Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  “I intend to.”

  “Some independent wealth is the usual first step for pursuing fame, among respectable women. Look at Marie d’Agoult. Look at me, for that matter.”

  “I have neither wealth, nor fame, nor respectability,” I countered.

  “The beginnings of notoriety, perhaps,” she said, smiling.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  I finished my glass of wine, and held it out for George to refill.

  “There is no question—men can be useful,” she mused, tipping the delicious cabernet into the glasses, first mine and then hers. “To get yourself a title, if nothing else. I did, and it’s worked out splendidly.” She raised her glass in a toast. “But think about it, won’t you?—the other thing?”

  I rolled my eyes, amused. She didn’t want to give up. I tried to imagine the kind of love she was speaking about. Then tried to imagine myself, in love again… It was very hard… It really was.

  “I’d miss it too much,” this prompted me to tell her, thoughtfully. “You know… the prick.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  At this, I snorted, and then had to be patted on the back from a sip of wine going down the wrong way. Once recovered, we laughed, clinked and both cried, “Salut!”

  Later, as I lay there, George snoring quietly to my left, my mind began drifting, one thought to another. Banned from British soil? Ridiculous. It’s where I’m from, they can’t do that. And then to imagining: England. Rolling green countryside. Sheep, and their bleating; the gambolling lambs at this time of year. Long snakes of drystone fences keeping the flocks in order. The city of Durham, where Aunt Catherine and Uncle Herbert live—with their charge, their surrogate offspring, my sweet little daughter, Emma. Emma, who’ll be eleven years old this spring: next month, in fact. Emma, the very thought of whom my darling Henri had welcomed into his loving heart…

  The only family I have, Emma is: the only person in the world I’m connected to, by blood. Well, except for my mother, but let’s not think of that… And further, I have no home, have never had one, though I long for the idea. Then, shockingly, is Emma ‘home’? Should I go there, and find out? But then I remembered: I murdered a demon. How would I explain what I have done, to my daughter? It puts me, somehow, beyond the pale—doesn’t it? A new kind of person. How should I think of myself? Where do I go from here?

  Henri’s sweet face swam into my mind. “Lola, stop now.” His beautiful smile. I curled up around it, and little by little my limbs relaxed… You’re right. I’ll try.

  *

  The next morning I was off (again). Big hugs all around, including from Chopin, while George and I had a little cry. But I felt quiet and almost hopeful as I rode away on my horse.

  On this morning, Montmartre Cemetery seemed tranquil; this time, there was a funeral in progress, and people about. With some trepidation, I rode to the scene of the fatal struggle, and dismounted. I couldn’t believe what I saw: nothing. There was absolutely no sign of disturbance. No trace of the buckets of blood that had been spilled, nor of trampled grass, nor of swordsticks flung into the earth. Everything was completely fresh and pristine. As if combed by a loving hand. There were even spring flowers in bloom.

  Shocked, I cast around a bit, to make sure that this was indeed the site—and I knew it was. But not one single clue remained to alert a soul to what had happened, just here. Erased. What can this mean, I wondered. And with the thought—like Dumas—the hair rose at the back of my neck. Thank God that he had seen the corpse, too, or I might have doubted my senses! He had reported it: why weren’t there signs of police investigation, or…? Something. Anything.

  Out of the corner of my eye, just then, a flash of movement. I looked over; behind one of the stones, there was something there. I froze. It moved again: a small, scruffy dog stepped out, little legs spread, and gave one loud bark. I nearly jumped out of my skin. After a moment of staring at each other, I clapped my hands hard, thinking to drive it away. But it stood its ground. Then bared its teeth, growling. I tried not to gorge—oh, proof enough.

  I led Magnifique back to the Dujarier headstones, looking about warily the whole way. The white rose that I had dropped lay on the earth just above Bon-bon’s grave, still almost perfect. I lifted it gently; it was scented with a heavy sweetness, so deep it almost made me cry to think of the magical energy that had created it, petal by petal—tightly furled, but designed to open. These things of beauty, forming year after year, serenely determined on their wordless path, unshaken, unwavering. Following their destiny.

  The scent of the rose brought him back to me, in that moment. I could hear him exactly: “I love you, everything about you. Never doubt that.”

  Kissing and then placing the rose on the top of Henri’s stone, I traced his carved name with my fingertips: Henri Dujarier. The heartbreaking moan.

  “Farewell.”

  I turned and swung up onto Magnifique. I was leaving behind my one true love, I knew it. But Henri was gone. Whether I stayed or not, he was gone; there was nothing of him here. Remember George’s words, I told myself, as the horse moved about restlessly and I took one final look. Something solid to fall back on, something that can help me prosper. Something like… Countess. Why not?

  I gave the gelding a nudge with my heels and we moved away, a gentle canter towards the gates. All around was birdsong. I wondered: how does one go about…? I had no idea, but would put my mind to it. Perhaps my mind was not that of an Aristotle… but really, Cleopatra didn’t do too badly. I’d simply avoid the heartache that had brought her down. After all, I was through with love.

  So what else was there—out there—to find?

  I’d go forth and see.

  We emerged into the street. With a sassy flick of the whip, Magnifique and I kicked the dust from our heels and headed north at a gallop.

  FINIS

  About The Author:

  KIT BRENNAN was born in Vancouver and grew up in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. She is a nationally produced, award-winning playwright, and teaches writing and storytelling at Concordia University in Montreal, Quebec. The Victorian era and its personalities have always been a big interest for Kit. Her play Tiger’s Heart explores the life of Dr. James Barry, who was a woman who lived her life disguised as a man in order to practice medicine, which was not an option open to women at the time. Kit divides her time between the vibrant city of Montreal and the quiet wilds and beautiful lakes of Ontario, with her husband Andrew and a variety of animal friends. Brennan is the author of Whip Smart: Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards. Visit her online at www.kitbrennan.com.

  Forthcoming from Kit Brennan and published by: Astor + Blue Editions:

  Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution! – Fall, 2014

  Whip Smart: Lola Montez Seduces America – Fall, 2015

  AFTERWORD

  The years covered in this second novel in Whip Smart: The Lola Montez Series are more extensively documented, as far as the real-life Lola’s adventures and lovers are concerned, than the mysterious year in which the first book in the series began (Whip Smart: Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards). Consequently, the list of historians and biographers I wish to thank for their excellent works about Lola or the historical personalities with whom she interacts is also longer. I should reiterate, however, that—while based on truth—Whip Smart: Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume pours the factual meetings, love affairs, animosities and dangers into an overflowing champagne fountain of adventure and intrigue. It’s a tall tale, with the kind of excess that Lola might have adored—and adored toppling, too, if she’d felt so inclined.

  For books about George Sand, I consulted Belinda Jack’s George Sand: A Woman’s Life Writ Large (Chatto & Windus, London UK, 1999); Joseph Barry (translator and editor) for George Sand: In Her Own Words (Anchor Press/Doubleday, New York, 1979); and Andre Maurois’ Lelia: The Life of George Sand (Transl. from French by Gerard Hopkins, first published by Jonathan Cape, 1953. Reprint of the 1953 ed. p
ublished by Harper, New York).

  For Alexandre Dumas, firstly, of course, I thank the man himself for his incomparable The Three Musketeers (Transl. and with an introduction by Richard Pevear, Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition, Penguin Books, 2006) and The Count of Monte Cristo (Transl. and with an introduction by Robin Buss, Penguin Books, 1996). Both of these novels were originally published during the same years: 1844-1845. For lively and informative biographies about Dumas, I consulted Claude Schopp’s Alexandre Dumas: Genius of Life (Transl. by A. J. Koch, Franklin Watts, New York, 1988); André Maurois’ Three Musketeers: A Study of the Dumas Family (Transl. by Gerard Hopkins, Jonathan Cape Ltd., 1957); and Alexandre Dumas by Michael Ross (David & Charles Inc., Vermont USA, 1981).

  Alan Walker’s masterful three volume biography of Franz Liszt was a pleasure to read. For this novel, I consulted the first volume, Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years 1811-1847 (Vol. 1), Revised Edition. Cornell University Press, New York, 1987. First ed. 1983.

  For historical information about Lola Montez, the following biographies are invaluable: Bruce Seymour’s Lola Montez: A Life (Yale University Press, 1996); Lola Montez by Amanda Darling [pseud.] (Stein and Day, Inc., New York, 1972); James Morton’s Lola Montez: Her Life and Conquests (Portrait Books: Little Brown Group, London, 2007) and the odd but fascinating volume by Horace Wyndham, The Magnificent Montez: From Courtesan to Convert (New York, Hillman-Curl, [1936?]).

  A curious enthusiast should also delve into Lola’s own interpretations and amusing bon mots, by reading Lectures of Lola Montez Countess of Landsfeld Including Her Autobiography. Kessinger Publishing’s Rare Reprints. First published by Rudd & Carleton, New York, 1858.

  I would like to thank my wonderful publishers, Astor + Blue Editions in New York, for believing in this series and giving their enthusiastic go-ahead to a long-awaited dream. Merci beaucoup to Robert Astle and Tony Viardo, for everything.

  Thanks as always to my fabulous partner, Andrew Willmer, who has lived patiently with Lola for so long, and whose storyteller’s ear, well-timed grins and chuckles, insightful suggestions and finely-tuned heart have fueled this novel, as much as the first.

  Thanks to friends and colleagues at Concordia University for their ongoing support. Huge thanks this year to Raymond Marius Boucher. Also thank you to Ted Little, Robert Reid, Nancy Helms, Marisa Lancione, Fiona Downey and Renée Dunk; to Jess Dionne, for assistance along the way; to Jose Luis (Louis) Martinez for help with Spanish. Thanks, as well, to my students in the Theatre Department for their enthusiastic interest in Lola’s adventures over the past year.

  Merci to Seán Roberts and Ann O’Brien, Jonathan and Sandra Willmer, Caroline and Gary Davis.

  A few historical notes:

  The Beauvallon/Dujarier case was truly an international scandal, and may have helped change the judicial outcome and acceptance of duelling as an ‘affaire d’honneur.’ For a full and contemporary account in English, please see Fraser’s Magazine for Town and Country, Vol. 33, May 1846, “On a Late French Trial,” pp. 621-630.

  Dr. David-Ferdinand Koreff was indeed a society doctor in Paris at this time, and he had held a university position in Berlin in animal magnetism. There was rumour that he was implicated in Marie Duplessis’ death due to his prescription of minute amounts of strychnine (Walker’s Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years 1811-1847, Vol. 1, p. 391, footnote; also Gros, Johannès, Un Courtisane romantique: Marie Duplessis. Paris, 1929.) Koreff did not, however, attend Henri Dujarier during the duel; that was a physician named Dr. De Guise.

  After Marie Duplessis’ death, Alexandre Dumas fils wrote his first novel, La Dame aux camélias, based upon his love affair with her. It was published in 1848. When he adapted it for the stage in 1852, it became an immediate success. One year later, Giuseppe Verdi set the story to music and it became the opera, La Traviata, with the female protagonist, Marguerite Gautier, renamed Violetta Valéry. The romantic, melancholy romans à clef about the small courtesan made the fortune and fame of the younger Dumas.

  Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution!

  © Copyright 2013 by Kit Brennan

  * * *

  The following is a promotional chapter of the author’s next book in the series: Whip Smart: Lola Montez Starts a Revolution! © Copyright 2013 by Kit Brennan. The promotional chapter is an uncorrected proof. Readers are requested to check all quotations against final bound book and or eBook.

  In the third and most rambunctious novel in the series, Lola Montez gallops to Bavaria and on an outrageous dare, seduces King Ludwig I. For her command performance she pulls out all the stops—demonstrating her moves as a Spanish dancer—but in the grande finale she has a hilarious and revealing wardrobe malfunction in front of the King. For her audacity and beauty she is awarded an enormous home and given the title of the Countess of Landsfeld! Lola now has it all… power, jewels, money, royalty… but can she keep enthralling Ludwig, while the pious Bavarians and rioting students are burning the city of Munich? Whip Smart is based on the true and wildly energetic Lola Montez, aka Eliza Gilbert: The Sensation of Europe.

  * * *

  …the tale bubbles with high adventure, intrigue, murder, humor, and—of course!—dollops of bodice-ripping whoopee.

  Ken J. Cuthbertson, Queen’s Alumni Review, Kingston

  HOW IT BEGINS: June 1846

  Die Reisende (The Traveller)

  The live excitement—the living connection—of a great horse beneath you, travelling fast over even ground, is like nothing else on earth to clear the head of human concerns and sorrows. On a flying horse, you live in the moment or court disaster.

  At ten o’clock in the morning, I left Paris in haste and rode at a nonstop gallop, heading north. Magnifique reacted to my urging heel with enthusiasm, delighted to be free of the dark stable where he’d spent too long, snatching at his hay and switching a restless tail. This was a horse that gloried in running, in extending his limbs—neck thrust forwards, ears turned back, black mane and tail streaming. His coppery torso and legs were well-groomed, he’d been well fed, but his love of galloping had been neglected during the months he’d stayed in Alexandre Dumas’ over-stocked stable. This was Henri’s horse—this was my horse—and I was so glad to have him back. To be on the move, stretching out—freeing ourselves at last from the bitter tragedy of Paris.

  Why north? A mad determination had come into my head as soon as I’d turned Magnifique and ridden away from Henri’s grave—and I clung to this morsel of hope. I had no other plan, any more than I had a fixed address. Following through on the wild idea would entail many hard weeks of travel, so I had to ensure we were pacing it well. Though I revelled in speed and my horse’s endurance, enjoying the changing landscape and warm spring days, I daren’t overtax him. Or myself. The aftermath of the near-death experience I’d barely survived left me as jumpy as a cat, trusting no one.

  And astonished to still be alive.

  I put up for the nights at coaching inns, keeping myself to myself, hiding my youth and figure in a shawl and bulky riding cape. I wanted to be left alone, desired no one’s company or attention. Occasional necessary encounters with the inhabitants of the small French towns and Picardy countryside, however, began to reveal a new fact: the world hadn’t stayed still while I’d mourned and battled in Paris. I could see with my own eyes that real privation was everywhere, and George Sand was right: working men (and women) were taking a beating. My artistic friends in Paris and others of the intelligentsia blamed Louis-Philippe, the Citizen King, and his faulty regime; the people in front of me, in the markets and stables, blamed more than that.

  As I ate the scanty portions of what the kitchens set before me, I listened carefully to men eating and talking at other tables in the inns. Once, in Amiens, I overheard a group of townsmen speaking heatedly with two others who were workers on the new railway line which was also heading north, mile by arduous mile. Building track for the modern, fire-breathing mode of transportation employed both skilled and unskilled men
, I gathered; its creation was laborious and dirty to some, thrilling to others—due to its extreme dangerousness. Level grades for the track needed to be cut through bedrock, and tunnels constructed that went straight through enormous hills. How was this done? By means of explosives. I learned the new devices were risky and difficult to control. They could go off erratically, before the workers got clear. I heard snatches of talk—of “les incendiaires”—and specialized phrases I interpreted as “professional fire-setters” and “black powder velocity”. At one point a rail worker banged his fist upon the table and the others howled a great laugh, a townsman crying, “Then they shall see!” Another added excitedly, “The bastards spend a fortune on their love of les feu d’artifice? So let’s give them fireworks!”

  Who were ‘the bastards’, I wondered uneasily.

  Galloping along on the following afternoon, I was amazed to see a huge crowd in a field outside the town, gathered around one of the mythological air ships—a Balloon! I’d read about these marvels years ago as a girl in boarding school, but had never seen one. They’d gone out of favour in England, deemed mere amusement or risky showmanship, not worthy of further scientific backing. But trust the French to keep alive a sense of awe and wonder, even in a time of discontent. Imagine, soaring through the skies, leaving your troubles behind! I reined Magnifique and we paused at the roadside. What a marvellous sight it was! The inflated silk Balloon, maybe fifty feet high, was covered in symbols of sun, moon, stars and clouds in glorious shades of turquoise, pink and cream; the basket below it was secured to the ground by many restraining ropes. I could hear the raucous crowd and see them jostling to get closer to the enormous inflated vessel; the airman aboard was a mere speck, agitatedly gesturing at them to stay away. Magnifique was becoming startled and frightened by the loud sounds being periodically emitted by the gases or whatever it was that was heating the thing, and though I longed to have taken a closer look, I didn’t dare. Crowds were unpredictable; things could change suddenly. We galloped onwards, and luckily, too: about two or three minutes further down the road, I heard loud bangs and flares going off into the sky, along with the Balloon, which I could see was rising swiftly. Had some idiotic promoter added feu d’artifice to the excitement, and set off rockets nearby in the field? There was screaming and shouting, with the dispersing crowd rushing in several directions. How appallingly dangerous, I thought, wondering anew at the puzzling phenomenon of humanity’s seeming desire to immolate itself for the mere thrill. Above, the Balloon soared majestically in the opposite direction. Though I admit to twisting about in the saddle several times in order to watch the marvellous thing disappearing into the clouds, I found the whole event unsettling. There was something elemental going on that I didn’t understand, and it felt too much like the clenched fist of combat.