Celeste

by Roland Perry

‘They greeted each other so affectionately,’ she wrote later, ‘and exchanged so many hugs and kisses that I was almost jealous.’

  Solange was taken from her boarding school to be with them for a month.

  Emotions settled down and the Chabrillans resumed married life, for the first time ever in Paris. Céleste should have been hospitalised or convalescing, but instead she went out with Lionel to the races, dinner parties and balls, where she, not the count, was feted and congratulated. Despite her delight, her health deteriorated further.

  Lionel, still seeking redemption or forgiveness or some sign of humanity from his relatives regarding his marriage, wrote to the younger of his two sisters, the Countess de Motholon-Sémoulville. He asked for permission to see her. She wrote back, ‘I can forgive you, but I do not wish to see you ever again. I no longer know you.’

  Céleste intercepted the letter and kept it from Lionel. But this unkindest cut from the family to date affected her deeply. If the sister had meant to ruin her brother’s happiness and relationship, she would have been pleased with the initial reaction. Céleste, with acute bronchitis, a liver complaint, heart inflammation and other problems, was left prostrate with grief and sadness. She called for her family doctor.

  ‘If she does not die soon,’ he told Lionel frankly, ‘she will be ill for a long time.’

  Lionel, abandoned by the only member of the family that he cared for, was shaken. Only one love, Céleste, was left. He did not believe he would survive without her.

  ‘If I lost you,’ he told her, ‘I would kill myself.’ He urged her to fight against the illnesses. ‘Your life is my life.’

  Doctors went to work. They ‘tattooed my chest and shoulders with vesicatories [substances that created blisters], frictions and castor oil’ for two months. That treatment did not work. The next prescription was ‘a change of scene’. She was taken to Berry, but was soon so bad that the doctors, and she, believed she had only a short time to live. Céleste made her ‘confessions’ not to a priest just yet, but to her husband.

  ‘Please, Lionel,’ she begged, ‘if your family curses my name, you will not banish me from your heart and mind.’

  ‘I promise you that no matter what happens I shall always, always stand up for you.’

  Not too long after this, she decided to give him Louise’s hurtful letter in which his sister said she could never forgive him for ‘besmirching the family name by marrying that whore’.

  Lionel screwed up the letter and cried. Holding Céleste close, he said, ‘I have absolutely no regrets. The fact that I’ve been disinherited gives me a kind of secret joy. Acceptance of it is just another sacrifice I can make for you.’

  Céleste felt as if she were in her own funeral procession when she was taken to Châteauroux and her Poinçonnet home in a wagon with a bed made up in it.

  ‘The local people took their hats off [as if in] the presence of death, and crossed themselves at the sight of this shadow of my former self going by.’

  Some people cried.

  ‘I realised I was finished,’ she noted, ‘or at least terminally ill.’

  The parish priest arrived and prepared her ‘imminent departure’. Her Paris doctor was summoned, only to discover her face was covered in big yellow blotches. He gave her three consecutive applications of fifty leeches each time, but her condition remained dire. Lionel stayed by her bedside and prayed incessantly for her. He wouldn’t eat and only took some nourishment when Anne-Victoire cajoled him into it.

  After a few days Céleste stopped vomiting. After a week, her facial discolouration disappeared. In another week, she seemed to have recovered somewhat. Lionel, believing in his prayer rather than the leeching, decamped to Paris to try for another consular posting in Europe, realising that Céleste would never again be able to make the long, arduous trip to Melbourne. But by early January 1858, he had failed to secure a position closer to home or even an extension of his leave so he could stay longer with Céleste. She was in no mental state to digest the news, but Lionel returned to Châteauroux and finally got around to telling her he would have to return to Melbourne.

  ‘If I don’t go,’ he told her, ‘I’ll have nothing at all. As this post is our only resource from now on, I cannot let it go.’

  He explained that while on leave, he was only on half-pay and that was not enough to cover her medical costs. He would take a boat back to Australia in July.

  ‘The very name of Melbourne made me shudder,’ she noted. ‘I was haunted by the idea that one of us would never leave there.’

  Céleste pleaded with him not to return.

  ‘How would we live?’ he asked her. ‘It’s not in my nature to retire here in the country. I adore you, Céleste, but I like excitement, travel. Besides, here we would be nothing, but over there we are something.’

  Bedridden, Céleste was too weak to argue. If she’d been well, she would have convinced him that her burgeoning career, which was generating income from royalties, would be a base. But Lionel might have hated the idea of her being the breadwinner, and especially the fame and public exposure that her books brought.

  CHAPTER 43

  Lionel Departs; Dumas Inspires

  At the end of June a determined Céleste managed to stagger from one piece of furniture to another. Lionel laughed at her and said she had not got her ‘sea legs’, which was a way of telling her yet again that she could not return to the other side of the world with him. He took her into the garden and with the aid of Anne-Victoire walked her around. In an attempt to giver her a boost, he said she was prettier than ever before.

  ‘I was white as a sheet and nothing but skin and bone,’ she wrote later, feeling despondent as they congratulated her on managing a few steps.

  She urged Lionel to take her with him, but he reiterated that she needed a long recovery time and that any relapse would be fatal.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he said. ‘After all, I went through so much to save you.’

  Céleste was grateful for those moments together as the day of his departure, 12 July 1858, loomed. When he finally set off from Poinçonnet she was left with a fatalistic belief that she would never see him again. Through their tearful last night, they made plans for her return to Melbourne and what they would do together, but Céleste was too depressed to believe that anything other than death would intervene.

  She had Solange and her mother’s support, but Anne-Victoire was no help in the circumstances. She was fond of Lionel but most relieved that Céleste had not left with him. Anne-Victoire became ‘obsessed’ with stopping Céleste from leaving.

  Tension built between mother and daughter. Many of the old issues between them resurfaced. Céleste wanted nothing more than to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘I was bored to death,’ she noted. ‘If I have to die, I prefer to be with him.’

  Céleste felt inspired when Alexandre Dumas Sr, visiting his daughter in Berry, called on her. Céleste was embarrassed when Anne-Victoire, in her haste to greet him, knocked over a basket of embroidery wool she had been using in a tapestry. Dumas bent over to help Anne-Victoire pick up the balls of wool, and said with a laugh, ‘Ah, Madame, you did a better job the day you produced your daughter.’

  Céleste took him for a walk around the property.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to bury yourself here,’ he said, no pun intended. ‘Our Berry is about as lively as the catacombs.’ After a moment of silence, he went on, ‘You are such an attractive woman in every way. It is a pity I did not know you earlier in my life. I wonder if we would have loved each other?’

  Céleste deflected the comment with a smile in this opportunistic effort to bed her, now that her husband had left France.

  ‘Ah, my dear, your greatness as a writer would always widen the gulf between us,’ she said, ‘and I could never compete with so many of your wonderful conquests.’

  It was Dumas’s turn to be flattered. Seeing his acceptance of the situation, Céleste added, ‘You’re a danger t
o all women, my great friend; you’re capricious, changeable. Many loves have come and gone without making a deep impression on your generous heart. Constant work has been the reason for it. And it’s very fortunate for our dear France, as you are one of her greatest glories. For you, loving means nothing, and being loved very little more. You change mistresses, or deceive them with a facility that proves you really don’t care . . . the conquests provide you with subjects for your conversation and your novels. You think aloud, which makes you dangerously indiscreet for anyone who loves you.’

  Dumas listened. Her analysis meant something, and it demonstrated a clear judgement of character on her behalf. And her subject was his favourite.

  Céleste claimed she wanted him as a ‘demigod’, and under no circumstances did she want to see her ‘idol in nightcap and underwear’.

  Dumas expressed a certain insecurity about his looks and sex appeal, which was something that drove him to prove himself with woman after woman. He remarked that Céleste simply saw him as ‘unattractive to the point of repugnance’.

  Céleste countered with an explanation to which even this master of expression could not respond. She claimed she would be hurt if he treated her like all his other women friends, which was with fickle disregard. She told him she was ‘exceedingly’ proud of his friendship.

  ‘I want people to know that it’s honest and disinterested,’ she told him. ‘Then I shall be able to receive you and visit you without being taken for a sultana in your ever-changing little harem.’

  Céleste was no doubt sincere in her rejection. She was a married woman. Furthermore, to be seen as Dumas’s lover would have restored the image of Mogador the courtesan, when she was now the countess author. Being seen with the famous Dumas as a friend would help her new reputation as an accomplished writer, accepted by the literary elite.

  Dumas saw her declarations as a challenge. He wished to conquer the now famous writer, but Céleste had all the answers.

  ‘I shall see a procession of all your former favourites,’ Céleste told him, ‘and I shall say to myself: “my reign has been less brilliant but it will last longer.” I shall do my utmost to make it sustain the test of time. Does that suit you?’

  Never one to quit, Dumas responded, ‘Yes, and if I stray from this plan of action, you must not hold it against me. I’m so used to courting women out of politeness.’

  He was trying to keep a foot in the door; Céleste slammed it shut.

  ‘Rest assured,’ she said, ‘I shall call you to order.’

  Dumas stayed for dinner. Anne-Victoire remained dumbstruck as they discussed Lionel, travel, literature and theatre.

  His surprise visit lifted Céleste’s spirits. Dumas’s confidence in her recovery and their chat about the future gave her hope.

  CHAPTER 44

  The Long Farewell

  Céleste kept writing, novel after novel, as she slowly recovered, while Lionel’s boat chugged on towards Melbourne. She waited eagerly for the postman to deliver her husband’s letters and took time to respond immediately and at length, knowing that apart from the first few, he would not read them until he arrived at his destination and her mail caught up with him. She was pleased that he seemed content and well, and to help maintain this, she only gave him good news about her condition.

  But now, not alarmingly at first, concern turned to Lionel’s health. After leaving Aden (a port in what is now known as Yemen), he began to experience stomach cramps. This was usual rather than unusual on voyages of that era. Almost everyone had them during a trip. It was either seasickness or some form of diarrhoea, or something more or less serious. But on 16 August, thirty-five days into the trip, he was writing to Céleste when the pain became so severe he fainted. He was carried to the bed in his cabin. He remained there for another two days until the boat reached Trincomalee, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). He went ashore, feeling a fraction better, and glad for the break on land. But a week later he was again laid up in bed on the boat. The pain had exhausted him, and his condition worsened. He had little desire to eat. No nourishment was getting into his system.

  He wrote to Céleste admitting for the first time that he was afraid of dying.

  It didn’t help that the mighty Australasian, the ship that he was travelling on, broke down in the dock at Ceylon and could not sail on. Other passengers were transferred to smaller boats for the onward journey. But Lionel was too ill. He had to wait until the big ship was repaired.

  After the Australasian took to sea again, Lionel’s condition worsened. From 11 September onwards he wrote of this in his short, two- or three-paragraph letters. There was no let-up all the way to Melbourne, where he arrived on 17 October. He was now convinced of his impending death. But his genuine fears, based on his poor condition, were allayed when he was with friends such as the Faucherys, who welcomed him back warmly. They were pleased to have such an illustrious character in their ranks again, and this lifted his spirits a fraction, though his health did not improve. He made a special effort to look presentable when the colony’s governor paid him a personal visit, something he appreciated, and a vindication of his decision to leave France, where he was not nearly as well respected.

  Despite his terrible condition, he went straight to work in an act of noblesse oblige for a compatriot in deep trouble. A French soldier named Soirit was condemned to be hanged for killing his mistress, ‘who had been unfaithful to him’. There was no such thing as ‘a crime of passion’ under British and Australian law, whereas under French law it would mean leniency and a reprieve from the gallows.

  ‘Although half-dead I dragged myself to the governor to implore his pardon,’ Lionel wrote. The pardon was granted at eight that evening. ‘I was so ill that this good news nearly killed me. But it was a happy beginning for my work in Melbourne.’

  Lionel’s illness was diagnosed as dysentery, a dreaded disease of the lower intestine caused by bacteria or unknown parasites. It had begun with diarrhoea after Aden and never abated, and was now marked by inflammation. He was passing blood and mucus.

  On 16 December, he wrote to Céleste from Melbourne, ‘I have read and re-read The Gold Thieves ten times; I have lent it to everybody. How magnificent you are and what willpower you had to give me such joy!’

  This was the first time he had opened up about her writing and his appreciation of it.

  ‘I am sorry that I did not help you in your studies,’ he went on, ‘but I was far from expecting this great transformation in your mind.’

  Lionel now seemed resigned to his fate. He did not mention his illness but instead referred to feeling ‘fine’.

  ‘A lot of our friends have died here in a very short time,’ he added. ‘Well, in this world, what must come, comes. Do not forget me. I adore you and dream only of you.’

  On the morning of 21 December, he tried to leave for work but was forced to return to bed. His doctor did not think he was dying. Then on 26 December, the medical opinion changed. He had only days to live. The next day Lionel called his sometime vice-consul, Édouard Adet, a French importing merchant, as well as Fauchery, to witness his will. Adet was to act as his executor.

  Lionel had calculated, accurately, that after his debts were paid off he would leave just short of 395 pounds, not the fortune he would have hoped for. But he was pleased he would not be leaving Adet, and ultimately his wife, a financial mess.

  Lionel showed that his dearest last thoughts, and those he wished to record for posterity, were for Céleste. He wrote in the will:

  My only regret in leaving this life is dying far from my wife, and not leaving her in the situation that I would have wished her to have.

  Lionel, Count de Chabrillan, died two days later on the morning of 29 December 1858, his best friend Fauchery by his side.

  The Age of 1 January 1859 reported on the count’s funeral and procession from his Collins Street home and office to St Francis’s Cathedral for a ‘solemn’ requiem mass. The governor, the mayor, the chief justice, the commande
r of the forces and many other dignitaries were present. The hearse was drawn by four horses and followed by fifty Frenchmen, including Fauchery, on foot, along with twenty other carriages. The coffin was covered in the French flag, with Lionel’s cocked hat and sword placed on it. After the service, the procession meandered on to the Melbourne Cemetery. There Lionel was with about 500 people in attendance, but not the one person he would have wished to be there.

  Letters from Lionel arrived posthumously in January 1859, but Céleste had no idea he had died. The string of plaintive, short missives saw her put her house at Poinçonnet up for sale. But France was experiencing a property slump and it did not attract a buyer. Nevertheless, Céleste was prepared to depart despite her doctor forbidding her to undergo sea travel. Anne-Victoire was, as ever, also against her going, though she did accompany Céleste to Paris, where she was meant to rest.

  Céleste received more letters from Lionel in February, and she hoped upon hope that the downcast reports of his medical condition were, at least in part, disguised pleas for her to join him.

  Céleste became more and more contemptuous of her mother from them being in such close proximity. Anne-Victoire’s negativity irritated her, as did her complaints about everything in life, her possessive attitude towards Céleste and her wish that her daughter not go to Lionel. Céleste began to use every excuse to leave the apartment, even in the harsh winter conditions, and meet other people. She was introduced to Mr Marc Fournier, the director of the Porte Saint-Martin Theatre, which produced popular plays and musicals.

  ‘I really enjoyed The Gold Thieves,’ he told her. ‘It would make a fine play. If you want to have a try at writing it, I would read it straightaway.’

  This gave Céleste a boost.

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Fournier added, ‘but I may well produce it.’

  ‘I’m too ill to sleep so I might as well write,’ Céleste said.