Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  The only damper on my happiness? Well, it was a big one, and we had argued again over it. Henri had begged off and remained at home, claiming that important paperwork had to be finished before the morning. At this, I was furious and said some harsh things of my own, unable to understand why he would choose to abandon me on my night of all nights, a night that he had arranged and given me as a gift of love! I couldn’t comprehend it. The valet, Gabriel, as well as the coach and driver, were to stay outside the theatre to ensure I’d arrive home safely—and we argued over that, too, I’m ashamed to say.

  “You’re trying to make certain I come home directly afterwards, aren’t you, and not stay to enjoy the fruits of my very important evening? That’s selfish, Bon-bon! How could you?” I said nothing to him about my overnight decision, my willingness to leave Paris as soon as we could arrange it. Make him wait! I went off in a huff.

  And stayed afterwards, air-kissing my congratulatory friends and exchanging gossip, before shivering finally back into the cold, damp night, ready to crawl into my lover’s warm arms and murmur to him of my happy adventure and my undying adoration. To say to him, “I’m so sorry that I was crabby, please forgive me, darling. It was all because of nerves—but I’m a success, Bon-bon, it was a triumph!” I could hardly wait to share my delight.

  When I entered our apartment, after midnight, I found a note. In it, Henri asked me to sleep in my own room so that he could ensure he had a good rest for the morning. From this, I realized that the ridiculous duel with Roger would take place at dawn. Again I was miffed; he stayed home because of that? But then I remembered that my beautiful love had rarely, if ever, fired a pistol. Maybe he’d been reading up on it, or practising—but how? What a foolish thing they were up to! I thought, let’s hope the two sillies simply fire the guns directly into the sky—then pray that the falling bullets don’t kill one of them accidentally, as they stand shaking hands.

  I guessed it would happen somewhere in the preferred site of such affairs—the Bois de Boulogne—and I resolved to be there ahead of them.

  *

  I dragged myself from my solitary bed long before dawn and went to the stables, equipped with my favourite pistol and a sabre in its scabbard, which I slung from a shoulder belt, to be ready at hand if I should need it—or simply to astonish Roger de Beauvoir, I thought, which would be fine too. Magnifique whickered a greeting as I entered his stall and offered his mouth to the bit. It was still dark in the streets as I cantered off, heading for the Bois.

  I’d checked our bedroom door before leaving and found it still closed; then I’d been surprised and alarmed to also find it locked. My poor darling, I couldn’t understand why he was determined to see this farce through, but as I rode along, I decided I’d beg him to promise me afterwards that this was the first and last such affair he’d let himself become entangled in.

  It was a bone-chilling morning, the air dense with anticipation of snow to follow. The kind of March day in Paris when the weather is changeable, and you don’t dress as warmly as you should because you think it will be warmer than it is. As we entered the paths through the Bois and I began to search out the most likely duelling fields, I realized that I hadn’t thought this plan through very carefully. I’d been so exhausted, and had fallen asleep almost immediately upon laying my head on the pillow. Somehow, I’d told myself, all would be clear in the morning. But it wasn’t so clear—there were numerous fields, and the Bois was huge. I wracked my brain to see if I could remember any particular ones that gents spoke of as ‘the’ field for fighting. Le chemin de Grandes Randonnées, perhaps? Or le chemin de Ceinture du Lac Inférieur? Damnation! There were two lakes, several waterfalls, reservoirs, race tracks, numerous fields—and many routes to each. And the immensity of the Bois, I suddenly realized, was matched by my stupid inability to find my way around anywhere at all. The foolish trait didn’t seem so amusing now. I urged Magnifique into a full-on gallop. The night’s darkness was lifting and snow beginning to fall—lightly, but as the sky became defined, heavy clouds could also be seen, very low and very dark.

  This was an awful situation, I thought. Would Henri be rising at this moment and making his way here, only for me to be galloping around at the wrong end of the woods? And then I had another, better thought: I’m sure Alexandre Dumas is acting as his second, and I do know where Dumas’ city apartment is. Henri had pointed it out on many an early morning ride—and in fact, it was quite close. I’ll ride there immediately, I told myself, and if they’re already on their way, I can intercept them en route.

  So I reined Magnifique around, and we galloped back the way we’d come. There were still no other riders in sight, and very few yet upon the streets.

  When we reached Dumas’ building, I hurriedly tied the gelding’s reins to a post and talked my way past the concierge. She must have been used to young women coming and going from the writer’s apartment at all hours, for she shrugged and yawned as she waved me along. I ran up the stairs and pounded at the door that I believed must be his—from the messy collection of boots, hats and various bibelots left lying outside.

  There was a long wait before I could hear footsteps within, and I jittered nervously about on the landing. “Hurry, hurry,” I was whispering to myself and wondering whether it would be Ida who answered. But no, it was Dumas. My heart plummeted; if he was Henri’s second, wouldn’t he already be gone? Or was I right on time?

  “You?” he said.

  “Are you with Henri this morning?” I said. “He’s fighting today, isn’t he?”

  The writer rubbed his face, looking sleepy.

  “Where’s the duel taking place?” I inquired, now frantically thinking of rushing off again, since he obviously couldn’t be involved or he’d already be awake, at least, and getting ready to go. “Please, in God’s name, don’t keep it from me!”

  Dumas was now taking in my attire: the pistol in my waistband and the sabre on my shoulder.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Come in, my dear, and let me explain.”

  My dear? He’d never said such a thing to me before. He put a heavy arm around my shoulder and ushered me inside.

  What followed then, I know in hindsight, was a series of delaying tactics—prompting a rising agitation within me—as the faux count began preparing coffee and urging me to unburden myself of my “clanking weaponry,” which, according to him, was completely unnecessary and looked idiotic on a mere scrap of a thing like me. “We shall depart for the Bois as soon as we’ve enjoyed a café together, does that suit?” he said, implying—I assumed—that the time of engagement was set for later than dawn. I perched nervously on a chair, sabre resting on the floor, while Dumas left the room to go and dress. He was gone a long time and I’d begun pacing, wringing my hands, by the time he returned, sporting one of his larger-than-life waistcoats festooned with trinkets. He poured coffee, chatting of this and that; then when I asked again where Henri would be duelling, he began quoting from Le Code du Duel, attempting to reassure me (I supposed) that his young friend must fight like a man and that I mustn’t interfere in these important male rituals, blah blah. And that’s when it finally hit me: it was the supremely smug look on Dumas’ face, like a cat who’d swallowed a bird. A baptism, he’d said. Who had a bone to pick with Henri? Into my mind’s eye flashed the notice Henri had placed in the paper, revealing Cassagnac’s debt. Henri’s consequent argument with the man, and his moodiness… The stupid supper party, Cassagnac cheating…

  “Wait,” I said. Dumas regarded me, eyes hooded. “You’re not acting as Henri’s second this morning, are you?” I asked, the blood draining from my face.

  “No. A looming deadline,” was the answer.

  A further surmise, which I now feared was true: “And his opponent isn’t Roger de Beauvoir.”

  “Afraid it is not.” He smiled, not using his teeth.

  “Then who? Cassagnac?”

  A long pause while my heart jumped around in my chest like the imprisoned canary in D
umas’ wide jaw, awaiting the fat cat’s crunching and swallowing.

  I must have looked anguished, for he finally said, with another appalling smile, “Don’t agitate yourself, I beg you. Would I send my best friend into danger?”

  “Yes!” I cried, “If only to see what dramatic outcome it might have and how you could use it in your next escapade!”

  “Too cruel of you, mademoiselle…” He looked triply smug.

  “You huge turd!” I stamped and flung my arms into the air—then a terrible realization hit me in the solar plexus: if not Cassagnac…? Oh, worse? The best marksman in Paris? Pray God, it can’t be! “For God’s sake, who is Henri fighting?”

  I saw him give a quick glance at a brass clock that sat on his mantel. Then he placed the cup back in its saucer, stretched his legs out against the carpet and said, “They needed to get it out of their systems, that’s all. Two gentlemen, laying a grievance to rest. It’s Rosemond de Beauvallon.”

  I shrieked, “What have you done? Then Henri is lost!”

  My limbs finally burst into action as I flung myself across the room and wrenched the door open.

  “Beauvallon is a gentleman!” Dumas cried after me.

  I turned back to spit, “He most definitely is not!”

  Hurtling down the winding staircase, I could hear Dumas follow me to the landing and call down, in echoing words that ricocheted around the marble steps and walls, “It’s a baptism! Don’t shame him, you hussy!”

  *

  Magnifique could gallop like the wind, but it felt as if we were moving at a crawl. The streets were now busy: there were pedestrians and carriage traffic, carts piled sky-high with goods and many slow-downs. I gibbered and quaked and screamed at a few bodies and vehicles that seemed to move into our path just as we neared them. At last we reached the edge of the Bois again and entered the woods at a reckless pace. “Go, sweetheart, go,” I urged the gelding. “Find Enchanté, listen for her whickering, catch her scent—find her and you’ll find our darling!” I was bent over the horse’s neck, tears streaming from my eyes from the raw cold, the snow that had been falling and gathering on the ground, and from absolute stark-raving terror. Beauvallon! How could this be; how could Bon-bon not have told me! Somewhere, off in the distance, a loud, sharp sound rang out. Oh God, let me get there, let me find him! Galloping wildly, cornering dangerously, we bypassed several sedate riders, who called after me, crossly. I still didn’t know where we were going, but had given the gelding his head, hoping he would somehow, miraculously… And then I saw two riders who were stopped, speaking together, one of them pointing back the way he’d come; the other also began gesturing and pointing. Could it be? I reined sharply, and Magnifique almost reared. “What is that field?” I called to them.

  “La Favourite, mademoiselle—just over there.”

  I cursed myself: was it la Favourite, was that where they were fighting?

  “But do not go in that direction, let us help you away,” one of them began saying, with a quick glance at the other.

  At that moment, two other horses and their riders came charging onto the path from that very place and bore down upon us with frightening speed. The horsemen were laying on the whips—there was the crack of leather against the animals’ flanks—and almost before I could distinguish the men’s features or anything else, they tore past. But I recognized one of them: it was Beauvallon. I reined Magnifique again and we changed direction, about to race after them. Before I could do so, there was another sound; I twisted in the saddle to see a horse and black cabriolet with its hood up come tearing down the path and past, the black horse labouring, a long whip cracking out from the hidden interior, over and over, snapping upon the creature’s hindquarters with vicious accuracy.

  Magnifique, rattled and jumpy, was turning himself in circles, as was my frightened mind. Follow those devils? Or ride to my love, who must be there in the field, just round the corner, pray God he’s safe. “Mademoiselle,” the two who’d spoken to me urged, trying to catch at my horse’s bridle. No, let go of me! Ride! I nudged Magnifique with my heels, and we galloped onwards.

  The path through the woods ended abruptly, and the space opened up. At the other side of the field, silhouetted against the far trees, I saw a carriage with two horses in harness, and the pale beauty of Enchanté, neck drooping, standing off to the side. There were a group of men gathered around… Something. On the ground. Urging Magnifique towards the group, I felt the sky was going dark again, and from my throat I could hear a strange, low sound, growing, spreading… There were two men standing and two on the ground. The men standing I didn’t recognize; one of the figures on the ground was short and stumpy, and as I approached I could make out the features and balding head of Dr. Koreff, as he bent over the other slumped upon the frozen snow. But—the other…? No… No.

  One of the standing men looked up and saw me, then began to try to wave me away. “Don’t come any closer, mademoiselle, I beg you—”

  “Is it Henri?” I cried, “Henri Dujarier?”

  Dr. Koreff looked up quickly as he heard my voice.

  “Doctor,” I called, dismounting and casting the reins onto the ground, then running towards him. “For pity’s sake!”

  And that is the moment I laid my eyes upon the figure, lying there in the doctor’s arms.

  “I regret, mademoiselle,” said Koreff, looking now at the man in his lap, “that he has just this moment died. From a bullet that entered his head at the lower right corner of his nose.”

  I threw back my head and screamed, then flung myself down onto the snow mixed with Henri’s blood, a large amount of which was leaking, congealing and freezing there beneath him. A large blue-black duelling pistol lay off to the side. My darling! His body looked so small, and his brow so very pale, as white as the snow itself. But below his brow, a large black hole, oozing with blood, had torn apart the left side of his beautiful, his gorgeous face. The face I’d loved and kissed—the rasp of his dear cheeks over every part of my body, the cheeks I’d shave for him afterwards, while we laughed and talked… His thick clumps of dark hair springing forth, now soaking wet; the crease between his brow that I’d try to rub smooth, now smoothing. The eyes that gazed upon me with all of the warmth in the universe: one now covered in gore, the other open. Inside that wonderful face—whose desecration was even now being dusted with white—behind that too smooth marble brow and the open eye, gathering snowflakes? There was nothing. He was gone. How could this be true?

  Blood began flowing in a bright, red stream from his mouth and onto the snow as Koreff lay his dear head upon the ground. I reached out to touch Henri’s hand, the one closest to me.

  It was warm, but barely perceptibly. It was also wet. How could his beloved hand already be so cold, if he had just that moment died?

  I leapt up again and ran to the gelding, smelling of blood, so that the horse skittered and backed away before I was able to grab hold of the reins. Throwing myself into the saddle, I kicked him into action—to follow the murderer—to kill him myself! Or die, as well, and follow my love. Charging wildly across the field and back onto the path, I was panting and crying over Magnifique’s neck, and the low strange sound at the back of my throat had become a full-voiced version of what it had always been: a keening of death, of love cut short, of the brutality of time and fortune. I howled and screamed and cursed like a banshee, flying at breakneck speed after them.

  And of course, though I galloped to the edge of the Bois once more and along other routes, wailing and sobbing for vengeance, there was no sign of Beauvallon, or his second, or the unknown witness in the black cabriolet. There was only blowing snow, freezing cold and the end of the world.

  To Be Continued…

  I was bent over by the side of the road, retching, as the carriage with two horses emerged from the Bois, carrying the body of Henri. Enchanté was being ridden by one of the men who’d been standing in the field. He told me his name was Charles de Boigne and that he was an old friend
of Henri’s from his youth.

  “This was a disgraceful affair, mademoiselle. I am most deeply sorry for your loss.”

  I rode back in the carriage, for I couldn’t bear to think of Henri lying there with only Koreff to watch over him. I held my darling’s hand, which grew steadily colder. I held myself steady, for his sake. For the sake of everything we’d had.

  Directly after Henri’s body had been placed upon our bed and his death had been reported, officers of the king arrived to begin the murder investigation. I’d retreated into my own room and lay upon the silent, cold bed, where the sheets and covers were still flung back from my early rising. From a time when there was still a future.

  In the course of the investigation, a note was found, left on the table for me, which I hadn’t seen in my haste to arrive in the Bois before dawn.

  It said, “My dear Lola, I am fighting with pistols this morning. At nine, it will all be over and I’ll run to hold you in my arms, unless…” So he feared, and still went ahead? Why, oh why? “A million kisses, my darling Lola, whom I love and who will be uppermost in my mind at all times, and forever. Your Bon-bon.”

  So I’d been jittering about in Dumas’ apartment when…? Oh, misery… Oh, evil, selfish man, for delaying me! And what had my darling’s night been like, alone in the dark with his madeira and his pen and ink? A new codicil to Henri’s will was found behind the locked door in our bedroom, leaving me a large bequest, including shares in the Théâtre du Palais-Royale. In the codicil he asked to be buried beside his father. Oh God… All night he must have been wracked with a feeling of doom… Why couldn’t he tell me? Why on earth didn’t he? He’d left a letter for his mother, asking her that if it went badly, to weep for him as a man who’d tried to live his life honourably, and to forgive him for their estrangement. Oh, Henri, oh, my dearest love… What could have made you do it?