Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  I could feel the vile heat of him, as well as smell his smoke-filled, cadaverous breath. He was so close. Only inches away.

  “Those who are privileged, those who inherit the old world order, must be struck down. The society may be breaking apart, but I never will. I will be the old warrior, a Father Merino—faithful to the death, the last Exterminating Angel…”

  I was swallowing salty tears. Tears couldn’t help Henri. Nor could they help me.

  His mind had travelled far away. “With Beauvallon’s acquittal, the two of them may flee the country, back to Guadeloupe, perhaps. But I’ll find them. I always do. They have a new debt, and they will pay.”

  His grin was stretching his lips into an even thinner line, I could hear them elongating. “Your second death—now listen how it comes…”

  I opened my eyes and looked straight into his. Black, nothing in them that I could recognize as earthborn. He had one arm out now, touching the stone for balance. His thin chest heaved with barely repressed ferocity.

  “I asked myself, as I stalked you this morning—perhaps there’s a third, is there a third? Of course there is. My signature, a happy little finale… Usually they’re dead first—but not this time. Not for you, jezebel. For you, something unique. Uniquely brutal. As a way to thank you for my one leg. The whole time they were sawing, I was thinking of you. My dreams of retribution, all those months in prison—oh, they’ve kept me going.”

  I blinked. I couldn’t take a breath, hadn’t breathed forever.

  He dropped one of the swordsticks and raised the other, its sharp point nearing my bodice, then resting upon the material, about to cut the laces that bound me in.

  “Have you guessed?” he whispered. “Have you guessed the second death, before the ultimate third?”

  I had to make him say it. “No. I haven’t, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Despite my best intentions, my voice quavered: I did know, I had understood—it was to be like the young dancer that Henri had found on our doorstep. Pray God she’d been dead first—but I’ll be alive…

  “You’ll be begging to die, believe me, puta. You’ll beg for it.” He took a drag of his little cigarette, then threw it down. “Do you want to know?”

  I nodded, staring into that alien face.

  “I will cut it off.” He leaned in, close to my ear, and said deliberately, “The one that sits over your heart. Your useless, worthless heart.”

  As he said this, my right hand was slowly approaching my waistband. I was tied so tightly, just under my rib cage, to the stone! The priest’s mad eyes were fastened upon my breasts, the tops of which were evident in my tight bodice, and which were—no doubt—revealing the thundering heartbeat that was now suffusing me with lightheadedness. With all of my fiercest concentration, and with my eyes locked upon his thin, slavering lips—showing nothing whatsoever in my face—I felt for the flick knife, easing it free, touching the handle. His vile head swooped towards my breasts, jaws open!—as I pulled, flicked it—shhhtttt!—and with utmost speed, stabbed straight up and into the demon’s jugular, shoving the four-inch blade as hard as I could up through the artery to the knife’s very hilt. At almost the same time, with a swift jerk, I jack-knifed my legs and kicked him away from me with every atom of strength fueled by terror, still gripping the handle.

  The Jesuit reeled on his one foot before falling backwards like an enormous tree crashing off its hewn trunk, the swordstick clattering after him. With the fall, as my knife pulled free of the artery, blood began to cascade out of his neck—fountains of it, spurting into the air. On his back, his arms started scrabbling around, bubbling noises began coming from his throat. Then one hand went flailing to his neck, attempting to staunch the blood, but it was hopeless. It was everywhere, gallons of it, coursing out of him at unbelievable speed. Before I could fully believe that I’d actually done it, his body jerked with a dreadful conclusiveness, and then was still.

  I sagged against the rope at my waist, trembling all over. Then, fingers shaking, I used the slippery knife to saw at the cord binding me to the headstone. When it finally cut through, I simply tumbled onto the ground in shock. I suppose it was no more than a few minutes later, though I genuinely don’t know—at any rate, after some time I was able to concentrate on cutting the leather cords of the bolas, to release my bound legs.

  There he lay, my mortal enemy and the most dreadful fiend ever imaginable. Flat on his back, lips curled in a snarl. Upper and lower row of savage teeth revealed, like those of a lamprey eel. But everything coated in thick scarlet blood, as if—having sucked the souls of his victims for sustenance—the eel had been torn loose and was lying, as if on a fishmonger’s block, in its gore, dead as dead can be, with its eyes filming over.

  Everywhere around was blood—but I was not covered in it. The shove I’d given had swivelled him, and the opened artery’s cascades had gushed everywhere else. There had been an initial spatter—a streak across my bodice, and upon my hands—but, with luck, I would be able to find Magnifique and he wouldn’t gallop away in fear of the dark, fresh scent.

  I wiped my hands on the grass, over and over. Finally, I stood. What now? Should I take myself to the police station, to tell them what had happened? Not likely. Would they believe me? Even less so. Did that make me like Beauvallon? A murderer, who left the scene of the crime? My breath hitched in my chest: no, it did not.

  I staggered off on trembling legs. I had no choice, I would leave the body there. This is a place of death—so let him lie here, dead. I needed to be gone, needed my horse. Felt no remorse—oh, not a jot. Just a wild soaring joy to be alive, when such a very few minutes before, I had prayed to die quickly—from fear if nothing else. Praying for a heart attack such as a rabbit or a deer, about to be devoured, may expire from, if they’re lucky; the kiss, perhaps, of a higher being whose love may be unknowable but offers a kind of brutal mercy. Instead, against all odds, I was alive.

  Steps away from the bulky stone family vault, I found Magnifique nervously cropping grass. I moved towards him, hand out and palm flat. He wasn’t sure… My hand began to shake; I concentrated upon holding it firm. No doubt it reeked, so I daren’t go too near like this, but the gesture itself, I hoped, was reassuring. As I cautiously approached, the gelding’s nostrils flared out and then in, he feinted a leap away, then—thankfully, oh beautiful one—decided against it and let his rein be taken.

  “Oh, lovely horse, my brave fellow…” I rested my forehead against the strong, warm curve of his neck. “Merci, mon amour. Come, come with me.”

  I swung up onto the saddle, and gingerly stroked his neck from there. Breathing deeply and slowly, I tried to keep my body from giving away its shattered nerves. He was smelling it, though—the blood—and was quickly aware of my clenched shuddering, up on his back. He began dancing sideways, snorting. I took one last look at the splayed crimson heap on the ground—to be sure the monster was truly dead—then turned Magnifique’s head, gave a gentle nudge with my heels, and off we went.

  We found the entrance to the cemetery, and from there, cantered into the street. There were still very few Parisians out and about, thank God. I clung as hard as I could to the saddle, the muscles in my thighs feeling like water. Calm, I counselled myself: keep breathing deeply. A block or two further along, I wiped at my cheek and discovered a smear of blood upon it. Shite, what do I look like? Am I covered in it? Will I be stopped? I glanced down at my bodice, my skirt, trying to gauge my dishevelment. From what I could see, now peering more closely and with growing dismay, there were a few spots and streaks here and there upon the fabric—from a distance, not alarming, surely? But then a lurch of fear: is it in my hair? On my chin? Then I spied a drying spatter upon my bosom, which had trickled down between my breasts—oh God! The idea of having the fiend’s essence upon me, anywhere—burning a hole through me by association alone—was suddenly hideous. I wanted to rip off all of my clothing, jump into a scalding bath with strong soap, and scrub and scrub. As soon as t
he thought of the blood’s taint had leapt into my head, it was all I could do to stop myself from screaming. Is he all over me? Oh Christ! Will I never get clean, will I never be free?

  Just then Magnifique laid his ears back and began to careen more recklessly down the street. He was picking up my mania, letting it infect his senses, filling him with the desire to run, to leave behind the thing that was making him so nervous. No, no—bring him back, I realized: bring yourself back, Lola! The new necessity startled me into reality, to recollection of the needs of my horse and—for the moment at least—to let go of the crime and the gore. “Look out!” I shouted at a man with a cart who was just emerging from an alley, as Magnifique lunged past and onwards. “Watch what you’re about!” the man yelled angrily, then, with concern, “Careful, mademoiselle—turn his head!”

  Luckily, we met with no further incidents and within a few minutes, I was able to urge Magnifique to slow, then to stop. We stayed where we were for several minutes, in front of a pâtisserie, while I stroked his neck, patted his shoulders; while he stamped a hoof and shook his head from side to side, bit and snaffle jingling. Inside the shop there were signs of life; I could smell delicious scents coming from their ovens.

  Where do I go, I began asking myself in great alarm, trying to remain calm for the sake of the horse. I need to recover—I need to sit down, or lie down, or something—for a moment, for a year. I need a bath, I must get clean. I’ve committed a heinous crime—have I? I’ve murdered a man. No, a beast in the shape of a man. But, in the eyes of the law, a man. Mon Dieu, will I be hanged for it? At this fearsome thought, I looked about, up and down the street. It was a main thoroughfare. I knew that eventually it led out of the city and carried on, going north. Should I fly, should I kick Magnifique into a gallop again and ride out now? But I have no money, I don’t have a plan. I don’t want to start all that again, all that fleeing and failing. I can’t, I won’t—and I won’t run away, like a coward. Like a Beauvallon. I will tell someone. Not the police, surely not them—but someone. I must.

  By instinct, I suppose, an image flared into my brain. Large brown eyes surveying me with interest—my first glimpse of the stranger who’d become my esteemed friend. Of course. Who else? I turned the horse in the direction of the Square d’Orléans—to George’s. A line from Eugène Sue’s Mystères de Paris began rolling around in my head, repeating itself: ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ A year after Bon-bon’s tragically unnecessary death, three years after Diego’s… Was it revenge I’d just taken, for Henri? For Diego? Or was it sheerly and utterly self-defence? God, I hardly knew. Magnifique had begun cantering in a stiff-legged, arched-neck manner, as if he too was cautiously avoiding a difficult truth.

  When we arrived at George’s front door, I swung down and looped Magnifique’s reins through the post at the street, then ran up the short walk and banged the knocker, looking about to see if anyone was watching. I certainly hoped not be seen. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack and Chopin peeked out. His hair was rumpled and he had slung on a silk dressing robe, which was still open, revealing purple silk pajamas.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “you are so early…” He must have seen the desperation in my face, for then he added, “You are here for George?”

  I nodded urgently.

  “Is that… Blood?”

  I nodded again, and his face blenched. “Come in.” He ushered me inside, then called up the stairs in a thin, reedy but very compelling voice: “George! Come quickly! It is Mademoiselle Lola, here for you—szybko!” He turned back to say, “She will be with you momentarily. I will take the horse to the rear, have it stabled.”

  He left, closing the front door, and then I could hear George clattering down the stairs. She arrived at the bottom in a capacious silk dressing robe, with heeled slippers on her feet, and her dark hair in a tangle.

  “Am I covered in blood?” I asked in almost a whisper.

  Her eyes widened as she took me in, from top of my head to my boots. “Are you hurt?” she cried. “What has happened?”

  “I have killed a man, George.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Mon bon Dieu.”

  She took my hand and pulled me after her into the sitting room.

  “But your upholstery…” I protested.

  “Pish, fuck the upholstery. Sit down, my sweet, and tell me what has happened.”

  So I did, and as I tried to speak, my heart began to race again and my voice to shake. “I wanted to place flowers, see my beloved’s…” I couldn’t bear it, with these words I suddenly clasped my hands over my face, bent over my knees and sobbed. George jumped up and hurried to a cabinet in the corner, where I could hear rattles and tinkles as she brought forth glasses and poured something into them. She sped back.

  “Hear, take this—no, take it!” And she pulled a hand away from my face, gently closing my fingers around the glass. “Drink.”

  After a moment, I did—and so did she—a large swallow of superior cognac to help give us courage. “Somewhat better?” she asked, and I nodded. “Then go on.”

  Now that I was with a friend, and safe, my body had dropped its brittle, coiled response to danger and left me wobbly as a jellyfish. “The body is lying in Montmartre Cemetery. There is blood everywhere.”

  A slight pause, then, “Who is it?”

  There were those eyes, gazing upon me steadily: the deep brown pools of thoughtfulness that had reminded me to hope. “The Jesuit priest I told you about. He came up behind, shoved me to the ground with his crutch. He has—he had—one leg. The other…”

  “The other…?”

  “Had been sawn off. Because of me.”

  I saw George’s eyes widen, imagined I could read what was flicking through her mind: because of Lola? How could that be? What sort of devilry is she bringing into my house? Should I call the police?

  I rose. I felt faint with the coming betrayal. “Do you wish me to leave?”

  “Do I—?” She seemed taken aback. “Not at all, I wish you to sit down and drink up, my sweet.”

  I did both things, and felt slightly better.

  “Do you need—perhaps you should lie down?” she asked.

  I shook my head, tried again to explain. “I ran, but—he came after me.”

  “But with one leg…?”

  “He could hop, George, he could hop like a gigantic reptile.”

  At this she shrieked. “Merde! Bon Dieu!” She grabbed up a sofa cushion and held it under her chin, peering at me with eyes as large as two round saucers. Then, “Sacre!” she swore, throwing the cushion to the floor and holding a hand out, imperiously. “Glass.” She took it, marched with both our glasses over to the cabinet and poured another large measure each. Once she’d delivered it, and we’d both had a sip, she sat again. Strangely, her large reactions were helping me to understand, even more fully, the horror of what had just happened to me, and the miracle of my survival.

  I told her the rest as quickly as possible; as I spoke, shivering, it felt as if the match had been fated, had always awaited me. A wail, quickly suppressed, from George, when I tried to explain what he’d vowed to do to me.

  “Oh my God, that’s enough. Up, Lola, let’s get you upstairs, get you out of those things and—”

  Drawing the knife from my soiled waistband, I showed it, flicked it open. It fell from my nerveless fingers onto the floor. George stared at the blood-smeared object with revulsion.

  “What are you going to do with me?” I asked, now almost numb. Suddenly I didn’t know what would happen, and at that moment I was almost too tired to care. Would she deliver me to the authorities? Would I have to go through another trial, only to end up…?

  She slid across the sofa to clasp me in her arms, squeezing me tightly. After a few moments, she said, “You’d better put that away,” with an appalled wave at the knife. So I did. We sat in silence as my heart began to set
tle. Then George became very practical.

  “We must find out what’s happening. I can’t send Chopinsky, he’s useless at these things, and besides, he has a cold. No, I’ll go to Alex, send him to the cemetery—right away!—so that he can discover the body if it hasn’t yet been found. He’ll know what to look for. We don’t want the authorities to be able to trace anything back to you. Do you agree?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Upstairs, Lola, come on! I’ll send my maid to make you comfortable, whatever you need.”

  “A bath. Oh God, a bath.”

  “Of course! Of course, a bath!—with lots of soap.”

  The maid received instructions, I was taken upstairs to a pretty bedroom, and then began an enormous amount of bustling action as my bath was readied, warm towels were placed beside the tub, and curtains were closed for privacy. Along with all of that, I could hear doors banging, George’s voice calling out, then Chopin’s wheezy coughs as he climbed the stairs and got back in under his own covers. After that, silence. The efficient maid offered (with some trepidation, I couldn’t help but see) to take care of my clothing, and supplied me with a dress belonging to the countess. She also volunteered to wield the scrub brush, but for this I thanked her and sent her away. I sank into the water with relief, scrubbed myself almost raw before calling for fresh water and more towels—greedy for them—then plunging in again to the clean, hot water and splashing my face, my breasts, my neck, scrubbing at my hands and under my fingernails like a veritable Lady Macbeth, over and over again.