by Roland Perry
Coming home late at night from Paris, he would often see her upstairs study light on and tap on the downstairs window shutters. This would cause Anne-Victoire’s poodle to bark and the house would be woken. After this happened a few times even Céleste lost patience and told him to desist. But one day he received good news about one of his operas, Les Pêcheurs de Perles (The Pearl Fishers), being accepted for production. Well lubricated after a drinking celebration with mates, he could not resist telling his now close friend the countess about his success. It was 2 a.m. when he reached her house and rapped on the shutters. Céleste had finished writing and was in bed. She got up and was just about to dash downstairs when Anne-Victoire opened a window above the front door. She tipped the contents of her chamber-pot on his head, telling him where to go in terms that would make a Belleville cemetery worker blush.
Undeterred, Bizet kept visiting his muse, Céleste, and they often walked arm in arm in the woods during breaks from their writing. Once after he had played an exciting composition for her, Céleste pressed close to him as they walked in the moonlight. She was enchanted. Bizet, already dreaming of a relationship with this still stunning woman fifteen years his senior, misinterpreted her clutching his arm as they strolled. He wondered aloud if she was coming on to him.
Céleste handled his infatuation with sensitivity, saying, ‘I adore your talent and am proud of your friendship . . . but my admiration for you is absolutely platonic.’
Young Bizet pressed further for a relationship. Céleste let him down gently in the practised manner of the experienced courtesan.
‘Let’s wait until we see what happens to our pleasant and honest friendship . . . otherwise the chances are a hundred to one that we would quarrel.’1
In April 1866 Céleste’s Le Vésinet home was ransacked while she was away. That was bad enough, but she saw it as a violation and a step too far when it seemed that the burglars had targeted all the mementos, presents and other items she had inherited from Lionel: most of his letters, signed bound books he had given her, his hunting pistols, his consul’s dress sword, and his signet ring engraved with his crest. Most upsetting was the theft of the little ivory model of Christ he had gifted her when she and Solange returned to France from Australia without him on the James Baines.
Céleste’s first thought was that the Chabrillans had instigated the burglary and nothing could ever make her think otherwise. They had failed to stop her career. Instead, thanks to their interference, it had been diverted to different creative outlets, which had only strengthened her reputation and highlighted her connection to the family name. They had not been able to break her financially, and short of having her murdered, they could not stop her advance. Striking this way was an attempt to take away all the connections she had to Lionel and to them. But she still retained her title, which was the most important link of all.
Devastated, she tried to sell the house in order to rid her of this violation of her soul and spirit. Again, the timing was not right. She could not get a reasonable price and so held on to the property.
Céleste remained in the public eye and of regular interest to the press. Four of her plays, as agreed and contracted by the new lessees of the Folies-Marigny, were produced. Three were hits though without the impact of The Gold Thieves. They were En Garde, Un Homme Compromis, and the musical comedy, A la Bretonne. Modest income from these augmented the royalties from The Gold Thieves, but her expenses were beginning to outrun her income once more. Fearing bankruptcy again, she sought other work and accepted an offer from the owner of Café-Concert du XIXé to appear for 100 nights at 100 francs, meaning an income of 10,000 francs, which was in the order of the returns from her recent tours.
Like many artists before and after her, she felt that it was important to take reasonable offers because they could never be assured they would be in favour for their work from one year to the next. She now had a strong reputation in the theatre as Madame Lionel, although most people still referred to her as Mogador, which seemed to stick no matter her endeavours. This café was similar to scores in Paris that put on shows from strippers and burlesque dancers to more sophisticated performances of opera singers and classical guitarists.
Céleste signed the contract as the countess. The owner promptly advertised on Paris hoardings and in the press that the café was putting on shows by the Countess Lionel de Chabrillan. Céleste was deeply disappointed. She threatened to break the contract but could not. The press loved the faux pas on her part and trotted out old references to Mogador ‘prostituting the good name of one of France’s oldest and most respected families’.
The Chabrillans—led by the marquis and his sister—reacted with outrage. From their perspective she was insulting them after the burglary at Le Vésinet. They contacted the Paris Prefecture of Police and either bribed or put political pressure on him. Céleste was summoned to the office of an inspector. On his desk was the 25-year-old file in which she had been registered as a prostitute at sixteen years of age.
‘You are Élizabeth-Céleste Vénard, are you not?’ the inspector asked in an officious manner, as if he were addressing a common street worker rather than a countess. Asking her to sit opposite him at his desk, he pointed out that she had signed the registry of her own volition. This meant that she could be arrested at any time.
Céleste, shaken but much more confident than the pathetic, abandoned teenage prisoner she had once been, remained quiet throughout this aggressive threat.
‘Let me give you some friendly advice,’ he said in a most unfriendly manner. ‘Cancel your engagement to sing at the Café-Concert.’
‘Have you finished?’ she asked the inspector. Surprised, he nodded.
‘Let me remind you, sir,’ she said, ‘that my husband, in conjunction with his friend Prince Napoleon, had my name removed from your registry.’
She pointed at the big, thick book with its yellowing pages.
‘Check it,’ she said. ‘It was on the 27th of April 1852, which was twenty months before my marriage to the count.’
The prefecture either knew or was too dumbfounded to respond and open the registry.
‘If the Chabrillans are not aware of the fact,’ she told the inspector as she stood to leave, ‘perhaps you will be kind enough to inform them of it.’
Céleste left the office, with the inspector still sitting in his chair. She was furious but had kept a cool dignity throughout this ordeal. But it would have depressed her, especially with all its bad reminders of those dark days a generation ago.
She was now more defiant than ever and secretly pleased that she was being billed under her true name.
Céleste at forty-one still looked good; ‘handsome’ being the most hackneyed description of the time. Her face was unlined; her waist was thin, her bosom and derrière full and firm and in no way matronly; her long limbs were still in superb condition. For the café show, Céleste wore a frilled white satin dress with a pattern of scarlet poppies. It had very short, almost non-existent sleeves, which showed off her arms, always her most remarked on physical attribute. But it was her inner beauty—the character and personality—that came through and captivated audiences. Céleste had a real presence on stage or anywhere. She was ‘charismatic’ before it became a theatrical cliché, and she was closer to the original definition of charm and influence. Men were often mesmerised; women were inspired, particularly those who lived repressed lives as second-class citizens in a male-dominated world.
Her show was an autobiographical monologue called Encore Moi. She naturally sanitised her life, speaking about her careers as a dancer, equestrienne, actress and author. There was not a word about Guy, Vincent, prison, the brothel, courtesans or the Chabrillans. She did, however, speak glowingly about her one true love, Count Lionel. It may have seemed defiant to her critics, but she felt she owed more than just some acknowledgement to him. At no point did she play up her status as a countess. Instead, she stayed true to the integrity of events in that respect.
/> In the interval, she changed costume and returned to the stage in a more dramatic black velvet gown with a white lace cape and sang ballads, some her own and others contemporary hits. Even though her vocal skills did not match her writing, dancing or acting, she got away with mediocrity because she had already won her audience over.
The show was a great success. Céleste was surprised when the contract was not renewed, and believed that the unseen Chabrillan guillotine had fallen on her elegant neck once more. Certainly the owner had done strong business throughout the three months. He would not explain his decision, which to Céleste was explanation enough.
When Holacher, the Belleville Theatre director, approached Céleste about a follow-up to The Gold Thieves, she was ready and in the mood for a creative burst. She came up with Les Crimes de la Mer (Crimes at Sea), a melodrama about the adventures of a Breton sailor shipwrecked on the Australian coast. She had an oversupply of material. There had been monthly reports of shipwrecks all around the huge Australian coastline. She borrowed ideas from these, threw in some similarities to the mutiny of the Batavia off the coast of Western Australia in 1629 and stirred in her own upsetting experiences on two long trips. The new play debuted on 8 May 1869 and was nearly as big a hit as The Gold Thieves.
The audiences loved it. Critics, including political journalist Édouard Drumont, reviewed it favourably. His words of praise turned to flattery in person, when he offered to write and publish a mini-biography of Céleste. This seemed like a good idea at the time. She was riding high and wished to remain in the public eye. There had never been such a thing as bad publicity for Céleste, whom Paris loved reading about. She thought that something more controlled and positive would help, and perhaps modify her image among those who would always sneer at her achievements, such as the Chabrillans and their aristocratic circle.2
But Drumont proved to be unscrupulous. She ended up paying the cost of printing the book, while he pocketed the 300 francs she had given him to publish it.3
In early 1870, another benefactor, in the form of the Count de Naurois, seventy-eight, turned up unexpectedly. He had been a friend of Lionel’s and had opposed his marriage to Céleste, whom he had never met. But when she starred in another of her hit plays, Les Revers de l’Amour (Troubles in Love), which ran for three months at his Théâtre des Nouveautés, he could not resist popping in to meet her.
Until Céleste’s performance, the rundown theatre had been used for strip shows, which irked him and he avoided it. But Les Revers lasted for several months. It was a welcome change. Enamoured with her efforts, he invited Céleste to his home to view his art treasures. Céleste was delighted to meet his adopted daughter, Princess de Lusignan, who confided that her bored father needed a distraction, but not a sexual one, for he had declared he was past that. Céleste was pleased to be consulted. She then showed the very rich, sometimes charming, often grumpy old gentleman all his properties, including the theatre. He was appalled at their state of disrepair. Nouveautés, the market across the road, and the building which housed his newspaper, L’Opinion Nationale, were all rundown. With Céleste’s discreet guidance and assisted by his daughter, the count had a new direction. He went to work engaging contractors, and enjoyed slipping down to the theatre and chatting with the cast and crew who were putting on another Céleste creation, La Femme Américaine (The American Girl).
Count de Naurois was so pleased with Céleste that when the manager/lessee of the theatre fell behind in his rent, he fired him and installed her instead.
CHAPTER 49
War Changes and Service
Céleste had never had it so good. It was 1870 and she was forty-five. She had her own theatre. She was starring in her own production. Money problems that had dogged her throughout her career were no longer an issue as long as she did not over-extend herself. She had a satisfactory private life with Desmarest an undemanding, part-time lover. Her dependent mother and daughter were settled and secure.
On 19 July 1870, her world was turned upside down by the Franco-Prussian War, when France was conned by the canny, belligerent Prussian Chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, into declaring war on Prussia. Von Bismarck had long planned to provoke a French attack. He knew it would be the spark to draw the southern German states—Baden, Wurttemberg, Bavaria and Hesse-Darmstadt—into an alliance with the Prussian-dominated North German Alliance.
In Paris, theatres, businesses and sporting events shut down. The good run at the Théâtre des Nouveautés ended abruptly. Count de Naurois, fearing an invasion of Paris and the appropriation of his property and wealth, was whisked away to England by his daughter. He gave Céleste a modest parting gift of 1500 francs and assured her that they would become reacquainted as soon as the war was over. Céleste took Solange out of the drapery shop where she worked and sent her to Le Vésinet, believing she would be safer there. Although the Prussians were a long way from Paris, Céleste was aware from her contact with her lawyer and radical politician, Léon Gambetta, that civil unrest in France would lead to bloodshed in French cities, perhaps as much bloodshed as fighting the well-organised Prussians would cause.
In fact, defeat for the French on 2 September 1870 led to internal strife and change. At Sedan on France’s northeast border, the French Army was defeated by the powerful enemy, which took 80,000 prisoners, including the hapless Napoleon III, who was present to boost his troops’ morale. His capture ended the Second Empire. On 4 September he was deposed and the Third Republic was declared by a Government of National Defence led by the new president, General Louis-Jules Trochu, along with Monsieur Jules Favre and Céleste’s friend and dinner-party jousting opponent, Léon Gambetta.
Céleste could be forgiven for cursing her ill luck at a time when she had reached a grand peak in her career. But instead of retreating to mope at her misfortune, she did the opposite and thought of ways to defend France with the help of an organised women’s civilian force. This would support the regular army and the stronger, often politicised and radical troops of the National Guard.
On the day the Third Republic was announced she sent a long and impassioned letter to the Governor of Paris.
There are in the capital thousands of energetic and strong women, belonging to all classes and particularly to the working class, who, at a word from you, are ready to form a legion. It could proceed by divisions to care for the wounded, to transport them on stretchers, prepare meals for the besieged. The women could also do their washing, look after animals, form a chain of rescuers in the case of fire . . . They would become the devoted servants of France . . . so that our ramparts shall not be deprived of one single defender . . .
Céleste signed it ‘Veuve Hubert, born in Paris in 1824’. Anticipating that the Governor of Paris, on a day of turmoil in the capital, was never going to sit down and write a reply, particularly to someone he’d never heard of, she sent the letter to several newspapers, signing it this time as ‘Une Parisienne’.
‘Have you read this?’ Desmarest asked after reading her piece in a morning paper. ‘There’s a proposal for a women’s corps.’
‘No I haven’t,’ Céleste said, wanting to hear his reaction.
‘It’s a model of generosity and intelligence.’
‘A man must have written it, then.’
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s signed by a woman. You should join this corps.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. The government should organise it. Women cannot organise themselves.’
‘Oh, you believe that, do you? Well, the disorganised woman who wrote it is me!’
Desmarest was stunned.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, severely embarrassed. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Clearly!’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said in an attempt to recover ground. ‘There’s a large empty office of mine at 17 Boulevard Saint-Martin. You can use it to start this . . . this legion.’
The editor of La Presse Émile de Girardin suggested the new organis
ation should be called Les Soeurs de France. Céleste liked it and it was adopted. It was officially founded on 15 September 1870 under the Civil Committee for the Means of Defence. Possibly missing the message, three men from the committee were appointed to direct it.
On 19 September, the Germans surrounded the city and erected a blockade.
Céleste had recruited 150 women by that date. They all wore the uniform she had suggested in her letter of ‘a wool dress and calico bonnet; an apron with wide pockets to hold the necessary dressings for the wounded; and a shoulder bag containing provisions’. They also wore a brass number and the insignia of the Red Cross as armbands. By 21 September, the women had begun organising ambulance stations in empty houses on Paris’s outskirts. This move had an immediate impact. Many soldiers’ lives were saved. Céleste was now ubiquitous and fully involved with events on the frontline as well as in the suburbs, particularly in the north of Paris, where the Prussians were pressing hardest. There was more ill feeling towards the new French Government of the Third Republic than there was towards the Prussians, who had put the capital in a state of siege.
The Prussian blockade of Paris dragged on into November and December of 1870 and the beginning of a cold winter. The stalemate encouraged all the worst elements of humanity as black-market racketeers, looters and German spies destabilised the French position. As the new year approached, the winter became harder and exacerbated the dire situation for the city’s defenders. Its water system was under stress as pipes and street pumps froze. Wood became scarce and fuel was almost non-existent. The Prussians applied a stranglehold on Paris.