Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (12 page)

Oh, my, this wasn’t what I’d expected—I’d simply wanted to come, be alone, and blast several dozen bullets at something inert that, in my mind’s eye, had acquired an unnecessary monocle and a high, giggly laugh. The other sportsmen, however, were very excited by this new idea and clapped Beauvallon (whose dark face began looking decidedly stormy) on the back several times.

“I will not fight a woman,” he said finally, “and that’s an end to it.”

“I will fight you, if you like,” I rejoined, before I even knew that the words were forming. The others hurrahed, and one of them dashed off to find a fresh target.

“This is absurd, gentlemen,” growled Beauvallon, before turning to me. “Forgive them their crassness, mademoiselle. I am the best shot in Paris, everyone knows this. They are simply setting you up for laughter later.”

“Is that so?” I wondered whether this might be true—and perhaps they’d all been there the night before, at the Opéra? Perhaps, too, they’d all read and snickered at the reviews that cut me to ribbons, that insulted my very soul. I tossed my hair away from my shoulders, then straightened them. “Let us put it to the test.”

“I can’t advise it,” said another man, stepping up. “Do you remember me, Mademoiselle Lola? At the Jockey Club that night? We spoke for a little bit—you were with Eugène Sue.”

“Of course,” I said, recalling that the red lips and the mustache belonged to the Italian, Pier-Angelo.

“Fiorentino,” he nodded, with a shy smile. “I enjoyed your performance last night. Never mind what they say, it’s just to sell papers.”

My brain fizzed suddenly. He meant well, I’m sure, but I could feel it coming, that rising surge that occasionally overtakes me. I never know when it will happen. It’s been the same ever since I was a little girl. A surfeit of restlessness?—a lack of familial care or reprimand when young? I have no idea. I fight against it, but most often to no avail. It is an uncontrollable phenomenon borne out of a concatenation of conflicting emotions: a volcanic eruption of molten fire, and I must follow where it leads me or I will burst. I bent my head and reloaded, swiftly. To my left, I could feel Beauvallon’s indignation mounting.
Bueno.

Ready, I raised my head and my arm. “I like a challenge. Do you?”

And I fired into the target, just as the weedy sportsman who’d retrieved the new one was setting it in place. The bullet went true, straight to a bull’s-eye; the man leaped to safety, tumbling as he went.

“
Parbleu
,” Beauvallon muttered under his breath. I looked over in time to see him reload at speed, aim and fire again. The weedy fellow stood up, dusting off his knees, and raised his hands in the air.

“Shall I check, Beauvallon? For God’s sake, don’t either of you shoot me.” He loped across to the target, peered at the centre, then turned and cried, “Yours followed hers! No second hole!”

Incredulous whistles and murmurs from all the others, who raced over to examine the thing for themselves. Beauvallon gave me a smile from his very brown face; his teeth sparkled white, his tongue very red, where I could see the tip of it sticking out between those teeth. “Satisfied?”

“Not quite,” I answered, then called, “a fresh one, if you please.” The weedy chap and another dashed around, searching. I could see someone else joining us at this point; it was Grisier, the master marksman and instructor, the one who’d given the nod to my membership.

“What’s this then, Beauvallon? Is the lady giving you a run for the money?” And then there were new hoots and hollers, as everyone else realized they could be betting on this, and the wagers began flying around the room at top speed.

“A change of pistols, I think,” Beauvallon said.

“Do you agree?” Grisier asked me.

“Very well.”

“I shall bring two,” Grisier promised, “and they shall be fine ones. Duelling pistols.”

This gave me pause. I hadn’t often handled large ones such as those the duellists used, and didn’t think this fresh test was terribly fair. I hadn’t counted on the gentlemanly nature of Master Grisier, however. He did indeed bring duelling pistols, but they were smaller and lighter than I’d expected. “Choose the one you want, Mademoiselle Montez,” as he held them out for me, in their case. I indicated the one on the left. “I shall load the two, and you shall see me do so,” Grisier told us. “Of course,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and a glance at us both, “you are firing at the target, not at each other.”

During the loading, Beauvallon and I regarded one another. Beneath the dark colour of his skin, I could sense that he was blushing—with anger, I assumed. No matter. I squared my shoulders again; everyone was watching me with great attention, and I drank that in. They didn’t believe I could do this and were wishing me well—but I believed I could, and then they’d see. Grisier handed me the pistol I’d chosen, and gave the second one to my opponent.

Then I said, “Monsieur Beauvallon goes first, if you please.”

Absolute silence, absolute shock!

Fast as a striking snake, his arm shot out and the target was despoiled.

“Bull’s-eye!” the weedy one chirped with glee.

I raised my arm, took aim. Beside me, Beauvallon cleared his throat loudly. I dropped my arm, glared at him coldly. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, I do.” Very softly, under his breath.

I took aim swiftly then, and shot. Weedy one dashed forth and peered, searching in and around the centre, then—unbelievably! The cheek of him!—his head dipped and darted, checking the outer rings, and finally the sawdust-covered floor and paneled walls. Some of the others began to titter and mutter behind their hands. Fiorentino called, “What are you doing, man?”

“I’m just making absolutely certain,” El Weedo reported, then turned to face us with face ablaze. “That shot followed Beauvallon’s, as well. The lady aced Beauvallon’s bull’s-eye, if you can credit it!”

Men rushed in from all directions, and I found myself lifted into the air and galloped around the shooting gallery upon their shoulders, Fiorentino following and yelling at me, “Never fear, all of Paris shall soon hear of this! I’ll sell the story to the highest bidder, and make us all happy!”

By the time the jolly sportsmen had set me down, apologizing and patting my crumpled skirts, my chestnut-haired opponent had vanished.

*

Eugène thought that my spree in the shooting gallery had been a stupid thing to do, but I told him I didn’t need his opinion, thank you ever so. Pier-Angelo had penned a snappy little piece for the
Corsaire
the next morning, and I was pleased with it: “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has outdone herself at the Shooting Gallery of Lepage. Her first practice session left a card entirely perforated from firing rapid double
coups
. To top it off, the Andalusian’s astonishing prowess then vanquished Paris’ most famous shot, Rosemond de Beauvallon, in a double bull’s-eye.” I crowed about that when I took it to show Eugène.

“Doubly stupid, Lulu,” he said, throwing the paper down. “Now you’ve made an enemy.”

“Pooh on that,” I retorted. “He’ll get over it soon enough.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“And don’t call me Lulu.”

That afternoon we were heading, together, to an important event: I was going as Eugène’s guest to Olympe Pelissier’s Saturday salon, where artists, writers and courtesans mingled, read out loud to each other, and discussed issues of the day. In honour of the occasion I had bought myself a felt hat with blue feathers (to augment the sapphire blue of my eyes, though it had depleted my purse sadly), and Eugène had stumped up for a pearl-grey velvet jacket and a skirt of corresponding blue satin (bless him).

“You need to outshine the queen today, and I want to be there to see you do it.” His eyes glittered as he added, “Revenge is a dish best served cold—and I’ve been waiting for this one a long time.”

“That’s a line from
Les Mystères
, isn’t it?” I laughed.

“Indeed it is; well spotted. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Let’s go get her.”

I suddenly had a thought. “Who else comes to these things? Will George Sand be there?”

“Oh, George might come, you never know.”

“What about—I don’t know—Countess d’Agoult?”

“Marie? Shouldn’t think so, no. She holds her own salons. All the same men attend hers as Olympe’s, but Madame d’Agoult wouldn’t be caught dead with courtesans and lowly
lorettes
. Why, do you know her?”

“No,” I said, quickly.

“Ah!” he rejoined, grinning suddenly. “Of course! How could I be forgetting…”

“Forgetting what?”

“My little not-so-innocent, you’ve been in all the papers, as you so love to brag. Could this—? No, wait—Oh!
I
know! Is
that
how you met her?” A sly grin creased his face. “Nasty. Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I had promised Franz, and I had meant it.

“Everyone knows you were on Liszt’s arm for at least three weeks, in far off Dresden. And haven’t you heard? The god of music and his lady have just had a fatal falling-out. How did you miss
that
story?” I must have looked shocked, which prompted another grin. “Very acrimonious, yes indeed. Apparently the children are being used in a tug-of-war. Serves them right, of course—the adults, not the children. For years, Marie’s been obnoxious about the blissful love she engenders in the man. Her goal in life? To be admired.”

I regarded Eugène thoughtfully. He was rather nasty, himself, I realized. I should be careful, once our friendship cooled—as I knew it would, and perhaps already was. If he was saying that kind of thing about them, and they were supposedly all pals together in this free-flowing artistic milieu, then what would he be saying about me? The gossip and the back-biting were real, and quite lethal. Talk about enemies! When friends turn into them, count on true pain.

I also felt very sorry for Franz at this news, knowing how much the love of his children meant to him and the patient devotion he’d felt for their mother. Surely this breakup wasn’t all on account of me? The timing was certainly unfortunate—and the fury of a countess must never be overlooked, I told myself solemnly.

However: the salon. Off we went to it. I see clearly, in hindsight, how everything—my head spins, remembering—which was churned up before, during and after Olympe’s salon that afternoon, turned out to be just the opening volley of the turmoil to come. The event heralded the future: intense joy, unutterable anguish, appalling fear.

And there we were. Eugène led me through the mob at the second-floor apartment’s entrance. He’d spotted the hostess, the queen bee herself, Olympe Pellisier—a gorgeous, blonde confection in the fairest flowering of youth. She’d dressed elaborately in the most delicate shade of pink imaginable, highlighted lovingly with a deeper pink, as if she was a rose, at the centre of which lay a delectable, darker secret ready to be pillaged. As we approached, she looked me up and down haughtily. Oho, I thought, Eugène is right: this one can’t stand any rivals, and in me she sees a definite possibility. Fine! “You’re Eugène’s new
amie
, aren’t you? You are welcome,” she told me, obviously lying through her teeth. As she turned away to greet the next person, Eugène gave my arm a delighted jog at the elbow—“Well done, Lola! A palpable hit!” So I’d accomplished what he’d hoped for, right off the bat.

Olympe’s apartment was impressive: paid for, no doubt, by some of her admiring male patrons. It was as if one was stepping into a warm, gentle womb—the outer, public rooms decorated in soft pinks and greens; the inner chambers and the bed linens displayed shades of deeper carmine and vermilion. People of both sexes milled around throughout, looking and touching as if quite at home. There were tassels and cushions galore, as well as footstools, love seats and courting chairs. In one of the corners was a grand piano, and in another, a raised dais, which held a music stand and nothing else.

“For the writers who wish to read aloud,” Eugène said, noting my curiosity. “We can try out new ideas here, see the reaction. Poets, dramatists, even journalists. They all come and test themselves.”

“Alexandre Dumas?” I asked.

“
Mais qui
. Right over there. And his son, see? With Marie Duplessis, known as Merci—for obvious reasons. The son is besotted with her.”

From across the room, a graceful figure rose and moved towards us. It was the thin courtesan Eugène had pointed out at the Jockey Club. She came over, straight to me, placing her gloved hand upon my shoulder. “Come join me and Alexandre
fils
. He’s longing to be amused. You can call me Merci, everyone does—come.” She led me back to where the young man was languishing; Eugène turned away and began happily mingling.

Merci snuggled up against Dumas’ son, who seemed spoiled and rather churlish. “It’s irksome to Alex
deuxième
to watch his father lap up the praise,” she told me. “Is that not so,
chérie
?”

The youth nodded with a gloomy air, before giving vent to a splatter of words, which spilled forth in a high-pitched, frantic manner. “In actual fact, my soul is that of an ascetic; I observe, rather than indulge in, this turbulent existence. Oh, the paganism of modern life.” His eyes were now fixed upon his father, across the room: the big writer was holding forth with his usual bluster.

“Oh, God, look at her,” young Dumas moaned, pointing out his stepmother, Ida Ferrier, who was standing behind Dumas
père
and reaching for a glass of champagne.

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear heart,” Merci coaxed, before turning to a silent girl sitting in the corner nearby. “Pierrette, cheer up, can’t you?” When no response came, Merci sighed and flashed me a dazzling smile. Alex
fils
stood abruptly and slouched off into the throng. “Lola Montez,” Merci then said, leaning in to me with a weary laugh, “you are so welcome in our midst! Tell me all about yourself!”

Cigar and cigarette smoke billowed about in the air, as we two spoke and laughed and began to share confidences. Almost immediately, I could tell Merci-Marie Duplessis everything. She gasped in the right places, holding her heart and applying a handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. In turn, she gave me the outline of her life, and a surprising life it was, so far. Yes, she was a courtesan, mistress to a number of prominent and wealthy men, and hoping one day to have an apartment as beautiful as Olympe’s. She was barely twenty, as was Alex
fils.
(
Mon Dieu
, I was the dowager of the group! How could that be?)