Celeste

by Roland Perry

  This act encouraged Céleste to buy a prefabricated gable house in Bordeaux, which she would have shipped to Melbourne. Under the terms of the proposed marriage contract, it would be solely hers once she bought land on which to erect it.

  The thought of being a landed property owner in her own right, even if it were in a remote country, thrilled her.

  CHAPTER 31

  Courtesan Countess

  Lionel’s first act was to have the wedding banns made public in London while organising their marriage there before they took a boat to Australia. Using England was a smart move, as it avoided any action by his brother, in his powerful role as a member of the Council of State, to stop the union. Lionel’s sisters had joined the Chabrillan chorus of voices attempting to stop him from any further liaison with the hated Mogador.

  By contrast, Céleste’s mother was joyous about the proposed union. She could not wait to sign the document authorising the marriage of her daughter. On 3 January 1854, Céleste, Solange, another maid named Marie, a peasant girl from Berry and Céleste’s two small dogs crossed the Channel in atrocious weather and arrived in freezing London. Snow had fallen like a thick white blanket over the city. Lionel, swathed in furs and ‘looking like a bear’, met them at a South Kensington hotel.

  When the others were in bed, Céleste sat with her husband-to-be in front of a fire in their room. Demonstrating more managerial skills than she had witnessed before, he outlined the schedule for their wedding the next morning, 4 January, as if it were an order of battle.

  ‘Get everything ready this evening,’ he said. ‘We have to be at the registry office at ten a.m., the church at eleven and the Chancellery of France at noon.’

  All locations were within the City of London, and through the haze of the moment, which, like the weather, had numbed her mind, she did not really absorb the ‘campaign’ and the reasons for each move. He smoked a cigar and she nervously dragged on three successive cigarettes as he spoke. Lionel missed no detail in ensuring the marriage would be judged valid everywhere. He feared that the British ceremony would not be recognised in French courts. Shrewdly, he organised the marriage registration on French soil at the French embassy in London. This would counter any move by Marie-Olivier or his sisters, now or at any future time, to stop or annul their wedding contract. Lionel was well aware that the women in his family would rage at the thought of his wife—this wife—carrying the title of countess.

  They slept the sleep of lovers, together, and then dressed in separate rooms; he in a black suit and white cravat, she all in white—hat, veil, long dress, gloves and cashmere shawl.

  ‘Lionel looks superbly elegant and distinguished,’ she wrote in her diary. ‘He is rather pale, but his lips are red and his eyes are shining. He seems to be very happy.’

  They rode in a smart carriage to the registry office. Céleste felt surprisingly calm and recalled that the wedding ceremony went well. Witnesses reported that the English magistrate made a fulsome speech about her, although she did not understand a word. She left the building surprised that she had held up well and had not broken down in tears. Step one in the consolidation of their marriage was over. She was officially Countess de Chabrillan, although not yet in the eyes of the Church. She had two steps to go and they were more challenging. It helped that Lionel said he had forgiven her, which meant more than any holy man in a foreign land. He had also gone to the trouble of preparing the frocked clergyman, and had given him a generous tip to facilitate his understanding and kindness.

  They approached the confessional where the priest was waiting with a beatific smile. It was just another ceremony for him, but to Céleste it was the second-last hurdle in a race through a maze that until this moment had led nowhere. She hesitated. Her nerve failed her. All her Catholic upbringing about guilt and sins revisited her. She had stood up to all sorts of abuse in her life from those close and others remote. Her strength of character had brushed it aside. But now before her god she nearly collapsed. This omnipotent voyeur from heaven would know about her work at a brothel and how she had used men to her ends.

  ‘Please let’s go,’ Céleste whispered in Lionel’s ear. ‘We’re married enough!’

  Lionel steadied her. She fell to her knees before the priest.

  ‘Father, I have sinned!’ she repeated several times. The priest helped her through the self-imposed ordeal by asking the questions he needed to and answering them as well.

  ‘Come, my child, show yourself equal to the duties that lie ahead,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘Only remember the past to let you lead a better life in the future.’

  This was sound, unthreatening and nebulous enough to help her towards the end of the ceremony. Lionel knelt beside her and Céleste was certain he was praying for her. The confessional torment over, they walked to the Saint-Paul Chapel at the other end of the church. Lionel had invited a handful of London-based French witnesses for the exchange of vows. According to French writer Françoise Moser, there was one secret witness who would have caused a stir had she been recognised outside the chapel.1 Queen Victoria, a good friend of Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie, had heard much about Céleste, and it was whispered, with some glee, that the famous courtesan and equestrienne was about to marry into the French aristocracy and one of France’s most notable families. The tittle-tattle would have reached Victoria via Prince Napoleon. Victoria was intrigued to see her. It was reported back to Prince Napoleon and later, Lionel, that Victoria had confided she thought Céleste even more beautiful than Eugénie.

  ‘Never take it off,’ Lionel said to her as he slipped the ring on her finger. ‘If one of us passes, the one who survives will wear it.’

  The priest pronounced them man and wife. Céleste was now a countess.

  They climbed into the carriage a third time and trotted off to the French Consulate. Snow was falling. The houses were covered and it was a foot deep in the street. They waited an hour before the French consular official, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, summoned Lionel to his office.

  ‘You wish to register here the marriage you have just entered into, witnessed by the English authorities,’ he said and paused to glance unfavourably at his new wife through the door, ‘with this young lady, Céleste?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Think for a moment,’ the official said, removing his glasses and standing. He moved close to Lionel and lowered his voice. ‘You will perhaps regret having carried out this formality. Your family—’

  Lionel cut the official off before he further overstepped his authority.

  ‘I am thirty-two years old,’ Lionel snapped, bringing to the fore the full weight of his aristocratic background, ‘and quite old enough to understand the importance of the agreements I enter into.’

  The bureaucrat hesitated, went back to his desk with a disgruntled look and wrote out a document. He handed it to Lionel. A moment later, Lionel passed it to Céleste, saying, ‘If I were to die, no one would be able to cause you trouble over the name I am giving you.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Croesus Crossing

  Lionel continued to be refreshingly assertive on board the sturdy 2500-tonne boat, the Croesus, as it prepared to sail from Southampton carrying 500 people and a farm’s worth of livestock on the journey of several months to Melbourne. Céleste complained about the puny size of the first-class cabins, necessitating her precious books to be stored in the hold. She threatened to leave even before they sailed.

  ‘That time is past, my dear Céleste, and will never come again,’ Lionel said. ‘I’m your lord and master in the name of the law.’

  This may have been uttered tongue-in-cheek, but Céleste bowed to his judgement on the trip. He had sailed to and from their destination and his confidence buoyed her. But she was cautious.

  ‘I have the impression that after this voyage,’ she said, ‘I will only like ships in paintings.’

  Céleste and Lionel wandered up on deck, which was a hive of activity. Céleste was appal
led at the drunken sailors, perhaps unaware of their time-honoured exuberant excesses before they sailed. Some had to be dragged on board by police after a night of drinking and brawling in the local inns and taverns.

  ‘You don’t expect to see those poor devils do their manoeuvres in white gloves and patent-leather boots, do you?’ Lionel said with characteristic brusqueness. ‘You’ll see how splendid they are in times of danger.’

  As the boat slipped its mooring, there were tears and cheers from the pier as relatives and friends waved their goodbyes.

  ‘They invariably express their emotions by frantic cheering,’ she later wrote. ‘Their row was enough to wake the dead.’

  Lionel urged her to learn English on board, hoping it would change her parochial attitudes, or at least make them better informed. Céleste saw the wisdom in this and did apply herself to the task of learning, under tuition, thirty words a day, and the grammar.

  The family of four—Lionel, Céleste, Solange and Marie—endured the first terrible day of sea sickness in fearsome weather as the Croesus ploughed through a sea of what seemed like tidal waves, heading for Lisbon, Portugal. It had to pick up the despatches left there by the last mail boat, which had lost its mast off the Portuguese coast and was under repair for half a year.

  Lionel, Solange and Marie ‘looked like corpses fished from the sea’, Céleste observed, and she was not faring much better herself. One of the few laughs during this testing initiation to life at sea was courtesy of a parakeet, a gift from her friend Adele Page. It recognised Céleste and no matter what the time of day or how ill she looked, it squawked, ‘Cocotte est belle! Have you had your lunch today, my cocotte?’

  But her tiny dogs were less cheerful and remained curled up as if dead. All the others on board, including the other animals, hardly fared better.

  At the end of the first day, a wave hit the ship like a clap of thunder and smashed in windows. Water rushed in through the holes, flooding the lounge. There was panic. The captain jumped over tables; passengers climbed onto seats to stop themselves being swept down passageways. Sailors frantically blocked the openings with mattresses. Wasting no time, carpenters began making wooden window frames and fitting new glass panels.

  The next morning the weather had calmed. Most of the passengers were on deck breathing the fresh air ‘like carp opening their mouths on breaking the water’s surface’.

  At lunch, Céleste sat between Lionel and the ship’s English captain. She observed that ‘the other diners don’t eat, they devour’, after the frightful night of buffeting and flooding. Relief that the ship hadn’t sunk caused everyone to exhibit an exaggerated bonhomie and many were soon drunk. The captain remained sober and was enamoured with Céleste. He was about fifty-five years of age, and had been sailing for forty of them. She noted, ‘He is ugly, he has thinning hair, his teeth are black and his complexion is gingerbread yellow.’ But she forgave him because he spoke French, and was well educated and courteous. Céleste was in full charm mode and he responded by taking her and Lionel to his cabin to smoke cigars.

  Céleste said she would love to have a geographical map so she could plot the ship’s position each day. The captain said he would oblige and offered to plot each day’s course with her.

  ‘If you will allow it, sir,’ the captain said tactfully to Lionel. ‘I shall have great pleasure in being the countess’s tutor.’

  Lionel laughed. ‘If you give in to her every whim this way,’ he said phlegmatically, ‘I warn you that you’ll have your work cut out.’

  But the captain was captivated and very happy to surrender to her wishes.

  When the couple left the captain Céleste noticed that Lionel was smoking his cigar furiously. She said nothing at first but after a while commented, ‘Be careful, you’ll burn your moustache!’

  ‘Céleste, my dear,’ Lionel began. ‘I don’t want to start off by making unpleasant comments . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You have an unyielding, uncompromising character, which is not becoming in a woman when her husband is with her.’

  ‘Must she bow to his better judgement, keep quiet or say amen to every remark, like an idiot or a schoolgirl?’

  Lionel was chomping even harder on the cigar when Céleste added, ‘You can really be unfair in a way that’s quite peculiar to you. Just pointing out that you’re wrong is enough to annoy you.’

  ‘You show surprise and astonishment at everything,’ he countered, ‘which makes you seem ignorant.’ This was the old Lionel surfacing.

  ‘When one wants to learn,’ Céleste replied, keeping her cool and a measure of humility, ‘one must admit to knowing nothing.’

  They were interrupted by an acquaintance, which kept a lid on their first heated discussion in a long time. Later, Lionel occupied himself by playing with Solange, which was his way of being contrite over his demeaning comment. The couple kissed and made up. At least, Céleste thought, his remarks were less acidic than before. He was quicker to see the unfairness of the comment, which in reality was more a defensive position. Before his own ‘education’ in humanity and survival in Australia, his caustic observations were due to a false sense of superiority and a lack of respect. But the experience in the bush and the sea voyages were great levellers where true character could emerge.

  CHAPTER 33

  Distractions and Dangers

  Lionel’s work as consul began on the ship when Madame Weber, a Frenchwoman who was travelling to Melbourne, told him that she would be searching for her lost music-master husband in the Victorian Colony. They had moved to England but struggled as music teachers. Her husband had decided to go on ahead to Australia in the hope of making a living for them and their two children, who were with Madame Weber. The consul was compassionate and helpful, saying he would take care of her when they arrived. In gratitude, the woman put on a superb performance at the piano in the first-class lounge. Then the captain cajoled Lionel into playing a few polkas that Lionel had composed himself. Céleste was proud of her man daring to follow such a grand show, and noted: ‘Energy replaces charm, the pride of the performer replaces the performer’s technique, and he comes out of it very well.’

  Honours, she judged, were shared.

  It was a sad case of triumph to tragedy for Madame Weber. The next day the Croesus nosed into the Port of Lisbon, but no one was allowed to disembark. Instead, local authorities came on board and quarantined the ship. A man in third class had died; Madame Weber’s son, just six months old, was extremely ill in second class. Céleste went to see her and found the child close to death, perhaps from a health condition he suffered from or from a disease more threatening to everyone on board, such as cholera.

  Madame Weber was distressed.

  ‘My poor husband,’ she cried. ‘He would have been so happy to have a son! He’ll learn of his birth and his death at the same time.’

  Céleste told her not to give up hope. But the ship’s doctor did not instil confidence.

  The child died. Céleste fell short of blaming the doctor for the boy’s demise. Madame Weber was inconsolable.

  The first day in port ended in sadness, while everyone on board wondering how long they would be kept ashore. As night took hold, Lisbon lit up and music could be heard, it helped relieve the gloom of the preceding hours. The next day, 15 November, the quarantine was lifted, but the gloom remained with the death of Portuguese Queen Maria II. The streets were empty, with the occasional knot of people dressed in black.

  ‘The town looks like a cemetery on All-Saints’ Day,’ Lionel said. He hired a carriage and took Céleste on a visit to the countryside. They returned to the city and the ship for a second night.

  The crew mutinied the next morning just before the ship was due to sail. They said that there were not enough men on board to manoeuvre the Croesus. The mutineers’ leaders said they would not allow the boat to leave port without another fifteen crew members, who could be hired in Lisbon. It put the captain in a quandary. He did not disag
ree with the need for extra hands, but he was not authorised by the ship’s owners to do this. The mutineers ganged together menacingly. Many were armed. In response, the ship’s officers formed a phalanx around the captain. Passengers panicked. A battle seemed likely. Lionel involved himself in discussions and then, grim-faced, ushered Céleste to their cabin.

  ‘Why doesn’t the captain give in?’ she asked.

  ‘Because he wants it noted that they’re using force against him.’

  ‘Will they fight?’

  ‘No. The numbers are too unequal. The captain can’t send them to prison or put them in the hold. There would be no crew.’

  Céleste stayed close to Lionel as he took part in the heated discussions between the two warring parties. The issue was finally resolved the next day, when the captain agreed to take on the extra sailors, which was inevitable.

  Céleste and Lionel believed the Croesus was ailing in some way. In fact everyone seemed to be at one in saying that the engine was too strong for the hull. The hold appeared to be splitting under the strain.

  Céleste and Lionel were happy about one effect of the contretemps and subsequent delay. It allowed them another night in Lisbon.

  The next major event on board the ailing Croesus was the ceremony to mark the crossing of the equator. Most passengers and crew wanted it and the captain was forced to comply, although he was uncomfortable. Traditionally, the captain and officers surrendered their power and authority to the drunken sailors for a day as the ship was made ready. The main focus was on creating a makeshift pool by filling a sail with water. All the crew members wore fancy dress, most of it hideous, and danced around a barrel of brandy, which would be consumed during the evening’s ‘fun and festivity’.