by Roland Perry
When Mariano met Céleste through an entremetteuse (agent) who Céleste trusted, he was busy spending away a vast fortune buying land and art, investing in buildings in Paris, and furnishing his castles in Spain. The duke was thirty, unmarried and with no intention of bothering about that institution. At some point he would have to consider it so that the family assets would be passed down. But like many of his male companions, that would only be a formality, a necessity at a future time that would not curb his gluttonous and conspicuous consumption of anything money (or credit if they ran out of funds) could buy.
Mariano was always mixing with the very pinnacle of European nobility and royalty. He represented Spain at the crowning of Queen Victoria in England in June 1838. Whenever the Spanish needed someone from their upper ranks to represent the nation as a wealthy nobleman rather than a diplomat, he was recruited. Céleste chose him, too, and he was the first society notable after Musset with whom she took up. He showered her with gifts, starting with a brand-new ornate, maroon-coloured carriage, with horses and a driver. Riding the boulevards in style was the most public of advertisements that she was now in the top echelon of the demimonde courtesans, much higher than former rival Louisa Aumont. Another present was a large second-floor apartment on the Rue de l’Arcade. Mariano was short, balding and overweight and he found it a struggle, climbing five flights of stairs to reach his new paramour. Arriving at her door, he would be out of breath and in need of a stiff drink. It didn’t always augur well for sex. (It seems dancing a polka was enough to have Mariano clutching his chest.) Céleste was more of a status symbol for him, as he was for her. Not that Céleste cared. She was not in love with the duke, though her affection was often lifted by his largesse, such as the installation of a new piano in the salubrious new apartment.
Mariano loved his opera and music and was delighted to pay for expensive lessons for her from a friend of his, the Italian master Pederlini. They proved more costly than anyone anticipated. Pederlini had a friend, the well-known Italian tenor Monsieur Bettini. Aged thirty-two, he was dark and tall, although with a developing paunch that would eventually rival that of the duke. He, like the duke and Pederlini, had been smitten by the brave and attractive Mogador in her Hippodrome performances. He invited her to sit in an expensive box at the opera to watch him make his debut. This was a show of finesse that the duke, who was away in Madrid, never quite displayed.
Bettini enchanted Céleste with his first big performance at the opera. He worked on her diligently and she succumbed to his charms. They made passionate love at the Rue de l’Arcade nest where the duke had ensconced Céleste.
They were discreet. There was something vaguely theatrical about the liaison, which may have been why it appealed to Céleste. Bettini would creep up the stairs after dark and leave before dawn. She watched him at the opera, but they did not frequent cafés or salons together. Bettini thought himself a cook and insisted on creating the meals during their assignations at her place or his on the Rue de Richelieu. Sadly, his culinary skills were limited.
‘I could never bear macaroni,’ Céleste said, ‘which was the staple dish. I detested cheese and it was used on everything.’
Céleste was not in love with him or his cooking, she simply enjoyed his attention and flamboyance. Also, he was more fun than Mariano.
Céleste was always loyal to her female friends, from the unfortunate Lise/Pomare to the depressed Maria la Blonde from Saint-Lazare. Josephine, a companion from Théâtre Beaumarchais, fell on hard times after a failed relationship with an actor, who drained her of her limited wealth. Céleste generously invited her to her apartment, gave her jewels and dresses to partly restore her self-esteem, and secured a riding job for her at the Hippodrome. But this only made Josephine envious of Céleste’s apparent success at everything, including men. Her emotions boiled over into spite and she informed the corpulent Mariano of Céleste’s affair with Bettini.
Céleste threw Josephine out, but had to see her each week at the Hippodrome. The duke was miffed. Yet the experience was no more than a blow to his ego, when he thought money bought everything, including love and loyalty. He ended the relationship with Céleste, though he was decent enough to allow her to stay in the apartment rent-free, keep the maid, and use the carriage for another three months.
The benefit of their split was a more open relationship with Bettini, who now wined and dined her away from their apartments, and she did her best to avoid the macaroni and cheese (‘like his mother used to make’) that he always ordered. However, she did appreciate his partying. One night she arrived at his place to find him and his friends eating macaroni and cheese, and finishing their first glass of wine.
‘Here is my one vice!’ Bettini said, holding and kissing her.
‘Why do you put up with a comment like that?’ a large, middle-aged courtesan, Françoise, said in a tone of mock indignation.
‘It’s not an issue,’ Céleste replied with a smile. ‘I am of course wicked, but I think it’s better for me to be in the company of cultivated men.’
‘Bettini, cultivated? Bah!’ Françoise laughed. ‘But we all agree he has a magnificent voice.’
‘He has good taste.’
‘I agree that he’s not a boor,’ Françoise said, turning to Bettini and raising a glass to him, ‘although he is a complete narcissist. But at least he’s witty.’
‘Better than a dullard!’ Céleste said, and they both raised their glasses to him. ‘He lives the hedonistic life of the artist. But this creative era provides for it. And I like it.’
‘You’re a discerning type,’ Françoise observed. ‘We both enjoy the pleasures of the flesh . . .’
‘More the benefits of the associations this brings, such as pleasures of the mind, and the refinement of art.’
Françoise gestured to the up-market crowd in the apartment.
‘You can certainly gain that here tonight.’
‘Exactly.’
Moments later, Bettini and his friends pushed up the windows looking down onto the street. Bettini, another man and two women began to sing. Within a minute a crowd had gathered below them. Soon there was a traffic jam as people stopped their carriages to listen. Police appeared, but instead of moving the traffic on, they stopped to listen and marvel at the spontaneous show from Bettini and company. After they’d had their cultural fill, they hastened up to the apartment.
‘Please, Monsieur Bettini,’ one of the cops said, ‘you must close the windows. You’re causing traffic chaos!’
Bettini shrugged and obeyed the directive. Then he went on singing with the others.
CHAPTER 12
Chariots of Desire and Ire
The 1847 season at the Hippodrome opened in stifling heat in early July. It was Céleste’s third, and the competition was stiffer, the stunts more dangerous and the conditions worse. She dreaded the steeplechases in which she had already fallen badly on three occasions and doctors had bled her. This was the arcane method of easing bruising, by draining blood from around the affected area. It was a fatiguing business and she hated it more than the actual falls. Her pay of 100 francs a month had been reduced and she was not earning money commensurate with the risks she was taking.
Céleste asked for a raise. It was rebuffed. The owners knew there would always be young women and men lining up to join the troupe, and many performed for nothing in the hope of making a name for themselves. The time and investment in training had been condensed since the opening. Céleste noted that this did not matter to the show’s administrators, as long as they made money.
‘They despise the ones who make them rich,’ she said. ‘If it were not for the police keeping an eye on them, four out of every ten [performers] would be killed. No effort was made to avoid accidents.’
The performers were given lame horses that fell when pushed to win. This created crashes that the public came to see. The Hippodrome now resembled a Roman colosseum, and in that light the organisers revived the concept of the ancient ch
ariot race. But their approach would have made even Ben Hur cautious.
Céleste was horrified by one steeplechase she witnessed. An Englishman failed to clear a ditch four metres deep. The horse had to be put down, and the Englishman was knocked out. His teeth were smashed and there was a big gash on his forehead. When he recovered consciousness, a doctor ordered him to lie down. But aware that the police were in attendance a director had him removed from the arena and sent to hospital. Céleste claimed this was to avoid the event being banned. She protested, abused the director and said the man should be sent to her apartment. But then another director stepped in, agreed with Céleste and said, ‘Take the poor man to my apartment.’
Accidents like this occurred in every show. Céleste was asked to try out for the event, but without any instruction on how to prepare the horses or negotiate the jumps. She was forced to accept the advice of unreliable jockeys. The good teachers were too expensive for the Hippodrome owners. The cheaper choices were ‘shady characters . . . who were almost always tipsy’.
Céleste was aghast when the jockeys took off at breakneck speed. It took her a dozen circuits to master the hurdles, which were very high. By the end of the training her hands were bleeding.
This was the moment she lost her enjoyment in performing. She wanted to quit the Hippodrome, but she felt trapped. She cared little now for the fame it had brought. There was no point in carrying on until she was badly injured or dead. But as ever, she wished to have a measure of independence, which reduced her need for benefactors for her sexual favours.
This dilemma forced her to accept the even more dangerous chariot race early in the season. The act, featuring the three best riders—Céleste, and two other young women, Louise and Angele—was the most deadly ever devised at the Hippodrome. The costumes were magnificent.
‘I wore a red Phrygian bonnet with gold stars,’ Céleste wrote, ‘a white, gold-embroidered knee-length tunic, slit to the hips, buskins and a great cloak over the right shoulder, pinned to the left side by a cameo brooch.’
Céleste was not aware that both Bettini and Mariano (well separated) were both in the packed audience and enraptured by her stunning appearance, bravery and dignified, daredevil efforts.
The three chariots criss-crossed each other. Occasionally, wheels bumped with a grating sound heard above the din of the crowd. The women, standing upright in the Roman tradition, used long whips and were lucky to keep their feet. The event was staged up to a point, but on the home straight it was a genuine race, and Céleste, showing the grit that had helped make her a superstar of the show, forged to the front at the finish line. Huge garlands of flowers were handed to her on a dais.
Bettini and Mariano were not the only men in love with her. Probably every man in the stadium, and not a few women, fell at her feet that day. But appearances can be deceptive. As ever, Céleste delivered that glittering smile as she acknowledged the chants of ‘Mogador!’ ‘Mogador!’ The heat and tension, however, were debilitating. She had a severe headache and went home to bed.
Bettini arrived at her place, just wanting to be near her. Within half an hour, the maid, her voice full of anxious excitement, announced, ‘The duke is at the door!’ Mariano seemed to have overcome the humiliation of Céleste cheating on him, and he wished to pay his respects. After all, he was still paying her rent and had not yet taken back her carriage.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Céleste exclaimed to Bettini. ‘I don’t want him to see you here.’ She pointed to a small cubicle at the foot of her bed and asked him to hide in it.
Bettini frowned and refused.
‘Get in,’ she ordered, ‘or I shall never see you again!’
Bettini cursed, swallowed his dignity and squeezed into the cubicle, muttering expletives. Then the duke burst into the room.
‘Why did you keep me waiting in the anteroom?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, the egos of you men!’ Céleste said. ‘I was using my footbath. My feet are so sore after the race. And I’m getting used to walking again.’
‘What? You have the carriage.’
‘Yes, but on a whim you could take it away.’
The duke looked mystified. Then changed his expression and said, ‘You were magnificent today. You handled the chariot so admirably.’
‘Thank you, but it’s given me a terrible headache. I think I have a migraine coming on.’
‘Céleste. You must come out to dinner with me.’
‘I must?’ she said, hands on hips, adding cynically, ‘All you great lords are amazing. I find “you must” really charming! How do you know I don’t have another engagement? I haven’t heard from you for two weeks.’
‘I’m rich enough to have you go back on your word to others,’ Mariano said, reaching a crescendo of pomposity that left Céleste speechless. ‘Get dressed and be at the Café Anglais by six.’
He swept out before she could protest.
The farce continued. Bettini burst out of the cubicle, seething.
‘You cannot have a heart to live with a man like that!’ he said, pointing at her. ‘And I thought you had a big one. That man doesn’t love you!’
Bettini fumed in fractured French. ‘I will escort you to the Café Anglais, then leave you. Forever!’
‘I am not joining the duke, but not for your sake. I really do have a headache. I want to be alone, to rest.’
Céleste nodded to the door and said firmly, ‘Please leave, now.’
The duke came the next day to check on her. He was ‘cold and dour’. He could not understand anyone who did not bend to his will. But Céleste believed that, because she did not give in to his frequent whims, the duke had a certain affection for her. Despite the rift caused by the affair with Bettini, Mariano still wanted some sort of relationship with her.
In mid-July, Céleste awoke to a lovely summer’s day after a night out with Pomare, with whom she kept up a strong friendship. But for some reason she felt uneasy, then depressed. The maid took one look at her and thought she might be unwell. Something was wrong. Céleste could not eat breakfast. She confided in the maid that she had a strong sense of foreboding.
‘I’m appearing at the Hippodrome today,’ she said, ‘and I have an idea I might break my neck.’
The maid attempted to console her. But Céleste knew that the acts were becoming more and more dangerous. The first two acts went off without incident. Céleste relaxed a fraction, though just before the chariot race she asked her two competitors, Louise and Angele, not to press too hard because she wasn’t feeling well. Her mental state was fragile. Angele was sympathetic, saying she should not worry; they had all experienced that sort of feeling.
The superb weather ensured a packed house, which for the first time included her mother. Out of curiosity, Anne-Victoire had bought a ticket. She had heard rumours that the star attraction, Mogador, was her daughter.
The riders began as usual, floating their chariots seamlessly across in front of each other in turn, the timing perfect as they built speed. Céleste had just overtaken Louise and was about to overtake Angele. They reached the curve on the track near the stables.
‘Out of the corner of my eye I saw Louise riding very close to me,’ Céleste said. ‘I was about to whip my horses to spur them on when I felt a powerful shock.’
A wheel of Louise’s chariot had become tangled in the back of Céleste’s chariot. A hideous grating sound rang out around the arena. Louise seemed to panic. Instead of stopping, she whipped her horses to pass Céleste. This dragged Céleste’s chariot with her. The shaft jabbed her horse on its right side, causing it to rear against a post and whinny in distress. It fell over backwards, forcing the other horse down with it. The animals tried to get back up but instead tipped over the chariot. Céleste still had hold of the reins, but one of the horses hit her shoulder and she let go in terrific pain. The horses kept struggling to move. They dragged the chariot and Céleste, who was facedown in the dirt, for about thirty metres. One of the chariot’s wheels ran over her
thigh before a steward managed to stop the horses. One of them had a broken leg and was put down in full view of the gaping audience.
Someone pointed at the motionless, prone Céleste and called, ‘Mogador’s dead!’
Onlookers were distraught. Women cried. People climbed onto the arena fence to see what had happened to Céleste as doctors examined her.
‘I opened my eyes,’ she recalled, ‘I got to my knees, then stood up. I ran my hand over my right thigh. I pushed people away. I wanted to make sure I had no broken bones! I managed to walk but with agonising pain, leaving a trail of blood behind me.’
Céleste saluted the crowd, took a few more steps, then collapsed.
‘I was revived, then bled twice,’ Céleste said. ‘The blood was not coming out.’
Studs on the wheels, designed to prevent skidding on the track’s curves, had lacerated her thigh, leaving a wide ring of purple flesh. Her knee was dislocated and fluid was building up around the cap.
The Hippodrome doctor prescribed compresses to poultice her wounds. She was taken to her apartment and helped into bed. After six days of rest, the wounds had not improved. By chance, a young admirer she did not know dropped in to see how she was. The man decided she was not receiving the right attention.
‘I’m going to send you the best surgeon in Paris,’ he declared and left. The next day at 9 a.m. a very oveweight man arrived, announcing he was the surgeon the stranger had sent. He removed her bandages, then pressed so hard on her knee she screamed. He then examined the thigh wound, which had partially scabbed over. Gangrene had begun to set in. The surgeon placed two fingers either side of the wound. Céleste thought he was going to squeeze again and she begged him not to.
‘Now don’t be childish,’ the surgeon said. ‘Do you wish to keep this beautiful leg?’
At that moment, Anne-Victoire entered the bedroom, crying. Céleste had not seen her for four years, since their last meeting at the prefecture’s office.
‘Mama!’ Céleste cried.