar (though the desserts were not yet finished) and began droning on and on about some stupid idea Alex fils was considering. I was furious and confused. I excused myself to go for a turn on the balcony, smoking a little cheroot and staring down into the frozen street until I began shivering and had to return.
When I did, Delphine had taken over the conversation in a piercing voice, and what she said chilled (and then thrilled) me even more than the February night had done.
“Henri’s in charge of all that, as you know,” she was saying. “Émile tells me that, not only has Henri given the go-ahead to Comtesse d’Agoult’s Nélida, but he’s seriously considering a brand-new story by another woman writer—a young, untried one, as I understand. So perhaps the time has come for women to be heard!”
My heart buh-bumped. I hadn’t known Bon-bon was seriously considering—! Oh my darling! Could it be true?
The would-be (meaning, wishes-to-be) Count Dumas flung himself back with a grunt, his chair groaning under the pressure, a cloud of smoke curling from his lips. “What’s the new bauble then, Henri? Another airy concoction graced with a foolish nom de plume, I wager? By yet another vain, rich tart, dabbling at art?”
Henri was standing, using his hands to quiet things down, trying to push the genie back into the bottle. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to punch Alexandre Dumas right in his big, fat, condescending nose or whether I hoped this tantalizing, incredible news of Henri’s would pop out right then and there. Or did I wish it to remain our own lovers’ secret until the time was perfectly ripe? Probably that, too. So that’s what the darling had been working on all this time! How could I have doubted…? Perhaps there was a new smile lighting my face, perhaps it was something else—but suddenly Dumas’ baleful glance raked me again from stem to stern. He sat up in his chair, plucked the cigar from his fat, wet lips, and said, “Aha.”
I looked him straight in the piggy eyes; gave an almost imperceptible nod. He saw it—and I believe he now truly saw me. Saw me for the woman I am. Like a shot in the arm of some mind-changing substance, Alexandre Dumas had finally registered my fiery nature, my strong beauty, my determination and passion. And my talent. Touché, Monsieur Dragon!
Shoving his chair over with a roar, Dumas rose to his feet. He reached across the table, grabbed Henri’s shoulder and gave it a shake.
“I fear for you, my dearest friend,” he said. Then turning to the table at large and waving his cigar, he intoned, “I say before you all, and let no man later claim not to have heard me: Lola Montez will bring the evil eye to any man unfortunate enough to link his destiny to hers!”
With these malevolent—and completely unprovoked—words, it was suddenly upon me. I’ve said it before, and I say it again: I don’t know what happens; I can never predict it—but a red gush of volcanic nature rises up through me like a twisting, leaping funnel of vehemence, with all the force of molten lava, from somewhere deep in my belly, rushing up to explode out through the top of my head. I can no more sidestep it than one could sidestep an earthquake when it opens beneath your feet and splits the world apart. I leapt up, pointing at my abominable tormentor. It felt as if my eyeballs would burst out of their sockets as I cried, “Do you hear this? Do you hear this man abuse me, again and again? What have I ever done to him except to be myself!”
Henri was attempting to enfold me in his arms, begging me to be calm, to say no more. The red gush was clouding my vision, but rather than the usual call to physical action, it was making me feel strangely feeble. Before I knew what to do with my justified fury, I gasped and passed out in Bon-bon’s arms, slipping to the floor and banging my head against the table’s edge as I went. Then I lay there, cold as a cod.
*
Koreff had been called. I came to with his pale ugly face perched above mine, only inches away. I let out a shriek before realizing that Henri was there, holding my hand, and that several others hovere
d nearby. I was prone on a settee, a blanket covering my body. Horribly, I also realized that I had been sick, for the stench was still in the room. Mierda… My head ached like a bugger, oh Dios mío…
The Count of Many Curses had gone, apparently, taking his black mood with him. The Girardins were solicitous, offering us a room for the night, but after conferring with Koreff, Henri felt that we could go home where I would be more comfortable. And so we did. I took a little pill, one of a sachet-full that the doctor had given Henri with strict instructions for their usage, and I slept fitfully through the remainder of the dark hours. My ensuing dreams were terrible—there were dragons or some other large scaly worm-like beasts, flying around, and over all a sonorous voice tolling its words of defamation against my poor self. I kept trying to move forwards through some sticky and pernicious substance that was hampering my progress: slick, oily, almost up to my waist, but still I toiled onwards, alone, through a barren landscape, as if something cataclysmic had happened. Another dragon flew by overhead, then a glowing eyeball appeared—huge, like a full moon—hovering, peering everywhere, before plunging like a flaming comet straight into the oily murk that encased me. Oh, dreadful… I’d drag myself up out of this chaos, only to be pulled under once more.