Celeste

by Roland Perry

  The distraction allowed the surgeon to open the wound. He mopped up the blood with a towel while Céleste protested angrily. She pulled her leg away.

  ‘You really hate me, right?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Well, I’m not here to be liked. I want to make you well. Now, I must check the bone and burn the flesh.’

  ‘Never!’ Céleste yelled. ‘You’ll never touch me again. I’d rather die!’

  Anne-Victoire moved close and placated her. ‘Be brave, my darling, be brave!’

  Céleste, ashamed of showing weakness, obeyed. She placed her foot on the surgeon’s knee to brace herself as he rummaged in his bag for a scalpel. He then spread the flesh apart and scraped the bone. It was excruciatingly painful for Céleste, who clung to her maid. Next, he cauterised the wounds and dressed them.

  The surgeon instructed Anne-Victoire and the maid to put an oil cloth under her and a wooden rod on top of the injured knee. They were to fill a still with ice, which would melt onto the wound, day and night.

  When the surgeon left, Céleste, with mixed emotions about seeing her mother again, asked how she’d known she was injured. Anne-Victoire explained how she came to be at the Hippodrome.

  ‘Every day [after the accident] I received news about you,’ Anne-Victoire said. ‘Then I heard that your leg might have to be amputated. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Here I am. Do you mind?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Céleste replied, which was as far as she would go in embracing her mother’s sudden visit.

  Anne-Victoire moved into the apartment to care for her. Céleste was keen to know if she was still with Vincent but dared not spoil the moment by asking her.

  Two days later, the surgeon came to cauterise the wound a second time. Once done, he patted Céleste’s cheek and said with a satisfied smile, ‘The wounds are pink. I was afraid of gangrene but you are saved. You’ll keep your leg.’ He paused and added sombrely, ‘If at all possible, give up this profession.’

  Céleste was tearful and most grateful. ‘Sir, how can I repay you for the care you’ve given me?’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything,’ the cheerful roly-poly surgeon replied. ‘I’m no longer practising. It took an incident like this to get me out. I’m too fat! I cannot climb stairs anymore.’

  He left Céleste without telling her his name.

  Anne-Victoire and Bettini both urged her to take the doctor’s advice and give away her daredevil acts. She listened but was stubborn, saying she would ask for a raise at the end of the season. If she didn’t receive it, she would quit.

  Céleste recovered in six weeks. She returned to the Hippodrome for the last show of the season and was affronted to see that she had been replaced. Infuriated, she demanded she be given her costume and a place in the chariot event. This was granted, but despite her physical fitness, her mind was still scarred. She marched out to her chariot to grand applause, for she was still a drawcard and well remembered.

  ‘I was very emotional,’ she recalled, ‘I lost my head and stopped at the second lap.’

  This breakdown almost caused another accident as the chariot behind nearly crashed into her. She slowly guided her chariot out of the arena. The crowd applauded politely, unaware of the reason for her withdrawal.

  A few days later, Céleste arranged for a meeting with the director and asked for a raise.

  ‘Why should I give you a raise?’ he asked. ‘Do you not manage your own affairs? What do a few hundred francs more or less mean to you? I plan to decrease personnel. I have more women than I need.’

  The director had seen her breakdown. He had decided that Mogador had lost her nerve, and he had plenty of younger no-name performers he could use. On balance, he reckoned he could do as well without her. He stood firm and Céleste left in despair. Her mother tried to console her. Anne-Victoire recalled a recent fire at the Hippodrome and speculated that the business may have been in financial difficulties. The novelty was wearing off after three years of success.

  Céleste returned the next day to pick up her things, hoping against hope that the director would show some compassion and keep her on. But compassion was not in big supply among the Hippodrome management.

  No one even gave her a polite goodbye.

  CHAPTER 13

  Céleste We Forget

  Céleste’s life changed when she left the Hippodrome. She no longer had that grand stage on which to perform. With it went the attention, and she learned as she approached twenty-two years of age that fame was fickle, and so were the people who had attached themselves to her because of it. Duke Mariano lost interest and faded from her life. Bettini remained a distant companion, though he found his thrills in his own fame bubble. Young male admirers, who had fought to be with her, now disappeared. Her satisfying position of being able to choose her companions reverted to her hoping for paying paramours. Reluctantly, she faced the prospect of a return to prostitution, even if at the higher level of the courtesan, but not before hoping for a reprieve from a Dutch baron, who had courted her a year earlier. He wrote to her from The Hague and invited her to visit him there. She consented and travelled to The Hague in January 1846, but she was so disappointed with the country and the baron that she made a hasty return home soon after.

  The baron had proved a dud. But another opportunity was provided by her mother, who suggested they open a dress shop together. Anne-Victoire was keen to help her daughter move away from what she saw as a sordid, dangerous world. The timing seemed right to Céleste and it appeared to be a sensible road to reconciliation for the both of them. There was still no talk of Vincent, and Céleste had not asked.

  The two women found a suitable shop on Rue Geoffroy-Marie. Anne-Victoire would stay in the flat at the back. Céleste took a third-floor apartment above the shop and hired a new maid from Nantes called Marie, who Céleste described as ‘short with cat-like eyes, a big nose and a dumb but honest look’.

  Céleste sold most of her expensive possessions, including jewellery, to obtain the shop. It attracted plenty of customers to begin with, but most were from Céleste’s circle. They bought on credit and Céleste found she couldn’t refuse them. Anne-Victoire took charge and was more cautious about new accounts.

  Early on, Céleste learned that Vincent was still on the scene. It infuriated her. The sales girl told her that a man fitting his description would leave the shop via a back door whenever Céleste came down the stairs. Céleste at first wished to confront her mother, but decided to let it slide. This time, Anne-Victoire had put her daughter ahead of the interests of Vincent, which she had never done before. Eight years of him and his drunken behaviour would have swayed her to do this. But she still needed a man, and if the dress shop didn’t survive, a breadwinner. Céleste, who was maturing fast, pretended she did not know Vincent was slinking around. At least, she thought, he had the good sense to stay out of sight.

  Early one Saturday morning, an hour before the shop opened, an unknown man rang the doorbell.

  ‘Answer that please,’ Céleste told Marie, the maid, ‘and tell whoever it is I’m not in.’

  Marie obeyed.

  ‘I have orders to pick up your mistress,’ the man said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To arrest her.’

  ‘She . . . she’s not in,’ the maid said.

  ‘Tell her that if she doesn’t go to the prefecture before noon tomorrow,’ the caller said in an officious tone, ‘I shall have her picked up by the guards.’

  Marie reported the conversation. Céleste was embarrassed, saying that the man must have had the wrong address.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this,’ Céleste said. She was in despaired, believing she would be jailed for a month at least for not having reported regularly to the police—a stipulation of being registered as a prostitute that would not go away. She was at a vulnerable point. Her slip from fame and from being so desired had affected her more than she thought it would. The baron had let her down, and now the dress shop was struggling.

  Céles
te was ashamed and weighed down by her past, from which she was forever attempting escape. She was overwhelmed by the thought of how the neighbourhood would respond if she were arrested. Céleste was running a respectable business and trying to shed Mogador. Jail would mean terrible publicity and humiliation.

  The torment was too much. She decided to take the only route away from all that, a route that several girls and women she knew had taken. She would commit suicide.

  It was drastic but Céleste did not act like a desperate woman. Instead, she planned her own demise precisely. She knew that the police would not arrest her the next day, which was Sunday. They never worked on the Lord’s day of rest. That gave her a day to tidy her affairs as best she could and carry out her self-destruction. The maid would be out and her mother would not open the shop.

  On Saturday night Céleste spent a few hours writing letters to her best friends. At 11 p.m. her mother came in to her apartment to say goodnight.

  ‘Oh, you’re writing to our suppliers?’ Anne-Victoire asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Céleste didn’t even think to kiss her mother. She had suppressed her anger about Vincent’s proximity, but it welled up at this moment and stopped her from expressing something, even a kiss, that would at least leave Anne-Victoire with some small sense of reconciliation, amid all the pain that the suicide would bring. Céleste had vivid memories of those times of abuse, which were even more horrifying now, with time, not less. As a young adult, and at this moment of extreme depression, she lay the blame for the path she had been forced to take with her mother and her mother’s hated partner.

  Céleste arose at 10 a.m on Sunday. Outside was a fine mist, almost like fog. She summoned her maid and told her to hand-deliver a letter across town.

  Once Marie had left, Céleste went to the woman’s room and moved out all her things. She put white sheets on the iron bed. Then she went out and purchased two small clay ovens. Back in Marie’s room, she locked herself in, plugged the keyhole, put coal in the ovens and lit them. Céleste then sat on the bed and prayed, asking God and all those she had hurt to forgive her. She felt dizzy as she put more coal in the ovens. She was transfixed by the blue flame they emitted. She struggled to stand and looked in the mirror.

  ‘How horrible,’ she recalled later. ‘My head was puffy; the veins in my forehead were swollen; my lips were blue; and my hair was standing on end.’

  But the thought of death suddenly scared her. Céleste wished to live. She wanted to call for help, but her voice failed her. She tried to run, but her legs gave way. She fell to the floor. The room, even the floor was getting hotter. She sweated and wanted water. Then she blacked out.

  Marie could not find the letter’s recipient, so she returned dutifully to her mistress. Céleste was not in her room. Marie entered the kitchen. Then she noticed smoke coming from her own room and thought it was on fire. She tried to open the door, but something was holding it closed. It was Céleste. Marie managed to push the door open and found her mistress. She had fallen with her mouth facing the gap underneath the door, which gave her enough air to stay alive—just.

  Marie dragged Céleste clear of the room and put out the ovens. She then rushed to find the local doctor, who came at the double. He and Marie put Céleste in her bed and he revived her. She was tearful and distressed, and still worrying about the man coming to arrest her. Soon her room was crowded. Anne-Victoire was there, as was another doctor and the neighbours.

  Marie cared for her over the next few days. Céleste had a headache, worse than anything she’d had before, and a nagging cough that took some time to abate. She fretted every day that the police would come. But as the days slipped by, she began to realise that the whole thing had been a cruel hoax.

  After recovering, Céleste began to resent her failed attempt to end her life. The dress buyers stopped coming once Anne-Victoire refused to give them credit. But the goods had been ‘sold’ and the shop had to pay for them. It meant that nothing was saved. Céleste had no funds to pay the rent. She had invested almost all her assets in setting up and maintaining the shop. The landlord threatened to throw her out. Those to whom she owed money bullied her and said they’d sue and seize what little property she had left.

  A few old friends kept her amused but not enough to give her a zest for life or even a reason to carry on. Then one day a man, clearly a servant from his striped trousers, knocked on her door, and finding her in, motioned to someone in a pretty carriage drawn by two horses. A gaunt woman emerged, helped by the servant, who was asked to wait outside. The woman lifted her face veil with one hand and extended the other to Céleste. She wore diamond earrings and rings.

  It was Lise/Pomare. She had come from Nice with her elderly, wealthy count to see a doctor. Céleste was upset by her appearance—her pallid complexion and ill-fitting, far-too-white, false upper teeth. Lise asked if Céleste thought she had changed.

  ‘Yes,’ Céleste said, recovering quickly, ‘you’re beautiful!’

  ‘Everyone thinks I look ill,’ Lise said, pleased with her friend’s comment. ‘It seems I am dying of tuberculosis.’

  Lise put on a magnificent front and insisted on going to a ball with Céleste a few days later. Her count had forbidden her from seeing Céleste, probably because this would exhaust Lise too much. But when he left Paris for a few days Lise dressed flamboyantly in a pink lace domino, with a black headdress and roses in her hair, and went to the ball with Céleste. But she was pale and practically immobile. The ball crowd was abuzz at the deterioration of the former flame of the Bal Mabille.

  ‘What are they saying about me?’ she whispered to Céleste.

  ‘Oh, they are so impressed with your appearance!’

  ‘Please don’t make it up, Céleste. I know I am but a shadow of my former self.’ Lise paused, then added: ‘I am dying and I am afraid.’

  Céleste protested that she was mad to say that and tried to lift her spirits. Lise watched the dancers twirling about and her manner brightened.

  ‘She was following them with her soul,’ Céleste later observed. ‘She seemed to be inhaling the lives of others.’

  Lise wanted to waltz. Céleste didn’t dare refuse her. She asked a male friend to dance with her.

  ‘Hold her tight,’ Céleste whispered to him, ‘very tight.’

  Lise began dancing and then stopped, leaned up against a wall and said in a hoarse voice that she couldn’t carry on. She gave a dry cough and brought up blood. She was haemorrhaging. Céleste took her back to where she was staying. She had a fever and in her delirium said she wanted to go back to the ball. Céleste switched off all the lights to calm her down and she eventually fell asleep.

  Lise’s condition worsened in the coming days. When the old count heard she was dying, he did not return to her. He withdrew her allowance and said he ‘would not spend more money on a girl who only had another month to live’.

  Céleste went to Lise’s room the next day and all the doors and windows were open. Lise had died overnight. Céleste kissed her, knelt and said a prayer. When she dropped by a day later in pouring rain, she could hear the nailing of the coffin.

  ‘There were only two people in the funeral procession,’ Céleste wrote, ‘me and my coachman . . . when the last lump of dirt was thrown on her, a cross with her initials was dropped in.’

  The experience upset Céleste deeply. She was sad to lose her closest friend and to see how she had been treated at the end. It depressed her to think that despite her own rise to greater heights in life, she could be heading for a similar end. Like Lise, Céleste had no steady man in her life, their mothers were both mostly estranged from them, and they were both in debt. Again, Céleste cursed the fact that she had not succeeded in her suicide attempt. She now felt at a lower ebb than ever before.

  As if to try to rectify this, she returned to Lise’s grave a week later in the hope that someone, perhaps Lise’s mother, or the count in some pang of guilt, had put up a tombstone. But there was nothing. Lis
e had been abandoned in death ‘as she had in the last illness’. Céleste ordered an iron railing and marble monument with the following inscription:

  Here lies Lise Sergent, born 22 February 1825, died 8 December

  1846. Her friend Céleste.

  Céleste buried her memories of Pomare and Mogador, though not necessarily forever. A few smaller newspapers made some tasteless comments, even jokes about Lise’s demise. One cynically said, ‘Much will be forgiven her because she loved so much.’

  Céleste wrote in her memoirs that it should have read: ‘She might be forgiven because she died as a good Christian and because she suffered so much.’

  Céleste was projecting again, fearing that one day something similar would be written about her. Guilt and thoughts of redemption were playing on her mind.

  CHAPTER 14

  Love at First Chivalry

  Céleste never ceased to mourn Lise, but she had to get on with her own life, which meant trying to find suitable benefactors. Courtesans rarely went out alone and so she found a new friend, Frisette, who would accompany her on the interminable rounds of cafés, restaurants, gambling halls and parties, with the most notable meeting place being the Palais-Royal. Frisette was pretty and spirited, but no competition for Céleste, for this new pal’s lover was none other than the energetic dancing dervish Brididi from Céleste’s days at Bal Mabille. Céleste wasn’t interested in him, which comforted Frisette, and Frisette in turn would not entice any prospective beau away from her new best friend.

  One evening in the late winter of 1846–47, they went to the fashionable Café Anglais, where the richest dandies congregated in large numbers, increasing the chances of success for the young women who flocked there. The dandies originated in London, and they migrated to, and were mimicked in, Paris after the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815. The difference between the dandy Anglais and the dandy Francais was the dress. The French version went for more extravagance, with taller top hats and more colour everywhere. Their long hair was curled and coiffured. Their bright blue frockcoats were corset-tight. Cravats were outsized and ruffled and trousers were skintight to show off what they had or had not. These were the true peacocks of the human species, who loved to ponce around Paris as if in open cages, while the rest of the population could watch this special zoo. As a rule they were a dissolute and degenerate bunch, whom Céleste was familiar with thanks to the Duke de Osuna. They were busy spending inheritances, with many going through the funds due to them long before they received them. As with the duke, they were without ambition or any real experiences of life beyond the drinking, whoring and gambling that threatened to exhaust even their large lines of credit. Consequently, most were weak and unreliable types, who often lacked character or serious mental development.