Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (22 page)

Still, somehow or other the word must have leaked because Delphine Gay—the poetess and Émile de Girardin’s wife—announced it at a dinner to which she’d invited us, along with many of the usual crowd (though not, thankfully, Countess d’Agoult).

“Listen, everyone,” Delphine trilled, clinking her spoon repeatedly against a crystal wine glass. “We have exciting news, hot off the press as it were, about our dear partner and his lady!”

Henri and I exchanged glances; the crease had returned between his eyebrows, along with a questioning look in his eyes. I shrugged, totally innocent.

“Yes,” she went on, “Paris’ most eligible bachelor is about to hang up his hat—before the year is out, he will wed! I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Henri Dujarier and Lola Montez!”

As everyone began to clap, she motioned us to our feet. Dumas, across from Henri, was looking like a thunderhead; his son, a few seats away, seemed disgusted. Alex was there without Merci, I noticed; instead, an actress I’d seen once before at the Jockey Club—name of Anäis Lievenne, a sly, highly-strung piece of goods—was seated beside him.

“May I accompany you on your honeymoon, wherever you decide to go?” a middle-aged gentleman near Delphine called with a laugh.

“It all depends, Méry,” Henri joshed back, “whether we need your skills in translation. Since we’ll likely journey to Spain,” and here he glanced at me with a small wink, “I think I can safely say that Lola will provide any translations necessary.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, my dear Dujarier,” rumbled Dumas, staring at me with something approaching real emotion. Since his Saint-Germain dinner party, when Henri had called him to task, the writer had remembered who I was—but it wasn’t until this moment, after Delphine’s announcement, that I recognized the hard look he was directing at me for what it had become: Dumas was jealous! He was jealous of me being loved by his friend! He saw me taking Henri away from him, and he couldn’t stand it.

“No curmudgeonly behaviour tonight, Alex,” chided Delphine. “This is a party! Let’s all be happy!”

And the talk moved on to other things, thank heavens. But Delphine was right, Dumas
was
in a stubborn mood. As the plates were being cleared after the first course, he gestured around with the point of his knife and said heavily, “It seems to me that we are approaching a grim period, my friends. Many of our finest young men are deeply in debt—witness my son.” Alex
fils
didn’t seem to hear this, engrossed as he was with the sparkly blonde actress. “They’re judgmental of us fathers and elders; the liberal tide is turning against us. Though he behaves the way we do, he hates himself for it—and I tell you, that sort of extreme inner turmoil makes young men crazy.”

Henri was listening carefully and commented, “That’s interesting, Alex.”

I tried to focus, but my head was swimming. Had I had too much wine? Already?

Dumas leaned across the table. “May I have a few words later, Henri? There’s something preying on him, some weight. I do not appreciate the influence, or whatever it is, that’s begun to creep over him and cloud his judgement.” The little eyes surveyed me balefully, then returned to Henri. “I need to get the boy published; he needs some swift success. He’s becoming intolerably lazy and a drunk.”

Oh! My mind spun sideways. I couldn’t believe it. To hear the big writer demanding that Henri publish the work of his son, without any by-your-leave. And what about
my
book? I gave my love a little kick under the table.

He placed his hand over mine and lightly squeezed. I admit I was deaf to Dumas’ real subject matter—yes, I’m a nit-wit sometimes—but I was so appalled by the thumb-screws Dumas was using on Henri to publish his damnable son!

The writer swallowed a large glug of water, then slammed the glass down. “God knows I’d love to trade in that fat wife of mine, but even I wouldn’t go so far as my son’s new acquaintances are suggesting.”

I did feel a sudden frisson, then, at these words, though I couldn’t have repeated what he’d just said. What was it he’d—?

“Are we led by the nose by these women of ours, Henri?” Dumas asked, in a slightly louder voice to include others nearby. “What do you say,
mes amis
? Are we led by our lusts? Should we curb our insatiable desires, give them up?”

The son looked over at this and called, “Never mind bringing that up,
père
! You’ll get too agitated, you know you will!”

“Pier-Angelo was about to start on a story with that same theme,” Henri reflected, looking thoughtfully at Alex
fils.
Then, to his friend, “But the trail has gone cold, so Pier says.”

“There’s a man with one leg,” Dumas went on with a groan, “my son’s newest
ami
. He’s a strange one… I don’t like him.” He was speaking more to himself again than to any of us. I’d not seen the big boor in quite this sort of mood before, except perhaps the day he’d barged in to use and abuse Merci. And where was Merci tonight, I wondered? Had the son dropped her? I must go to see her, I told myself sternly, then Dumas distracted me again.

“Cassagnac at
Le Globe—
he’s another, Henri, that’s listening to this man. Be careful, I’m telling you—I remember that Cassagnac still owes you money?”

“Indeed,” Henri answered.

“They’re grumbling, these hot-heads, about ridding themselves of all free-thinkers:
zut alors
! Let’s change it up, change it all!” Dumas banged his fist upon the table, then left it there, forgotten. Inside me, a feeling like ice water trickled down between my shoulder blades as his words went on, the tone of them changing from dark to darker.

“It’s as if society as a whole craves a curtain line at the end of each day—a cliff-hanger to the chapter. Something tantalizing or terrifying. Something that makes you leap out of bed each morning to find out what’s next—and the action must begin at once and never ease up. That’s what these hot-heads seem to want to provide: the curtain line.”

Dumas was glaring down at the tablecloth. Several others were watching, seemingly concerned, then he shook his head violently and asked, “So, will you publish him? My son?”

I blazed my eyes at Henri, but he ignored me. Why was he ignoring me? Why did I feel so damnably odd?

“What is he writing?” my love inquired.

At this, the pompous celebrity’s energy was rejuvenated. He pushed back his chair, lit a cigar (though the desserts were not yet finished) and began droning on and on about some stupid idea Alex
fils
was considering. I was furious and confused. I excused myself to go for a turn on the balcony, smoking a little cheroot and staring down into the frozen street until I began shivering and had to return.

When I did, Delphine had taken over the conversation in a piercing voice, and what she said chilled (and then thrilled) me even more than the February night had done.

“Henri’s in charge of all that, as you know,” she was saying. “Émile tells me that, not only has Henri given the go-ahead to Comtesse d’Agoult’s
Nélida
, but he’s seriously considering a brand-new story by another woman writer—a young, untried one, as I understand. So perhaps the time has come for women to be heard!”

My heart buh-bumped. I hadn’t known Bon-bon was seriously considering—! Oh my darling! Could it be true?

The would-be (meaning, wishes-to-be) Count Dumas flung himself back with a grunt, his chair groaning under the pressure, a cloud of smoke curling from his lips. “What’s the new bauble then, Henri? Another airy concoction graced with a foolish
nom de plume
, I wager? By yet another vain, rich tart, dabbling at art?”

Henri was standing, using his hands to quiet things down, trying to push the genie back into the bottle. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to punch Alexandre Dumas right in his big, fat, condescending nose or whether I hoped this tantalizing, incredible news of Henri’s would pop out right then and there. Or did I wish it to remain our own lovers’ secret until the time was perfectly ripe? Probably that, too. So that’s what the darling had been working on all this time! How could I have doubted…? Perhaps there was a new smile lighting my face, perhaps it was something else—but suddenly Dumas’ baleful glance raked me again from stem to stern. He sat up in his chair, plucked the cigar from his fat, wet lips, and said, “Aha.”

I looked him straight in the piggy eyes; gave an almost imperceptible nod. He saw it—and I believe he now
truly
saw me. Saw me for the woman I am. Like a shot in the arm of some mind-changing substance, Alexandre Dumas had finally registered my fiery nature, my strong beauty, my determination and passion.
And
my talent.
Touché
, Monsieur Dragon!

Shoving his chair over with a roar, Dumas rose to his feet. He reached across the table, grabbed Henri’s shoulder and gave it a shake.

“I fear for you, my dearest friend,” he said. Then turning to the table at large and waving his cigar, he intoned, “I say before you all, and let no man later claim not to have heard me: Lola Montez will bring the evil eye to any man unfortunate enough to link his destiny to hers!”

With these malevolent—and completely unprovoked—words, it was suddenly upon me. I’ve said it before, and I say it again: I don’t know what happens; I can never predict it—but a red gush of volcanic nature rises up through me like a twisting, leaping funnel of vehemence, with all the force of molten lava, from somewhere deep in my belly, rushing up to explode out through the top of my head. I can no more sidestep it than one could sidestep an earthquake when it opens beneath your feet and splits the world apart. I leapt up, pointing at my abominable tormentor. It felt as if my eyeballs would burst out of their sockets as I cried, “Do you hear this? Do you hear this man abuse me, again and again? What have I ever done to him except to be myself!”

Henri was attempting to enfold me in his arms, begging me to be calm, to say no more. The red gush was clouding my vision, but rather than the usual call to physical action, it was making me feel strangely feeble. Before I knew what to do with my justified fury, I gasped and passed out in Bon-bon’s arms, slipping to the floor and banging my head against the table’s edge as I went. Then I lay there, cold as a cod.

*

Koreff had been called. I came to with his pale ugly face perched above mine, only inches away. I let out a shriek before realizing that Henri was there, holding my hand, and that several others hovered nearby. I was prone on a settee, a blanket covering my body. Horribly, I also realized that I had been sick, for the stench was still in the room.
Mierda…
My head ached like a bugger,
oh Dios mío…

The Count of Many Curses had gone, apparently, taking his black mood with him. The Girardins were solicitous, offering us a room for the night, but after conferring with Koreff, Henri felt that we could go home where I would be more comfortable. And so we did. I took a little pill, one of a sachet-full that the doctor had given Henri with strict instructions for their usage, and I slept fitfully through the remainder of the dark hours. My ensuing dreams were terrible—there were dragons or some other large scaly worm-like beasts, flying around, and over all a sonorous voice tolling its words of defamation against my poor self. I kept trying to move forwards through some sticky and pernicious substance that was hampering my progress: slick, oily, almost up to my waist, but still I toiled onwards, alone, through a barren landscape, as if something cataclysmic had happened. Another dragon flew by overhead, then a glowing eyeball appeared—huge, like a full moon—hovering, peering everywhere, before plunging like a flaming comet straight into the oily murk that encased me. Oh, dreadful… I’d drag myself up out of this chaos, only to be pulled under once more.

In the morning, I discovered there had been further consternation and alarm while I moaned and sweated into the pillows. At seven o’clock, Henri had sent a message to his office to warn them that he would be in later than usual. But as the messenger left our building, he’d stumbled upon—almost literally—a corpse, lying to the side of the front walkway, half concealed by an ornamental shrub. It was the body of a young woman—in fact, a music hall dancer. Henri had recognized her, he said, when he’d gone down with the horrified messenger. He stayed to guard the body while the messenger raced ahead to the nearest
gendarmerie
. At that point, I was just waking, groggy and bewildered, wondering where Henri was. The police arrived to deal with the body, and after he’d spoken with them, Henri came upstairs to me. Then the
gendarmes
trooped up to our apartment to look around and ask a few further questions, which is how I finally heard about it. Henri admitted he hadn’t wanted to tell me, and at this I was horrified.

“Never keep bad things from me, Henri! We must be perfectly honest with each other, always!”

“But sweetheart, you’re not well, I didn’t want—”

“No! Promise me!”

The
gendarmes
looked embarrassed by my vehemence, and began checking their notes. The one in charge said, “Now, monsieur, let me be sure I have this straight before we depart. The deceased is not known to you personally, but was a dancer at the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin?”

“Yes,” Henri said. “The manager, a friend of mine, knows the unfortunate young woman. He is still downstairs. He’s not sure if she has family in Paris…”

“Correct,” said the second
gendarme
.

“At the Porte Sainte-Martin, Henri?” I asked, my head still woozy but my mind trying desperately to grapple with events, all happening at lightning speed and with accompanying seismic shocks. “The Porte Sainte-Martin, where
La Biche aux Bois
is about to take place?”

He nodded, then glanced at the
gendarmes
.

“How did you know her?” the second one asked.

“I’ve seen her perform one or two times,” he said, “and I recognized her.”

“And how did she die?” I demanded. I couldn’t help it; I had to know.

“Unpleasantly, madame,” said the
gendarme
in charge. “Please don’t concern yourself.”

After a few more minutes, they seemed satisfied by Henri’s answers and they left us. We sat in silence for a few moments; he had my hand fiercely clasped in his own.