Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (21 page)

“Bon-bon…” I tried it out, and then once more. “Bon-bon.” I sat up, delighted. “Oh! That’s what you are, my Henri, my sweetheart! You’re my delectable bon-bon.”

“I am?”

“You know it, my heart.
Mi corazón
…” I drew my fingers through his short, silky beard. “I don’t like nicknames, myself, so I hardly dare say this, but… May I call you Bon-bon, with fondest love?”

“Bon-bon… I don’t see why not.”

Adorable man.

“And what shall I call you, then, Lola?”

“Lola—your Lola—will do very nicely.”

We purred, crooned and cuddled, sipping cognac from delicate glasses while a fire glimmered in the corner of the bedroom, sending out warmth. Then my secret excitement bubbled up again, and I felt that the moment had come.

“Oh, oh! Henri, let me tell you.” I sat up again, folded my legs under me, and took his hand. “Henri—Bon-bon—I’ve had an idea, and I think it’s so exciting! I know I can do it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“What, my darling?” He was smiling at me with such open joy, it gave me all the confidence I needed.

“With your help, Bon-bon, this could be the success I’ve been looking for!”

“Oh?” he said, a flicker crossing his brow—of what, I wasn’t sure, so I hurried on.

“I’ve thought it all out; it’s all in my head! Everybody’s doing it, and if it works for them, then why not me? I want to try. I propose… I want to write a novel under a
nom de plume
! I’ve been considering carefully, and I think I’ve found the perfect name, but never mind that right now.”

The flicker was turning into a little crease. Ignore it, carry on!

“What I think is lacking in the whole novel business at the moment—and remember, my love, this is not a reproach, just an observation!—is that there are no female heroines. It’s all about men—and yet so many of your readers are women, is that not so?” I didn’t dare look at him any more at this point, so I looked at the fire and rushed onwards. “And my thought is… I’ll bet that, well, that many subscribers would like to read about a feisty young woman, a very modern young woman—maybe a young woman who rides like a cossack, can shoot pistols with deadly accuracy and perhaps even swing a sabre with the best of them—”

Henri sat up at this point, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

“—No, listen, Bon-bon, here’s what I’m thinking: at a crucial point, this heroine will rescue her dauntless lover, who has gotten himself captured somehow by an unscrupulous villain—in fact, by an evil prime minister who plans to murder the lover by firing squad—how or why I haven’t yet figured out, but—well, I can base it on truth, Henri, I do know what I’m talking about, I’ve admitted all this to you, so it can’t come as a shock—and surely it’s an amazing tale which other women would be thrilled and terrified by—and love, as a story!”

I was galloping onwards, my tongue flapping like a riding crop being put to vigorous use against a horse’s sides. I daren’t stop until I’d got it all out.

“It will be a disguised—deeply disguised, don’t worry—and fictionalized version of the terrors I went through in Spain two years ago, but I’ll place it in unknown India! To slake readers’ insatiable thirst for exoticism! And in my book, the heroine will rescue the hero—he won’t die, she’ll save him, it will be a happy ending. And no one will ever know that I’m writing from my own experience, but making it better—do you see?”

Henri threw the last of his cognac down his throat, blinked, then kept his eyes closed. What that meant I wasn’t sure. But never mind.

“And my
nom de plume
, Henri? I think this is the capper, this is what made me know that I was on the right track! It will be…”—with a flourish—“‘Lorenzo Milagros’!” I paused dramatically, then remembered his Spanish was not yet up to it. “Lorenzo means ‘ready and eager’, and Milagros is ‘miracle’. Do you see now? Don’t you love it? …Henri? …Bon-bon?”

The nerve-wracking pause endured for centuries. Then he opened his toffee-coloured eyes to look at me, a loving smile creasing their corners. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. “You enchant me, Lola. You are so funny.”

I pulled my hand away sharply and gave him a little slap. “No, Henri, it’s not funny. I’m perfectly serious. I know I can be a success at this.”

His adorable lips pursed, ever so slightly. “Have you ever written anything before?”

“…No. But I read voraciously.”

“Not quite the same thing.”

“Bon-bon!”

He took my hand again and held it against him. He lay back, placing it on his bare chest, palm down. I stroked my fingers across his ribs and lay back with him, head on his shoulder. “Please, darling,” I coaxed, “please don’t destroy this idea…”

“I won’t,” he said softly. “But let us think about it together.” Kissing my fingertips one by one, he went on. “You know that I love and accept everything about you, the woman that you are and all of your past—and I admire you greatly for your honesty, your trust in me. I’d never destroy or betray that trust.” He placed my hand once again on his chest. “My beautiful Irish
mavourneen
, whose secrets are as safe with me as my own.”

(The only man I’ve ever told the entire truth. The only man I’d dare.)

“So let us keep thinking. First, I think it’s spunky. I think it’s bold.”

Hurray, I thought, and my heart lifted again.

“Having said that, I’m not sure that you should expose yourself in such a way, just at the moment.”

And then sank.

“But Marie d’Agoult—” I began.

“Now just listen, my heart. Marie d’Agoult already has repute as a famous person, if nothing else. She is also a countess—these things have weight.”

“I—!”

“Lola, shh.” He stroked my hair, calming me as one would a nervous horse. “Secondly, as editor, I cannot say truthfully that I have—as yet—seen any writerly talent, though I have seen many, many other talents too private to name.” He kissed my forehead at my hairline, then drew back to look me in the eyes. “And thirdly, darling, and this is important: how do you imagine you’d be able to sit still long enough to write anything more than a stanza? Or a couplet, even?”

I couldn’t help it; I snorted. Laughter exploded out of my lips, my throat—his image was so true! So ridiculously true. I buried my face against his chest and tried to desist, but it really was too funny!

“You’re untried, Lola.”

I sobered again. And felt so deflated. “Let me try, though,” I said, lips against his skin.

He tilted my face up and kissed me. “I love you. Everything about you. Never doubt that.”

“I don’t.” And that was true.

“Let’s see how it goes, shall we?”

I was silent a moment. I was going to protest with my usual bounce, but then thought again. “Bon-bon?”

“Mm?”

“You’ll consider it, won’t you?”

“I will. With great thought. With great care.”

“Love me again?”

And he did.

*

Forces were gathering, inexorably. Meanwhile—oh, to think of it now!—I went along on my merry way, making plans and trying them out. Wishing to surprise Henri with my diligence and talent. Unsuspecting, distracted, excited with possibility… And maybe already (in hindsight, I wonder?) experiencing the strange effects…

Henri and I would lie curled together, naked beneath our duvet, all night long, waking to cuddle and make love when the spirit moved us (which was blissfully often). Seeing him off to work every morning, I would then go through the connecting door into my lovely adjoining apartment and seat myself at a desk. And I’d start. Nibs, pots of ink, sheafs of paper. Doodling and creating elaborate, inky curlicues round the edges, simply to soften the curse of the big, white blank which awaited me. I wrote my name over and over again, for the pleasure of seeing it. Occasionally I would write ‘Lola Dujarier’—just trying it out—before crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it on the fire, thrilled but superstitious. This would be followed by a leap to my feet, several arabesques and a bit of spider stamping, perhaps ending by flinging myself into the splits on the Persian carpet with an enthusiastic “
¡Hola!
”—just to keep myself mobile. The thing was, I couldn’t believe the immense tedium of trying to stay put in a chair at a desk, minutes turning into hours, then into whole afternoons! I tried so hard!—heavy head propped on my hand, chewing the quill—then suddenly I’d leap up, race around, remembering things I simply
had
to do first in bedroom or study or our other apartment, finally returning to the desk, to stand, just looking at it. At the paper. At my doodles, and curlicues. Then I’d rush off again on some other urgent errand.
Diablo
! That
bastardo
paper!

January came and went—a new year, a new beginning. I trusted that 1845 would be wonderful, replete with every fortunate thing—if only I could make a good start! One morning I had the happy thought of writing ‘Lorenzo Milagros’ at the top of a fresh sheet, followed by ‘The Adventures of…’ And then I couldn’t decide what my heroine’s name should be. Dammit. The problem was, I just knew that if Henri could give me a firm deadline, by which date my story would commence in
La Presse
, everything would begin to flow. But he kept hemming and hawing and would promise me nothing.

Some afternoons, staring out the window, wrestling with myself to sit again at the desk, I’d daydream of writing one thrilling chapter after another, longing for the time when I would be rewarded with the publisher’s formula, ‘To Be Continued’, perched jauntily at the end of each day’s installment. ‘To Be Continued’ meant that it would go on and on—and so would my pay cheques! One morning I penned a dense little paragraph about everything that would happen in my story, and felt very proud and ready to begin! When I reread it later, it lay there on the page like a limp, dead thing, so I crumpled it up and flung it into the fire.

To keep from going mad inside, I took myself to Lepage’s Shooting Gallery every second afternoon; it was good for the body and for mental stimulation. I began to urge Henri to come with me, since he’d told me that tempers were flaring; several journalists were raising hell about the ongoing serialization wars and what they perceived as the inequity of payments between writers. They’d come into his office, ranting and thumping their fists on his desk, voices high-pitched and loud with outrage. Henri had mussed up his hair in all directions and looked very tired when he told me this, one night in early February. I’d been alone all day, bored and restless; I was in his lap, straddling his legs, as we held each other in a loose embrace.

“Come with me to the gallery, then; it’s wonderful, Henri. You need protection, a line of defence from the hot-heads surrounding you at work. I think it’s important. What’s your best weapon, pistols or sabres, which do you prefer?”

“I don’t believe in violence, Lola,” he said.

“Think of it more for fun and good exercise, then. And we’d be together.”

“Shooting at things will never be fun for me,
chérie
. Nor will skewering living things.”

“You haven’t even seen what I can do—I’d love to show you, Bon-bon. I’m really very good. Please come?”

“I’d feel like a common thug, not a gentleman. Men with deadly intent… It’s crass, it’s stupid. Besides, everyone knows my stance against violence. If I were to change now, it would simply be giving in to ridiculous pressure. I can’t do it, my love.”

And I couldn’t budge him.

Later that night, as we cooled down on top of the sheets, he told me something marvellous: he’d been working on this secretly for a number of weeks. He’d spoken to a friend, the manager of the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin, in fact, and had secured me a dancing gig! The manager had seen my performance at the Paris Opéra, ages ago, and agreed with Henri that I’d do quite nicely in one of the dancing roles. It was to be a new fairy musical comedy called
La Biche aux Bois
, which promised to run for months. Rehearsals were to begin right away! I was over the moon with excitement and gratitude to my darling Bon-bon.

“And that’s not all, Lola,” he managed to say, around and through my delirious kisses. “Let me breathe, my lovely, and tell you more.”

I stopped, panting. “There’s more?”

His smile was wide, a deep satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. “I’ve hired the theatre for two independent nights in early March. It will be a dancing event of your own on those two nights—I’ve hazarded to call it ‘La Dansomanie,’ I hope you approve. The dates are March 6 and March 10. Two solo performances, to do with what you wish. What do you say to that, sweetheart?”

Never mind what I said, let me simply remember everything we did…

Destroyed, not a vestige of energy left within either of our bodies, as we were falling asleep—mind
jetté
-ing elatedly around the stage of my imagination—I couldn’t help it, I had to murmur,

“But my story, Henri… I’m still working on my story, with my
nom de plume
…”

A soft sigh. He must have been asleep.

*

Henri hired a little studio for me, and I began trying out ideas for ‘La Dansomanie,’ while I waited for rehearsals of
La Biche aux Bois
to begin on the first of March. We’d both return home in early evening, exhausted from our work days and seeking ease and comfort in our loving nights. I would be making money again! I had purpose, I was busy and useful, and again on the rise—it made me so happy!

Bon-bon and I were so busy with each other and so in love that it felt as if the rest of the world didn’t touch us. We had decided, on the quiet, that we would marry later in the year. Although this thrilled me to the bottom of my soul, a little warning bell did begin to ring at the back of my brain. Hadn’t there been some sort of decree, in the terms of my divorce from Thomas James, that I was forever barred from remarrying? Handed down by some crusty old fart with a bone to pick, in England? I couldn’t remember… Certainly at the time I’d never wanted to marry again and so hadn’t cared what the outcome had been. And then (another little warning tinkle) I wondered what would happen to our loving sweetness to each other—Henri’s and mine—once married? I’d had a taste of what can transpire the first time, and hated every moment of Thomas’ ugly transformation from suitor to jailor. Did that happen with all men, when their minds and their legislation turned an exciting mistress into a tiresome wife? Oh, but this was Henri Dujarier, a completely different and sweet-hearted being! I shoved the nagging worries aside—all would work out, I told myself. I was sure of it.