by Roland Perry
After satisfying all his senses, he pulled back the bedsheets and motioned for her to lie back against the large, white pillows. Musset pulled the curtains, lit a small lamp and placed it on a side table with the fastidiousness of a theatre lighting director.
Without a word he then mounted her and was done within twenty seconds.
Céleste certainly learned much from Musset, but not in the way she expected or hoped. It was more a lesson in how to cope with the sensitivity of self-centred males rather than with creativity. And she struggled to understand him. It frustrated her and it showed in her challenges to him. He had no answer to her question as to why he insisted on seeing her.
Musset’s renowned poems were in the literary review paper Revue des Deux Mondes. Céleste couldn’t understand how he could compose such lovely things, which appeared in the morning, and be the same person at brothel orgies at night. His indifference caused her to tell him, ‘You’re nothing but a drunkard!’
The madam and Denise had explained in more detail about his pining for George Sand, and Céleste had the temerity to raise this delicate issue.
‘If one woman made you unhappy,’ she told him, ‘that’s no reason to condemn all the rest of us . . .’
Musset seemed to accept her berating. It appeared to amuse him, for after one tirade he asked the madam’s permission to take Céleste out to dinner at the fashionable restaurant Rocher de Cancale. Céleste was excited. She wore a new dress to celebrate only the second time she had been let out of the brothel since arriving several months before. It was beginning to feel like a version of Saint-Lazare, the major differences being the company and the exotic attire.
Musset was already on the way to being intoxicated when he picked her up. During the meal he told some bad-taste jokes, some of which were directed at her and her fellow sex workers.
‘Did you hear about the farmer’s daughter, a prostitute, who went to the fair?’ he asked.
Céleste waited.
‘She couldn’t keep her calfs together.’ He laughed. She didn’t find it that funny.
‘Did you hear about the prostitute who wanted to get an acting job on the stage?’ he went on.
Céleste thought at first this was directed at her. She had expressed her desire to one day be an actress.
‘She slept with the writer,’ Musset said with a distinctly patronising grin.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You see, Céleste, if you want a job on the stage, you sleep with the producer or director, not the writer. Writers don’t have the power over casting.’
‘What if the writer is the director?’
‘Nice lateral thought but unlikely.’
He ordered absinthe and was soon drunk. Céleste asked for soda water. After more cynical commentary, Musset reached for the soda water bottle and made as if to fill a glass. Then without warning he turned the siphon on her and drenched her.
Céleste was shocked. She burst into tears at this public humiliation and ran all the way back to the brothel.
CHAPTER 8
Medical Road to Liberty
Denise felt cornered in a world she wished to reject. But she was not confident enough to make the break. Instead, she explained to the madam that both she and Céleste should be allowed more freedom. The madam begrudgingly permitted her to take Céleste to one of the many dance halls, called La Chaumière. The best orchestra in town played a variety of sedate polkas. Ladies outfitted as if they were in a caravan in the Sahara moved in a conga line, protected by male guides in flamboyant white costumes.
The dancing took place mainly outside the vast hall, with thousands of coloured gaslights swaying in the summer night’s breeze. Céleste soon drew a crowd by dancing outrageously, with high kicks and lifting her dress to expose her slim, lithe legs. At first she danced with Denise, who did well as a foil for Céleste’s liberated movements, which were rarely in time with the tardy music.
They hugged each other at the end of a number.
‘I feel so free tonight!’ Céleste said. ‘It’s as if I’ve been let out of Saint-Lazare again.’
Young men hovered, wanting to approach the two teenagers, but uncertain as to how. One caught Céleste’s eye. He was lean and of medium height, with sparkling eyes, jet-black hair, a broad, intelligent forehead and a short-clipped moustache. When her look lingered, he grew bold and stepped towards her. He introduced himself as Adolphe, and then said, ‘You are unspeakably beautiful!’
‘But you’ve just spoken, Monsieur,’ she said with a laugh. He blushed and Céleste immediately sensed a lack of conceit and modesty in him, which she found refreshing after Musset’s self-centred arrogance. There was something reassuring about his shyness, even his insecurity. She learned that Adolphe was a 22-year-old medical student in his final year. She relaxed in his company and was happy not to have to play the innocent, finger-sucking teenager or the dominatrix and cocotte who spanked clients who wished to be treated like little boys. Here was a young man she respected. Still, her sex appeal could not be turned off. Adolphe was dignified enough, but he could not help at times being the big puppy, besotted with her sensual glow, the glimpses of her pert breasts under a revealing bodice, her long, thin arms and perfect legs. She occasionally touched his arm with her fingers, and each time this happened, his body language became emboldened. He seemed to hunch over her as if he were preventing advances from any rivals. Next to the androgynous, taller, striking Denise, Céleste was the most alluring woman at the dance hall. Many other young men, their courage bolstered with alcohol, now hovered, attracted not just to her grand appearance, but also her animated personality. Yet she blocked them all out. Adolphe was the prize at La Chaumière for her, and she was a dream package for him.
There was another important element in this encounter. It was not inside the brothel, where she had to be with someone even if she did not care for him. She and Denise were just like any other females in hundreds of Paris dance halls, hoping to meet their prince charming, or even just Mr Nice Guy.
Adolphe happened to be a good friend of Denise’s boyfriend, Alex. Adolphe wanted to visit the girls, but Céleste demurred, having been warned by Denise never to let anyone know they were prostitutes. Denise told him that the next time she saw Alex, she would bring Céleste and they could go out as a foursome.
Soon after this encounter, the madam decided to throw a party for the brothel’s regular clients. Céleste was ill. She was running a temperature; her body ran hot and cold. She took to her bed, but the madam ordered her to attend the festivities. Pale and weak, Céleste obeyed, but within an hour had collapsed. A 29-year-old guest named Laurence carried her to the brothel foyer. He revived her with water and chatted with her for half an hour. In her feverish state she told him of her woes and how she’d become entangled financially with the brothel, accruing debts she could never repay. Laurence seemed to remain detached. When she finished her outburst he asked how much she owed.
‘A bit more than 2000 francs,’ she answered.
Céleste thought her delirious state had affected her senses when he said he would pay off the debt and put her in a self-contained part of his huge apartment. Without waiting for her agreement, he paid the account and called for a carriage to take them away, saying he would send for her personal effects the next day. He refused to let her say goodbye to Denise or anyone else, fearing he would have prostitutes visiting his home.
When Céleste recovered the next day and found herself at this new abode, she realised that her gallant saviour had been true to his word and had acted out of kindness, without any ulterior motive. He called for a doctor to examine her and ordered a valet to look after her. The doctor’s examination cleared her of a medical issue and in the time-honoured way of the era, he prescribed ‘rest and fresh air’. But a week later, Céleste was too weak to leave her bed. The doctor was summoned again. This time he was alarmed to diagnose the early signs of smallpox, a dreaded, contagious disease that o
ften killed. It caused pockmarking of the skin, especially noticeable on the face. The valet refused to tend to her and the doctor admonished Laurence for taking her in. Chivalrous Laurence refused to throw her out, and he asked the doctor if she could be sent to a nursing home, saying he would pay all the expenses.
Céleste heard the conversation from her room and became even more terrified when the doctor said she could not be moved.
‘It might kill her,’ he told Laurence and the valet. ‘I’ll try to send you a nurse.’
The mention of the word ‘try’ panicked her. What if he failed to find one? A nurse was not a doctor. What would happen? Would she be left to die?
Céleste waited until the three men had departed, then struggled to dress herself. Calling on all her reserves of strength, she left the apartment, hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Saint-Louis Hospital. She fainted en route. The driver, unaware of her condition, carried her into the hospital, where nuns took her into a ward and cared for her.
She went in and out of consciousness, and could not see.
‘Poor child,’ one tending nun said to another, ‘she’s blind.’
Despite losing her sight for more than two weeks, Céleste made a good recovery. More than anything, she was devastated by the hideous pockmarks on her face, but the nuns assured her this disfigurement would clear up.
Céleste was most grateful that it did just before her surgeon came through the hospital with six medical students, who were there for observation and instruction. They surrounded Céleste. To her dismay, one of them was Adolphe. When the surgeon moved on to other patients, Adolphe stayed to chat.
‘I qualify as a doctor in two weeks,’ he told her.
‘Congratulations!’ Céleste said, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Have you found a position?’
‘House surgeon at the Versailles Hospital. You must come and visit. I mean it.’
This and his lingering look encouraged Céleste to believe he wanted a relationship. It also indicated that he had no idea she had worked in a brothel.
Céleste asked Adolphe to send Denise a note, which she would pass on to Laurence, her good Samaritan. In it she explained to Laurence that she left his apartment because she did not wish to infect him. Laurence gave Denise the few effects Céleste had left at his place, along with 100 francs to help her out. She was again thankful to this man, who restored her faith in humanity.
Céleste’s registration meant that, by law she could not lease a room lest she use it for prostitution. This forced her to lie to Adolphe, saying she was too young by law to rent. He happily found her a decent room on Rue Cardinal Lemoine and offered to pay the monthly rent. However, she refused his offer to pay. Instead, she used the money from Laurence, furnished the room simply and invited Adolphe for a candlelit meal.
He brought wine. Céleste began preparing the meal. Adolphe poured their drinks and handed her a glass. He kissed her on the neck. She turned, smiled and said, ‘Better to wait until after dinner, no?’
He smiled and bowed. There was none of the aggression and demands of Vincent, or Musset and the other brothel users. At last, Adolphe seemed the kind of gentleman she had wished for. He seemed to have money and would be on a good salary at Versailles. Céleste would be seventeen in two months and she felt she might be falling in love for the first time.
After dinner he took her by the hand.
‘Ready now?’ he asked, kissing her. She began removing her clothes, a habit from the brothel.
‘No, no,’ he said gently, ‘that’s my pleasure.’ He helped her take off her dress, then her undergarments. There was a tender sexiness in his hands, a first for Céleste. At the brothel, clients had undressed perfunctorily. Here was a fit and intelligent young man who wanted to inject more sensual pleasure and romance into an act that had hitherto been made humdrum by men who rarely attracted her, or who she had to wet-nurse through problems in their private lives.
He kissed her with passion and eased her onto the bed. He made sure she was aroused in all the right places. She was soon consumed by him and the basic yet emotionally gripping business of youthful, vigorous coupling. Adolphe was excited, in fact overly so, for he pulled out within a few minutes and climaxed. Céleste was not concerned at his speed. She took it as a demonstration of the strength of his affection. Often at the brothel, no amount of sucking, stroking or dirty language could arouse clients to a respectable salute, let alone ejaculation.
Adolphe apologised. But when she shook her head, smiled and kissed him warmly, he relaxed.
They ate cheese and cake, drank more wine and lay in each other’s arms and discussed dreams.
‘I want to own a hospital of my own,’ he told her. ‘I also wish to travel to the United States, and even Australia.’
Céleste laughed at this. ‘Why would anyone wish to go to a British penal settlement?’
‘I’ve always admired the French explorers who were there first,’ he said. ‘I think it would be a fine adventure just to travel halfway round the world.’
‘I didn’t know about our explorers,’ she said.
‘Did you know that Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, directed them to bring back specimens of both flora and fauna from Australia?’ he asked, his face animated. ‘I can show you the drawing and painting exhibitions at Josephine’s former home, Malmaison, and at Versailles.’
‘Oh, I would love that!’
After a few moments, he asked in a languid manner what she wanted to do, suggesting that he was expecting her to say something like, ‘get married and have a family’.
‘I want to work in the theatre,’ she replied coyly, silently predicting that such an ambition would be outside the scope of a respectable bourgeois doctor. When he asked her what she wished to do in the theatre, she looked him in the eye and said, ‘Become an actress.’
He laughed, but when she added, ‘I’m serious,’ he smiled, put down their glasses and began making love to her again.
Adolphe invited her to visit him at his apartment in the grounds of the hospital at Versailles, about twenty kilometres south-west of Paris and close to the beautiful palace. They walked hand in hand through its manicured, symmetrically laid-out gardens. Adolphe took her to see the museum inspired by Emperor Louis-Philippe, which was dedicated to ‘all the glories of France’.
Céleste believed that her dreams were coming true. Adolphe was a gentleman interested in the finer things and the culture of France. He was educated and more stable than any man she had met. Most of all he was fun to be with and a good and considerate lover. She enjoyed his company so much that she thought it would be good if she moved in with him. But she decided to wait until he asked her. Adolphe seemed to be very busy at the hospital and Céleste did not wish to upset the routine, especially as he had just commenced his first appointment as a fully fledged doctor. Her visits to Versailles were rare and he preferred to come to Paris once or twice a week. He would stay the night and leave before dawn to be at work on time. This miffed Céleste somewhat, for she wanted to be with him more, though he quietened her frustration somewhat by leaving gifts and money.
He was surprisingly supportive and encouraging when she made her first moves to become an actress. It was tough going. She visited theatre after theatre, tramping around the streets, including her own earlier stomping ground of the Boulevard du Temple. Directors’ assistants regarded her with disdain, perhaps because she threatened their own positions. Whatever the reason, Céleste was learning much about rejection. Finally, a short, plump director of a modest-sized song-and-dance company deigned to see her face to face. His name was Toulouse le Grand, which she thought seemed fabricated, in line with his obvious wig and corset. He asked her what her experience was. She admitted she had never been on stage.
‘Nothing?’ le Grand said. ‘Stand up and turn around slowly.’
Céleste obeyed, uncomfortable with his stare.
‘Do you dance?’
‘Not really.’
‘Sing?
’
‘Not professionally.’
‘Sing something.’
Céleste had a sudden attack of nerves. Her face flushed. Her frazzled brain tried to think of some popular lyrics, but nothing came to mind. His look of contempt and disbelief created a sense of inferiority in her similar to that once generated by Musset.
‘You have no experience.’ He laughed gruffly. ‘And I don’t need a tea lady.’
‘But I’ll learn quickly, Monsieur—’
‘This isn’t a school.’ He chortled again. ‘I run a professional troupe, not a kindergarten.’
Le Grand showed her to the door. Outside and alone, Céleste began crying. She wished Adolphe could be there to comfort her. She had to wait three days to see him and by then she was over the director’s rejection. Adolphe seemed preoccupied with his own issues, saying only, ‘I never understood the attraction to the theatre. No real substance. Unqualified people who think they can perform. Huh!’
Céleste was astonished but not equipped to put another point of view. Instead, she began to learn songs and practise singing them. Denise supported her fierce ambition and applauded her efforts.
A few weeks short of her seventeenth birthday in 1841, Adolphe invited her to a party in Versailles, where he surprised her by asking her to sing. Weeks ago she had choked in front of the unsympathetic director, but the suddenness of this request had not given her time to develop nerves. Besides that, she had practised a few songs and was confident enough to meet her lover’s request. There was more than polite applause after her first effort. Some called for more. She obliged. Calm and feeling encouraged, she sang again. Céleste had never had voice training. But she had a very good ear and was a quick learner and clever mimic. This, with her youth, sex appeal and ferocious energy, pulled the audience of about thirty along with her. For this reason, Adolphe seemed pleased and proud of her.