Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  Overall the reviews were “mixed,” as Henri put it. “But that’s good, Lola, it means your final night will be full, as people come to decide for themselves.”

  Flipping the pages of La Presse over a third demitasse, my eye caught a small outlined box of text with Henri’s name in it. The notice announced the full amount of Granier de Cassagnac’s outstanding financial debt to Henri Dujarier.

  I looked at him with concern. “What’s this, Bon-bon?”

  “The result of one too many insults from a man who owes me so much money.”

  “But—!”

  “It’s common practice, my love, as a way to try to force a debtor’s hand. He’s had months and months out of me. Enough is enough. Time to put my accounts in order.”

  “But what did he say? Was it last night, at my performance?”

  “Yes. He was disparaging, in fact downright insulting. Never mind, sweetheart, it’s done.”

  I didn’t like it, but supposed that Henri knew what he was doing—and if the man owed Henri money, he should pay it.

  By the next morning, March 8, there had been a response. Beauvallon, of course, was Cassagnac’s brother-in-law, and in a scurrilous article, Beauvallon launched what seemed to me to be a personal attack on my darling, claiming that Henri was openly stealing Le Globe’s subscribers! Henri pooh-poohed it, but I was frantic.

  “Don’t mess around with that maniac, Bon-bon! He’s an ace shot, extremely vicious and arrogant.”

  “They’re just vitriolic, the two of them,” Henri said, “because they’re tied to subscribers, while we’re successfully exploring other means. La Presse sells through street vendors, and we’ve reduced the cost—forty francs per year, as opposed to their eighty. They should wake up, that’s all. Wake up to the competition.” He wiped his lips, and placed his napkin down. “The horses are waiting—shall we ride, mon amour? The Bois will be beautiful on this fine, cold day.”

  *

  After our ride, I stayed at home, still very tired from the performance—in fact, sleeping most of the afternoon. Extremely unusual for me. I lay, and dreamed—mostly vile dreams, again, full of swirling and dangerous action which I couldn’t remember when I’d struggle up out of the mists of nameless apprehension. While awake, I comforted myself with languid musings about our future. It seemed to me to be opening up like a jewel box, slowly revealing hidden treasures.

  When Henri got home from the office, he was in a foul mood. This was extremely unlike him. He told me he’d decided to go to a party that night at Les Trois Frères Provençaux restaurant, and that I wasn’t to come. We began to quarrel about it—which scared me, because we’d never done so before.

  “I don’t want you to be seen in such company, Lola. It’s simply a bunch of the worst, like Alex fils and his new paramour.”

  “What, that Anäis Lievenne creature?” I asked. “Why do you wish to go so badly, then?”

  “I promised them.” Henri scraped his fingers through his beard and admitted, in a strange, subdued tone of voice, “All right, I’ve been keeping company with them, sometimes, while you’ve been at rehearsals.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “You’ve what?” I immediately imagined the worst possible scenario. “That sly Anäis—don’t tell me, don’t tell me that!”

  “You think I—? Of course not,” he countered, seeming appalled. “I would never do so, Lola; I can’t believe you would think such a terrible thing!”

  My pulse quieted somewhat, but not altogether. Something else was wrong, then. He wasn’t looking at me.

  “That Anäis, she’s a wild one, Bon-bon,” I said. “Always a crowd around her of glassy-eyed dancers and no-account dandies. Why would you want to spend time with them?”

  “Oh, sweetheart… I told Dumas I’d look out for his son,” Henri said glumly. “It started with that.”

  “And has proceeded… how?”

  “There’s gambling, sometimes. The usual foolishness.”

  This was a new revelation, and not a happy one. “Are you—?”

  “I enjoy it, that’s all,” he added, shaking his head and again looking away.

  I couldn’t help but wonder. My amazing man: did he have a flaw, after all, and was this it? I remembered Diego’s passion for gambling, as well as his skill. How good at it was Bon-bon—and was it good for him?

  I was very upset, couldn’t stop shivering, and my head was pounding. “Why can’t I come with you? And don’t start telling me what company I can and cannot keep, Henri, if you’re not willing to listen to my thoughts about the same! Is Cassagnac going to be there, is that it?”

  He turned his back and strode to the window.

  “Bon-bon! This is terrible, don’t let’s argue!”

  “I’m going, Lola, and that’s all there is to it. Méry will be there, and the doctor, and, I think, Pier. I thought you’d be at rehearsal for La Biche this evening.” He swiveled around to look at me, hands on his hips. “In point of fact, I’ve promised Alexandre to keep an eye on Alex fils tonight. It’s a party Anäis has arranged, for some mysterious reason, probably for the son, and père is worried, but can’t go, himself, or they’d think he was interfering.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s always Alexandre, the big important man!” I fumed.

  Henri’s eyes blazed; they seemed bloodshot, I noticed with sudden alarm. “He’s my best friend, Lola!” he cried. “Can you not let me do something for my best friend when he asks me to? You want my soul, as well?”

  I fell into a chair; I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Tears gushed from my eyes in a hot stream. Where in God’s name had this come from?

  He ripped at his cravat—“I can’t breathe!”—pulled it away and flung it down, then stormed into the bedroom. I sat still as a ghost, hand at my lips and eyes wide. What to do, what to do? Then I leapt up and ran to him as he stood buttoning up a different waistcoat.

  “Darling,” I entreated him, “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, or what’s happened—has something else happened?”

  “No, Lola, nothing. I’m going, that’s all.” He pulled a fresh cravat from the drawer and began tying it. “And you are not. It’s simple.”

  “You’re pig-headed!” I raged. “I don’t understand! You will not treat me like your personal property, Henri, like a horse in your stable! I’ll decide for myself!”

  “You’re the stubborn one, Lola, and when I simply tell you I need you to listen to me for once, you go crazy.” He looked at me sternly from those bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, but do not show up there. Please rest and recover your strength; you don’t realize how wrung out you are. I’ll be back when I’m back. Soon it will be over, and we can begin our life anew.” He strode to the door, turning back to say, “And don’t worry, I won’t compromise you, if that’s all you can think about. You should know me better. I would never do that.”

  Then he went.

  *

  Of course I spent a terrible night, worrying and pacing, and crying in fits of angry heartache. Yes, I’d taken the night off from rehearsal, citing exhaustion, and now wished I hadn’t—at least that would have distracted me from our awful, confusing quarrel. In fact, I sent for the carriage and had myself driven to the theatre, but when I arrived they were rehearsing other numbers and I wasn’t needed. Some of the dancers were standing in tight little groups, whispering about the young woman murdered from their ranks; they looked me up and down and pursed their tight little lips. So I went home again. Where I waited. And waited.

  Sometime around dawn, as I lay in our bed half asleep, besieged by nightmares from which I would attempt, unsuccessfully, to flee—Henri arrived at last. He was staggering, swaying from side to side with fatigue or drink or whatever else, I couldn’t tell. I pulled off his boots, then his trousers, as he lay flat on his back on the bed. He was already asleep when I tried to remove his frockcoat, so I had to leave it. I covered him over with the duvet and crawled in close to his heart, my hand nestled inside his s
hirt and upon his skin so that I could feel its reassuring thump, thump. The rest of him seemed completely inert.

  Several hours passed; then he roused. He held me close and began to murmur into my ear.

  “I’m sorry, my darling Lola, I’m so sorry. I was a fool, a jealous fool.”

  Oh, I was frightened again instantly! “What’s happened, Bon-bon?”

  “I was an idiot; it was an idiotic night.”

  “Tell me.”

  He groaned. “The supper party was loud, very raucous. Alex’s son was in full fettle, and the dancer, Anäis, kept braying like a donkey, out of her mind on something. All the wrong people were there. I’m so glad you didn’t come.”

  “Oh, Henri,” I said with reproach. “If I’d come, I’d have helped you.”

  “No, I think not.” He lay his head on my breast, as I ran my fingers through his hair, again and again—his crisp, springy hair that I so adored.

  “I drank too much champagne,” he went on, “since I was so thirsty. Idiot again. My head was reeling, I kept thinking I’d fall over sideways, as if my balance was shot. Then, after the supper, we adjourned to another room to play lansquenet—do you know that old German card game everyone’s rediscovered? They’re mad about it.”

  “I don’t know that one,” I said. “Diego taught me some, but not that.”

  “They all screamed with enthusiasm that I would love it, since it’s full of banking terminology… Anyway, we started, and I soon could tell that it’s very easy to cheat at that game. I could see the ‘banker’—it was Cassagnac—leaning slightly towards the table, replacing cards from prepared ones he’d hidden in his waistcoat pocket. I called him on it—but alas, as I’ve said, I’d drunk too much, and no one believed me. They all laughed instead. Maybe at me.”

  “Oh, Bon-bon…”

  “I kept playing, like an idiot… I think Roger de Beauvoir tried to stop me, but… I was worrying over our argument, darling; I said some terrible things, didn’t I? I have no idea why. I’ve felt so beastly all day and all night…” He lifted his head to look at me out of his toffee-silk eyes, then dropped it again onto my breast. His eyes still appeared so bloodshot, no white in their edges at all—what had gotten into him? He began hugging my rib cage, kissing my belly. “I kept losing, apparently… And I kept playing, trying to win it back. It felt as if a fever had taken hold of me. I felt odd, very odd indeed…”

  Now I knew that something else must have happened.

  “And then what, sweetheart?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he said. “Just as I was stumbling out—and I regret to say I must have been stumbling badly… Just then, I think Beauvallon came up with a swagger and we had some sort of words, I don’t remember what they were. I simply wanted to get home—to get home to you. Lola, my darling…”

  “Think, Henri,” I urged him. “What did you say to him? Nothing too inflammatory, I hope?”

  “I think… just something about not desiring his company… at that moment. Or something of the sort. Muddle-headed…”

  I felt ill with worry and kissed his dear forehead. At that, he began to weep and moan—he was cupping my left breast tenderly, and he began kissing it, then kissing both, holding them against his cheeks and sobbing, “Such evil in the world, how could there be such evil?”

  I sat up, disentangling myself—and so alarmed at his wild grief! “Henri, what is it? Tell me what’s happened.”

  He struggled up and again clasped me to him. “I don’t want to frighten you… I just love you so much, Lola, I want to protect you…”

  I pulled away sternly, gave him a little shake. “Tell me.”

  He hung his head, closed his eyes. “I’m still so drunk… Forgive me, darling…”

  “Bon-bon?” I wiggled in between his legs, my own straddling his, and our bodies tight against each other. “What is it?”

  He said the words against my neck. “The murdered woman… The image of her haunts my mind, lying there with… so much blood. The savagery done to her, to her…” His breath caught, he stopped, then resumed raggedly. “And the other thing. I can’t get this out of my head…”

  “Try.”

  “…Under the grey wing of the sea-bird, or owl—covered in her blood, oh, mon Dieu…” He was trying to pull himself together but kept dashing his fingers across his streaming eyes. “There was a note; the police took it. I could just make out the words before they did so…”

  “And? Tell me what it said.”

  “‘Behold the wing of the Exterminating Angel, moving swiftly over the land.’”

  I gave a cry, then stifled it against the back of my hand. Dear God, it was true.

  “I don’t know exactly what it means, darling,” he said, “but it is unspeakable.”

  And we both cried, holding each other so tightly that it felt as if our bones would snap with the strain.

  *

  By afternoon, Henri was well enough to go into the office—subdued and remorseful, but no longer staggering. He seemed a little more like himself; I thought he seemed relieved to have unburdened himself about the hideous note, as well as the Trois Frères supper party and its gambling aftermath. I warned him to be extremely careful, to drink nothing that he hadn’t seen come directly from a reliable water source—and no alcohol, not today. Full of new fear but also determination, I went to my rehearsal for the second performance of ‘La Dansomanie’, taking every precaution, a pistol in my reticule, and looking around me like a fierce hawk at every moving as well as immobile thing, returning home after eight in the evening. There I found Henri with Alexandre Dumas.

  Henri seemed discouraged, and Dumas almost as ebullient as ever. It was the first time he’d been in our home, to my knowledge. Of course, as Henri’s dearest friend, I’m sure he’d been there many times in the past. He seemed very much at ease, smoking his smelly cigar and with his booted feet on a low table by the fire.

  I lit one of my little cheroots and sat myself down beside my love. Dumas exhaled, releasing a huge cloud of smoke from his lungs, and lumbered up. “Well, Henri, never fear. It will all come right soon enough.” As surreptitiously as a large man can, he pushed a wooden box he’d had beside him on the floor with his foot to conceal it behind one of our wing chairs.

  “What is that?” I asked, pointing.

  “Not to concern you,” the writer answered.

  I turned to my love. “Henri?”

  A deep sigh. “I’ve borrowed them from Alex. He’s tried to talk me out of it, but I think I’ll just go ahead, get it over with.”

  “What?” My hackles were rising with renewed alarm.

  “An affair of honour,” Dumas said. “And as it’s Henri’s first, we need to be careful of his reputation. Let him undergo the baptism. It’s a rite of passage that all men must experience.”

  I looked at Henri for immediate explanation.

  “I’ve been drawn into a duel, sweetheart. It’s a stupid thing, all a mistake, but never mind.”

  I jumped up. “No! Henri, you’re not a fighter, you know you’re not! I’ll go in your place!”

  The two men looked at me, each aghast for their own particular reasons. Dumas burst out laughing, but Henri reproached him with a few strict words.

  Then the writer calmed down and said, “Never fear for his safety, mademoiselle, for the affair is with our preposterous friend, Roger de Beauvoir—he of the hiding-in-the-closet with my fat wife, do you remember the story?”

  “I do.”

  “So it will all end well. It’s simply a matter of honour to be settled, one middle-aged man reasserting his virility and his young friend allowing that salve to be administered. I’ve brought mon cher Henri my best set of pistols.”

  “Pistols!” I cried, appalled. “Everyone knows that pistols are more deadly than sabres in these stupid affairs! Even when neither of the gentlemen knows what the hell they’re doing!”

  “A duel, for a gentleman, is one of life’s necessary episod
es,” Dumas intoned. “One of those events that, as writer, you gear the action towards: the curtain line!—the suspense!—you’re kept hanging until the next installment, and life is consequently full of savour. The sex tonight, I assure you, will be mind-blowing.”

  “It’s a clumsy comparison—a vile one in fact,” I snapped, and turned back to Henri. “Sweetheart, call it off, I beg you. Or let me go, to talk some sense into Roger.”

  But the men, at that, circled their masculinity around them like a large, dark cape, and would not be drawn into any further disclosures. Finally, I left them to go up to our bed, for I was exhausted—staggering, myself. And feeling so nauseated… From the stress, I presumed—angry, deep down, that Henri would have allowed himself to be so distracted, so distant, from my final performance of ‘La Dansomanie’ and from the other, very real dangers that I now knew to be lurking just out of sight. Let him do it if he must, I thought, with the ridiculous Roger. And then, maybe quietly, maybe yes, we should leave. Right away. Start our new life, leave them all behind. Keep my darling safe. The decision, taken as I fell off to sleep, made me feel so much better.

  *

  The next night—March 10th—I danced my solo ‘Dansomanie’ for the last time, and it was wildly elating. Bon-bon had been right; the mixed reviews on the 6th had piqued interest enough that many other Parisians decided to take a chance to view the Spanish danseuse for themselves. I whirled and flung my skirts, stamped and clicked the castanets, showing my shapely legs with youthful pride. I may not possess the invariable correctness of a classically trained ballerina with all of the pirouettes and ronds de jambes that they seem to prefer—but I’m lithe, graceful by my own standards and wildly inventive. I add new things every time, and the orchestra has to keep up. I never wish to be constrained by rules when there’s freedom to be had and kisses to be thrown—to an audience that loved me.