The Mistress of Paris

by Catherine Hewitt

  ‘I have just read a curious book: Isola, by a new writer who signs herself Ego,’ wrote a sly Albert Wolff. ‘It is the literary debut of a beautiful woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mlle Valtesse, a former actress in the days before she was dining out at Bignon’s.’37 Other reviewers followed Wolff’s lead, pouncing on the similarities between author and heroine. ‘It is Mlle Valtesse described by Mlle Valtesse,’ declared one critic. ‘Have you noticed how, whenever women speak of themselves, they most want to say that they are strange, bizarre?’38 Criticisms of the book were overlooked, the flaws were far outweighed by ‘spicy details, a fair bit of spirit […] and even some heart’ in what was clearly an ‘autobiography of a pleasant person’.39 Albert Wolff was decided: ‘Isola, my dear, is not a book: it is a prospectus.’40

  Parisians needed little convincing from the critics: Isola was a confession of Valtesse’s most intimate thoughts, and judging by her colourful existence, there were bound to be scandalous revelations. Scrupulous readers combed the novel’s pages for gossip and titillating disclosures as to the identity of the real courtesan’s amorous conquests.

  Valtesse was amused. Parisians were sorely mistaken if they thought her capable of sabotaging her most valuable asset – her mystery. Valtesse’s discretion prevailed, and appetites were whetted but never satisfied.

  But pre-empting the public’s assumption that she had modelled Isola on herself, Valtesse used the novel to highlight her proudest features, justify her behaviour, and fuel the enigma that surrounded her. Most importantly, the novel broadcasted her intelligence. Isola’s bright mind was immediately attributed to Valtesse: ‘She had an ardent thirst for knowledge. The unknown, the marvellous attracted her. She would get frustrated when she did not understand something, filled with furious hatred […] She constantly asked questions.’41

  Just as Valtesse had hoped, the novel caused a stir and reinforced her public image. But for critics, the greatest surprise of all was the writing; it was good. Could she really have written it herself, people wondered? At first, the author of the minor literary work Mémoires d’un décavé, M. Fervacques, was suspected of having ghosted the novel, but to Valtesse’s relief, the myth was soon dispelled. The skill was all Valtesse’s own. ‘She writes very well,’ approved one critic.42 ‘She is a good-hearted young lady, not at all foolish,’ commended Albert Wolff. ‘She is one of the rare young Parisian ladies whose fast-paced lifestyle has not turned her into a perfect floozy.’ Coming from Wolff, that was praise indeed. Valtesse was thrilled when Wolff’s article earned her yet another nickname: the ‘Sévigné des cabinets particuliers’ or ‘Sévigné of private dining rooms’, after the 17th-century female literary icon, Mme de Sévigné. It was a triumph.

  After a flurry of excitement, the hype surrounding Isola died down quickly. Still, for a time, Valtesse basked in the increased attention. The novel also steered her towards yet more celebrated authors, not least Guy de Maupassant, who became a firm friend and a fascinating dinner companion. Conversation was never dull.

  Nonetheless, discussion in fashionable salons inevitably followed the ebb and flow of taste. Interest soon turned to the next new novel on the market. In 1877, the year after Isola, Valtesse began hearing another, more established author’s name. Soon, people could speak of no one else. The writer had just published a scandalous new work. It was going to revolutionise literature as people knew it. It was daring, it was shocking and it rocked Paris. How could the feat be repeated, wondered Paris’s literati? Valtesse listened intently. The author was Émile Zola. The novel was L’Assommoir. And even before the hype had dissipated, Zola had begun planning his next landmark novel. His new book would affect Valtesse more directly. Isola would not be the last time she revelled in the literary spotlight: Valtesse was about to become the star of Zola’s next masterpiece.

  CHAPTER 10

  Valtesse and Zola’s Nana

  By the end of the 1870s, Valtesse had become one of the most talked-about women on the Parisian social circuit. With her high-profile lovers, her beauty, wit, luxurious lifestyle and now the publication of Isola, in her late 20s, Valtesse was enjoying all the attention of a royal celebrity. Barely a week passed when her activities were not reported in the papers.

  At the Opéra-Comique ball in March 1878, Valtesse made the front page of Le Gaulois, which dedicated a full paragraph to describing her dress, a sumptuous gown of white satin with lace sleeves, covered in turquoise net and trimmed with ribbons and Spanish lace, a tambourine giving the finishing touch to her costume.1 A few weeks later, she was spotted at the Théâtre de l’Ambigu, perfectly at ease in the company of the celebrated author Victor Hugo and the darling of Paris’s theatre scene, the actress Sarah Bernhardt.2

  Valtesse had become an expert in using the media to her advantage. She ensured that she was seen at all the fashionable premieres, balls, dinners, soirées and concerts. She paid scrupulous attention to her appearance, and her wardrobe was constantly updated. Her dresses were ordered from the Empress Eugénie’s sought-after tailor, Charles Worth. Her brooches were fashioned by Paris’s most revered jewellers. Her pearls were among the finest specimens imported from the Far East. Even her choice of friends was closely vetted so that she would be shown to her advantage; she was invariably accompanied by a brunette (a suitable contrast to her red and gold locks) such as Gabrielle Dupuy or Léontine Miroy, fellow socialites whose moderate prettiness posed no threat to her own mesmerising beauty.

  With her media exposure, Valtesse could hardly escape the attention of such a keen-eyed observer of society as the author Émile Zola. Indeed, by 1878, Zola’s colleague, the novelist Léon Hennique, could make a passing reference to Valtesse using only her first name when he wrote to Zola, testimony that she had achieved the ultimate celebrity status.3 As it happened, the courtesan and the novelist moved in similar circles and shared a number of acquaintances, including Gervex and, more particularly, Offenbach, Valtesse’s former lover, who had often been the victim of Zola’s critical pen.4 They were both avid fans of the fashionable restaurant Bignon too, even if the reasons for their patronage differed: Valtesse went to be seen, Zola to satisfy his hearty appetite.

  In 1878, Zola was furiously busy. He had just embarked on the most thrilling stage of writing: he was beginning a new novel. His focus was entirely absorbed. His latest work was to form part of his epic ‘Rougon-Macquart’ series, a multi-volume project subtitled ‘The Natural and Social History of a Family Under the Second Empire’.5 Zola was excited. The new novel would tell the tale of a beautiful young courtesan who held Parisian society spellbound and would eventually cause their ruin. Capitalising on the resounding success of L’Assommoir (1877), Zola planned to resume the story of Nana, the precocious young daughter of a pair of alcoholic parents, whom readers had met in his earlier novel.

  In L’Assommoir, Zola had depicted the teenage Nana as a cheeky little miss and a determined flirt, who was sexually mature and whose irresistible beauty helped her survive on the street, where she won countless male admirers. Accepting gifts and treats, she could already see a route out of her impoverished surroundings. In the novel Zola was about to devote to her, he would plot Nana’s continued ascent. Now an adult, she would use her looks and sexual charisma to win a role in the theatre, despite being utterly devoid of talent. Nana would cast a spell, reducing men from all levels of society to biddable servants, slaves to her slightest whim, with just a sway of her shapely hips or a flick of her long golden hair. Though essentially good-hearted, Nana would prove herself unscrupulous, even ruthless, when she had set her heart on something. She would ruin marriages and devour fortunes, making vice her profession and pleasure her master. Nana would be the very embodiment of the corruptive forces that Zola believed were rotting society from within. He had every hope that her story would inspire a similar response to L’Assommoir.

  But in his dogmatic attachment to his plot, Zola had fashioned himself a complex creative challenge: he knew nothing of the d
emi-monde. Valtesse’s world was strange and unfamiliar to him. He had heard stories, yes. He had often whiled away an evening in the company of his fellow writers, listening solemnly as they told tales of women, of dubious cafés and bars and sordid encounters. Wide-eyed, he had heard Guy de Maupassant and Gustave Flaubert chuckling as they shared colourful anecdotes of their own amorous conquests. The puritanical Zola had publicly expressed his disgust for poorly written tales of the demi-monde. They seemed to him crafted expressly to titillate youths. He longed to read ‘the true story of the demi-monde’ – ‘if,’ he conceded, ‘anyone should ever dare write such a thing’.6 With Nana, Zola set out to embrace his own challenge.

  From the outset, Zola was determined that his novel should be different. As a journalist, he was automatically exposed to the gossip that circulated about renowned courtesans like Blanche d’Antigny and Cora Pearl. But the novelist had never encountered such women, nor frequented the places of which his more worldly literary colleagues spoke with such authority. For Nana to be a success, he needed accurate research material. So early in 1878, while Valtesse’s attention was absorbed with balls and suppers and elegant soirées, Zola’s quest began.

  With his characteristically meticulous approach to research, Zola began to interrogate his closest associates to see who could shed light on to this unknown and curious world. ‘Tell me, Paul,’ journalist Paul Alexis recalled Zola asking, ‘how does one pay a street woman? Does one settle the bill before or after?’7 His naivety aroused sniggers and condescending looks. But passion came before pride, and his candidness reaped rewards: all sorts of tales and gossip on some of the leading courtesans of the day began to emerge. He listened attentively, his pen moving frantically as he took copious notes.

  By chance, Flaubert’s friend Edmond Laporte turned out to be something of an expert in such matters. He imparted a wealth of tantalising detail on the routine and habits of courtesans such as Valtesse’s acquaintance Alice Regnault and Caroline Letessier. A courtesan would rise and take a bath scented with cologne while her hairdresser tended to her locks, Zola was told. She would be joined by a lover for lunch, after which she would take a nap before her afternoon promenade. Dinner and society were the order of the evening. The night – well, the night was limited only by the bounds of the imagination.8 His mind racing, Zola noted every detail.

  Novelist Henri Céard (in whose company Zola would spend many a pleasant evening in the town of Médan following his purchase of a property there that May), also had pearls of wisdom to impart. Flaubert and Arsène Houssaye came to the inexperienced novelist’s aid with the names of several female contacts who could prove useful. And Alexis shared fascinating insights on lesbian activity in Paris.

  But the most useful contact proved to be fellow writer and satirist Ludovic Halévy, who had made a name for himself as Offenbach’s librettist, and whom Valtesse also knew well. Through Halévy, Zola won the invaluable opportunity to view actress Hortense Schneider’s dressing room at the Théâtre des Variétés, where the fictional Nana would make her theatre debut. Schneider’s much-discussed affair with the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII, provided rich material for a spicy subplot in the form of Nana’s affair with the Prince of Scotland. Halévy also arranged for Zola to visit the actress Anna Judic. The primary motivation for Zola’s visit was to convince Judic (ultimately unsuccessfully) to take the role of his anti-heroine Gervaise, Nana’s mother, in a stage version of L’Assommoir. Even so, Nana was at the forefront of his creative mind when he accompanied Halévy to the Variétés at the end of April. He used his encounter with Judic to create Rose Mignon, Nana’s rival.9

  As 1878 unfolded, Zola’s notebook began to swell. He could start to feel satisfied with his research. Visits and collated gossip were amassing to produce a pleasing dossier of material. However, too much of his research material was coming second- or even third-hand. He needed to meet one of these women in her own environment, to smell her perfume, to watch how she held herself, to scrutinise her character and to understand her innermost thought processes. And there was a further area in which Zola knew his research was painfully sparse: he sorely needed material to embellish and authenticate his description of the opulent apartment Nana would move into when she reached the height of her fame.

  How could he access this vital information? Who could he meet? Once again, his friends came to his rescue. One woman, he learned, could fulfil all these requirements.

  It was Halévy who first spoke enthusiastically to Zola about Valtesse. He eulogised the charms of this captivating redhead, with her milky white complexion, her piercing blue eyes, her perfectly straight nose, her sharp wit, her literary talents, her fabulous apartment and the spectacular bed she had had commissioned. Zola was eager to know more. This woman was said to be ‘naturally beautiful, effortlessly spiritual, an artist with no formal training’, being able to ‘paint, write and play the piano quite naturally, having no tutor beside her own willpower’.10 This mysterious comtesse, Zola learned, prided herself on being ‘able to transform the first lover who came along into a docile slave with a mere click of her fingers’.11 Zola was fascinated. He had to know more.

  So Halévy recounted an anecdote. One day, Valtesse was caught by one of her highest paying lovers in the arms of a penniless young man. The rich suitor was furious. Stunned, Valtesse declared his reaction preposterous. Surely her predicament was clear: the young man’s poverty made it impossible to refuse his request.12 The story tickled Zola. Such a quick and spirited response appealed to his dry sense of humour. It was decided: he simply had to meet this woman.

  With his curiosity piqued and his hunger for accuracy driving him, Zola implored Léon Hennique to arrange an introduction.13 Hennique was a great friend of Valtesse’s. He would surely be able to engineer a meeting. As Zola waited for a response, a perusal of Isola would be wise preparation. It might even prove a source of ideas (few of Zola’s contemporaries would spot the striking similarity between the opening scene of Nana at the Théâtre des Variétés and the first chapter of Valtesse’s earlier novel).

  Valtesse knew that her ability to engage in intelligent, well-informed conversation gave her the edge over women deemed merely ‘pretty’. Together, intellectual capital and beauty provided the key to her security. And there was always more to learn; her knowledge must continue to expand. Her self-education was an ongoing project that required her to read as often and as widely as possible. Despite that, Valtesse had never considered Zola’s novels a necessary part of her education. His books had no place on her shelf.

  Nonetheless, when Valtesse learned of Zola’s desire to meet her, she could not help but be impressed. Zola was one of the leading French novelists of the day. He was a literary celebrity. Valtesse’s quick mind and ironic sense of humour drew her towards those who exhibited the same. Zola had made a name for himself with just the kind of devastating critiques which entertained her. And quietly, secretly, Valtesse glowed with the flattery of Zola’s interest.

  Valtesse’s media profile was of the utmost importance to her. Here was the chance to become the star of the famed novelist’s next work. She could flaunt her wealth and her tastefully furnished home, yet remain shielded behind the protective veil of fiction. She could enjoy all the attention without having to reveal too much of herself, and so tease her public’s curiosity. It was an irresistible opportunity. She promptly agreed to Zola’s request, and dispatched a formal invitation to Hennique and Zola to attend a supper at her apartment, to which Gervex and the artist Dupray, as well as her lawyer friends Émile Strauss and Lucien Jullemier, were also cordially invited.

  Zola could not have hoped for a more favourable response. The evening would provide rich material on which to base Nana’s luxurious home, the dinner party he intended her to host there and most importantly, her bed. It was a thrilling prospect.

  Valtesse was renowned for her perfectly choreographed dinners, where carefully selected dishes were presented on Oriental porcelain
and silverware and accompanied by expensive wines served in her prized Venetian glass carafes. The dinner designed to greet Zola demanded her usual degree of care and dedication. But the cook would have to be given especially meticulous instructions: Zola was a notorious gastronome. Everyone knew that this novelist could eat for three men. When abroad, it was the food Zola complained about most bitterly. ‘God sent us food,’ he grumbled to his publisher, ‘but the devil invented English cooks.’14 Certainly, this dinner required careful planning. The novelist must leave with the best possible impression – Valtesse’s reputation depended on it.

  So it was that one evening in 1878, Zola’s carriage drew up outside 98, Boulevard Malesherbes and its passenger stepped out into the courtyard, as he prepared to dine with one of the most celebrated courtesans in Paris. Following the footman up to the salon on the first floor, the introspective, puritanical novelist’s beady eye darted around, his senses heightened, as he absorbed every detail.

  Finally, he was witnessing for himself the palatial surroundings those exotic creatures, the courtesans, inhabited. The rooms were grand, solemn and richly furnished – self-consciously so. The artwork and sculptures were undeniably impressive; yet they reflected such a melange of different periods and styles that the overall effect was one of confusion. In Zola’s view, the decor betrayed an amateur artistic eye. Every room was overfilled with objects, so that the sounds throughout the house were muffled. And what was that potent floral smell that permeated the air, Zola wondered? The novelist felt certain he recognised the intoxicating scent of violets.