Only in 1889 was lesbianism revisited in a serious sociological study, when A. Coffignon published his treatise on corruption in Paris.3 The term ‘lesbian’ did not yet exist; saphisme, as he called it, was still ‘a relatively new word’, though the phenomenon was ancient.4 It was, he insisted, an ‘evil which has lain dormant for a long time but which recently has made enormous progress’.5 Coffignon pursued: ‘In certain sections of society, it is not only an acknowledged vice but is flaunted.’6 His views were damning, but Coffignon had hit upon an uncomfortable truth: by the 1890s, lesbianism had become wildly fashionable.
Coffignon’s work unleashed a chain of scientific and sociological studies of lesbianism. Léo Taxil’s Fin-de-siècle Corruption (1891) pitched lesbianism as yet another outcome of social decadence, while Julien Chevalier’s Sexual Inversion (1893) pinned the blame on hereditary defects and female emancipation.7 Meanwhile, medics saw the rise of lesbianism as further confirmation of women’s latent mental inferiority.8 Views on the causes differed, but on one point critics were unanimous: in the threat it posed to the country’s demographic situation, lesbianism was unnatural and dangerous.
The Napoleonic Code of 1804 had made no legal provision for penalising private acts of lesbianism: provided they were not seen, women could love each other fully, physically, as much and as often as they desired.9 The authorities were powerless and the critics enraged. This sordid vice must be stamped out.
As a city, Paris had blossomed with particular vivacity into a hotbed of lesbian activity. ‘For several years now,’ Chevalier remarked, ‘lesbianism, in Paris and in most capital cities, [has] taken on alarming proportions.’10 The corruptive potential of literature on women readers had always been monitored with suspicion; now, the arts as a whole were vehemently denounced for their hazardous influence on the female population. From painting and literature to the theatre, and including café society, modern Paris, sociologists scorned, had only itself to blame. Its soil provided fertile ground for the roots of lesbianism to take hold.
Few could deny that lesbianism was flourishing with especial vigour in Paris’s literary and bohemian circles. When darkness fell, groups of women drew close in low-lit bars and cafés, or else they would gather in intimate soirées, their activities exciting the creative appetites of novelists and artists, while provoking the wrath of the authorities.
The fashion-conscious Valtesse, who had distrusted men since her heart was broken by Richard Fossey and was known for her stoical, even merciless, approach to her work, was immediately cast as a follower of this rising trend. Valtesse had always enjoyed the company of her female friends and publicly expressed her incredulity at men’s failure to understand women. Besides, sharing tales of romantic woes and ridiculing men was therapeutic. Valtesse loved to gather her girlfriends together regularly so that they could exchange gossip and advice. Taking tea offered the perfect opportunity.
Tea had been a popular beverage in Europe since the 17th century, but it was not until the 1830s that England’s Duchess of Bedford launched the fashion of afternoon tea as a meal.11 Plagued by hunger pangs between lunch and dinner, the Duchess concluded that a light repast between the two (consisting of sandwiches, pastries and cakes served with tea) would be a pleasant way to stave off her appetite in the company of friends. The English vogue for afternoon tea was set, firmly establishing itself as a social ritual which was replicated throughout Europe.
The wave of Anglomania sweeping the continent at the end of the 19th century carried the fashion of afternoon tea across the Channel, where it found a firm foothold in Parisian society. All over Paris, elegant hostesses hurried to imitate the trend, poring over conduct manuals to familiarise themselves with English menus, style and etiquette. If a person wanted to imitate a true English tea, a certain protocol must be adopted – and everybody knew that the English took their tea at five o’clock.
‘The neophyte must be warned against arriving too early,’ cautioned one English etiquette manual, ‘for “come at four” is only our old friend four to seven, in disguise – a polite euphemism for five o’clock.’12
The English were adorable, though why they refused to say what they really meant bewildered French hostesses. A simple solution was found: from the 1880s, Paris’s social elite referred to afternoon tea in the English, as a ‘five o’clock’.
In 1883, Gil Blas explained the fashion for its perplexed readers:
A person does not pay visits anymore; it is all about the five o’clock, that English import recently made fashionable by the Comtesse de Saint-Félix. With our taste for independence, this manner of socialising should prove a great success. People meet up each day at a fixed time, and while tea is taken, reputations are made and destroyed, fashions are set, and nobody chats anymore, everyone gossips. The news of the day is shared between sandwiches, and I can assure you that everything which is said, everything which happens, everything which is done in Paris is repeated during this meeting. […] While this kind of reception is informal, it does not prevent our elegant ladies appearing in their finest toilettes, since this is where new fashions are launched. These gatherings allow visitors to come in their most elegant attire on their way home from the Bois, and a special kind of dress has already been adopted.13
Doctors were soon fretting that the new fashion would wreak havoc with the fairer sex’s delicate digestive system. ‘A woman should avoid all these snacks, lunches and five o’clocks, formidable enemies to the stomach,’ warned Gil Blas’ Dr Monin.14
But if food had catalysed the social ritual, it was no longer the central focus, nor was overeating considered the most perilous byproduct. Afternoon visits and invites to tea had long been furnishing upper-class women and artists like Mary Cassatt with an acceptable social context outside the secure environment of home where they could meet without compromising their reputations. Now, the formal rise of the ‘five o’clock’ breathed new life into the business of taking tea, inferring it with chic prestige. And so while the afternoon tea guest was not exclusively female, women took full advantage of the opportunity to socialise with other members of their sex and demonstrate their awareness of fashion. In a period marked by female emancipation, there could be nothing more dangerous.
While defiantly Parisienne, Valtesse embraced the trend for all things English with as much verve as other ladies in her social circle. English elegance impressed her; the ceremony with which they conducted the simple ritual of taking tea was charming. By the 1890s, Valtesse’s all-female ‘five o’clocks’ had become the talk of Paris. Sometimes she held them on the Boulevard Malesherbes, and occasionally in Ville-d’Avray; but whichever of her luxurious residences she elected as her venue, the Comtesse de la Bigne’s afternoon teas were the must-have invitation. Unusually for such gatherings, many of her ‘five o’clocks’ were reported in the papers, simply because the company Valtesse kept was considered a reliable gauge and checklist of Paris’s most fashionable faces.
‘There were several beautiful women at Valtesse’s last five o’clock,’ reported a society page in the 1890s.15 From the captivating Blanche Duvernet to the exquisitely lovely Angèle de Chartres, the most sought-after socialites in Paris could be seen alighting from carriages at Valtesse’s sumptuous abode whenever she was hosting a tea.
The self-styled Ego derived immeasurable pleasure from surrounding herself with women who admired her, whether for her bright mind, her beauty or her astounding success – preferably all three. Conversation was frequently impassioned, particularly where the subjects of love and the opposite sex were concerned.
Is platonic friendship between a man and a woman ever truly possible, one of the ladies enquired one autumn afternoon as the women sat sipping their tea and nibbling cakes in Valtesse’s comfortable sitting room in Ville-d’Avray, while gazing absent-mindedly at her verdant, sloping garden?16
‘Yes, it is possible, and indeed quite common,’ nodded Blanche.
The others laughed. How naive; she was being ridic
ulous.
‘No!’ objected Suzanne Dalmont, a woman known for her good sense and sound mind.
As always, Valtesse had something to say on the matter. Her eyes sparkled whenever she felt passionately about a subject, as she did now. She believed she recalled a poem. Perhaps she could remember it:
You say friendship, I say love,
but the soul can combine both of the above:
the ideal form of happiness I believe, Madame, might
be that I were your friend in the morning, and your lover come the night.
There were giggles and gasps, and several of the ladies declared themselves shocked, playfully scolding their hostess for her cheeky recital.
Such amusement was a regular feature of the get-togethers. Valtesse cherished them. At her ‘five o’clocks’, Valtesse’s salon became her stage, her girlfriends, an adoring audience – and she delighted in her role as both director and leading lady.
The props she employed merely increased her subjects’ admiration. Guests could be served from her gleaming silver tea and coffee pots, decorated with laurel leaves. Or for bigger parties, she might select the cups and saucers from her 55-piece set of Sèvres porcelain bearing Napoleon III’s crest, with its fine chocolate pot – perfect whenever she expected a guest with a sweet tooth.
As the woman’s position in society grew more assured, Valtesse found it refreshing and stimulating to exchange ideas on the changing female condition with like-minded companions. In addition to her own parties and her girlfriends’ invitations, Valtesse began to attend the women-only gatherings now being organised across Paris.
Certain bars and brasseries were reputed for the warm welcome they extended to their female clientele – and everybody knew that more was exchanged than just gossip. By the 1890s, several bars in the Montmartre district had become notorious.
One of the earliest and most celebrated female haunts was the brasserie Le Hanneton at number 75, Rue Pigalle. It was run by the formidable Mme Armande Brazier, whom all the regulars knew as Amandine.17 With its dark red curtains, low lighting and small tables – ideal for intimate exchanges – Le Hanneton was unlike other bars. Elsewhere, women went looking for men; here, a contemporary guide explained, ‘they come looking for each other’.18 In the evening, it was rare to see a man at all. Women of different classes drew close around tables, their bodies enlaced, as they exchanged cigarettes, sweets and kisses.
A little further up the street, at number 7, was Le Rat Mort (‘The Dead Rat’), so named, popular anecdote held, in memory of the fate which befell a rodent who disturbed a couple’s moment of intimacy while they dined there.19 Known for its demi-mondaine clientele, Le Rat Mort’s reputation soon extended in response to its increasing numbers of lesbian patrons. It was open all hours, and its convenient second entrance on the Rue Frochot gave visitors the option of leaving discreetly if they wished. Between three and four in the morning, clusters of pretty women could be found savouring the moist sensation of oysters sliding down their throats, or devouring cold meats, while champagne warmed their smiles and numbed their inhibitions. Only when the sun began to rise did the female diners step unsteadily out on to the street and weave their way back through Paris arm in arm.
Valtesse lived conveniently near the Montmartre district. She could even walk to Le Rat Mort if she wished. Casual homosexual experimentation was the norm in Valtesse’s circle. It was more unusual not to participate, and Valtesse was often seen out with women known to be lesbians. But she was discreet: she never gave the press solid proof that she herself was of that persuasion. Journalists were more useful when their curiosity was excited. Not that her vigilance made much difference; in the world of journalism, inferences were as good as facts, and just as proliferating to readership.
‘A juicy piece of gossip has just reached me,’ stirred a journalist in Gil Blas one December, ‘which might not interest members of the bearded sex, but will be warmly welcomed by the ladies who observe the religion of Saint Sappho. The Villa des Aigles, […] is going to reopen its doors, which remained closed last year as a mark of respect: now, the beautiful Gabrielle de Guestre has been restored to health, and this happy event warms the heart of the chatelaine of Villa des Aigles, the heraldic Valtesse de la Bigne.’20 There would be much celebrating, the journalist assured readers provocatively, as Valtesse and her girlfriends spent the long winter nights around her welcoming table – gathered close.
At the heart of the speculation was the certainty that Valtesse had formed close friendships with women known to enjoy same-sex relationships. Émilienne d’Alençon was a full twenty years younger, but like Valtesse, she was blessed with naturally even features, an asset that helped her launch a performing career. At the Cirque d’été in 1890, Émilienne sashayed confidently on to the stage in a costume that bordered on indecent, pursued by a warren of performing rabbits. The creatures had been dyed pink and each fitted with a ruffled collar.21 At Émilienne’s command, the rosy bunnies operated a tiny see-saw, jumped over candles and even took it in turns to fire a miniature pistol. The crowd erupted into peals of laughter and wild applause. The fluffy creatures’ beautiful tamer was deluged with bouquets as she left the stage, and the act was found a slot at the Folies Bergère.
But it was less her stage presence than her relationship with a high-profile celebrity, the young Duc Jacques d’Uzès, that propelled Émilienne to fame by the time she was twenty. The Duc was the first in a long line of eminent lovers, which included the Belgian King Leopold II and that unofficial rite of passage of all French courtesans, the future King Edward VII. By the mid-1890s, Émilienne was considered one of Paris’s most promising young courtesans.
With her soft blonde curls, her expression of childish innocence (despite firm proof to the contrary) and the pretty dimples which appeared whenever she gave her infectious little chuckle, men and women alike fell under Émilienne’s spell. She had ‘enormous golden eyes’, the courtesan Liane de Pougy reflected, and ‘the finest and most brilliant complexion!’22 Then, with ‘a proud little mouth, a tip-tilted nose you could eat’ and an oval face, Émilienne epitomised the figure of the silly but adorable blonde.23 It was a misperception that delighted Émilienne. It carried her far. In fact, she was sly and ‘could be beastly’, Liane recalled, remembering how Émilienne had once tricked her into shamefully underdressing for a party, on the premise that Émilienne would wear the same outfit; she did not.24 Liane arrived at the party in her dreary ensemble and looked around awkwardly to locate her friend. Finally, Émilienne wafted in, ‘resplendent in sumptuous white and gold brocade, dripping with diamonds, pearls and rubies, her curls full of sparkling jewels.’25 Incredibly, Liane forgave her; Émilienne ‘was really so pretty that one couldn’t hold it against her’.26
Valtesse prized loyalty, but public displays of confidence always won her admiration, if not her approval. With their ambitious natures and their princely admirers, Valtesse and Émilienne had much in common. While she could be artful, even cruel, Émilienne was acutely sensitive to other women’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Besides, a courtesan of Valtesse’s standing commanded respect. How much a new recruit could learn from such a woman. And while Valtesse was vocal about her belief that same-sex relationships were a shamefully un-lucrative waste of an evening, her pride was always polished when an admirer, male or female, found her attractive.
From the end of the 1880s, Valtesse and Émilienne were spotted mingling, talking and laughing at the same social functions. Together, they were considered among the cream of Paris’s prettiest horizontales. At the races, at theatre opening nights, at balls and concerts, the women, one fresh-faced and plucky, the other elegant and self-assured, presented two glorious snapshots of different stages in the life of the Parisienne. People whispered that Valtesse and Émilienne’s affection for each other ran deeper than friendship. The speculation amused Valtesse. ‘Give a little,’ Valtesse always advised her female friends, ‘but leave a lot to be desired.’27 Mystery was
a woman’s most precious asset. She told the press nothing.
But Valtesse’s intimate girlfriends all knew that however much time they spent with her, however close they might believe themselves to the enigmatic redhead, there was one companion with whom they could never compete. Only one occupied the coveted position of Valtesse’s favourite. That woman was Liane de Pougy.
Born Anne-Marie Chassaigne in 1869, few could have predicted that the pale-faced, lanky schoolgirl, the butt of all her classmates’ jokes, would blossom into one of the fin de siècle’s greatest courtesans.28 On completing her convent education, Mlle Chassaigne married a naval officer, Armand Pourpe, when she was just seventeen. ‘Yo’ husban’ look too husbandish!’ hissed Anne-Marie’s Creole neighbour, the grandmotherly Maman Lala, before the wedding.29 How Anne-Marie wished she had heeded the warning; the marriage was a bitter disappointment. Pourpe’s character made Anne-Marie desperately miserable, and a traumatic labour with her first child did nothing to alleviate her suffering. Deceived by life, intrigued by the unknown, Anne-Marie sought solace in other men’s arms. When M. Pourpe found his wife in bed with a lover, he fired a gunshot in fury. The bullet hit Anne-Marie, puncturing her skin but handing her the passport to freedom that she had only dreamed about. With 400 francs and more hope than belongings, Anne-Marie boarded a train and arrived in Paris in 1890 ready to begin a new life.
Turn-of-the-century Paris was bright and dazzling, as daunting as it was exciting. With no idea what she would do or where she would go, the tall, willowy, chestnut-haired newcomer lodged with a friend in the Rue de Chazelles in the Plaine Monceau quarter of Paris while she considered her next move.
Opposite her friend’s apartment was that of the celebrated courtesan Louise Balthy.30 Then 28 years old, Mme Balthy was elegance itself. She had her own apartment, dressed in expensive silk, velvet and fur, and rode in fine carriages. As a courtesan, she had arrived. Anne-Marie was star-struck. Whenever the jingle of horses’ harnesses announced the great woman’s departure or arrival, Anne-Marie flew to the window of her friend’s living room where she slept to gaze in awe at the magnificent horizontale as she passed. The flash of rich clothing and the aura of majesty offered a tantalising glimpse into the luxurious world a courtesan inhabited. A deep longing stirred inside Anne-Marie. Balthy personified all that she hungered for and signposted the means of achieving it. If a girl was young and single and could use her appearance to seduce, all this could be hers. Anne-Marie was decided. Changing her name to the more fashionable ‘Liane’ and adopting the noble sounding ‘de Pougy’, with a little help from contacts, Liane began working as a femme galante.
The Mistress of Paris Page 24