Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (7 page)

Her voice rose another octave—if that was possible. “Always the children! Have you asked after me, how I am? Do you care?”

“I wish you to come outside with me, Marie; let us go to the garden just downstairs, it’s peaceful…” Franz’s voice sounded steady and sad; I imagined him trying to catch her arm and perhaps hold her in both of his own, but it seemed as if she’d flung herself away again. I couldn’t move, couldn’t bear to think what could happen at any second; my eyes were fastened upon the door handle, willing it to remain as it was, closed and still. An image of myself on the other side of this same situation flashed across my mind: I’d caught an earlier lover, George Lennox (the cad), bouncing the fat, white ass of a third-rate actress named Angel, and could picture the creature again in my mind’s eye, scuttling away, naked, across the parquet. Oh my God, was
I
now such an appalling, thoughtless thing as
that
? What to do, what to do!

“I’ve come this far; you’ll not turn me aside so easily, Franz.
Mein Gott
, to leave me month after month, when you know how ill and melancholy I am! Where is George, anyway? She’s not at the Hotel de Saxe, too, I hope? You tell me you’ve never slept with her, but I’m not convinced you haven’t slept with others—these actresses and singers you seem to keep company with. And what about this Spanish one?”

Oh dear saints and apostles, and other celestials of any sodding stripe! This was terrible.

“You’ll catch the
morbus gallicus
, Franz,” she hissed, “and then you’ll be sorry. Don’t come crying to me when you’re ill and bits of you are falling off!”

His equable voice remonstrated, “You know that you’re the one who asked me for a
permission d’infidélité—
in writing, remember? For that Bulwer-Lytton fellow? A few years back?”

“Don’t you fling that in my face!”

“You know I would have written it for you, if that’s what you’d really wanted. I’ve told you the way I look at this sort of thing, Marie. The facts, the deeds, are nothing. It’s the shades of meaning, of—”

“Shut up!”

My mouth had dropped open, my heartbeat pounded in my ears, I was—oh, I can’t find a word for it. How I wished I wasn’t hearing these intimate things. And what would happen if—no, when! Because she wasn’t leaving.

“Marie, I want you always to have complete freedom; I wish you would understand that.”

“You turn my words around.” Her high voice had gone quieter, angrier. “You try to push me to the side of your life, but you will be nothing without me. I made you, Franz.” From the sound, I thought she must be over by the window, looking down at the street. Come on, Franz, I prayed. Help her to the garden, I’ll dress very fast and then slip down the back staircase. What will happen then, I have no idea. By this point, I was standing beside the bed, holding the sheet up against me, trembling.

“So let us see where the illustrious composer has been laying his head,” and with those words, she strode to the bedroom door and flung it open—oh,
Jesús!
Tall, thin, aristocratic, beautiful blonde hair braided and piled on the top of her head, dressed impeccably in a dove-grey satin, with a jewel at her throat. Fuckity fuck! There I stood, like a gutted steer hanging from its hook, nowhere to go, nothing to say.

Her creamy complexion went suddenly as red as a beet-root, and then just as quickly drained back into the palest of pales; her blue eyes flared, then narrowed. I expected screams, expected her to leap at me, clawing (God knows I would have done so). She simply stood there, eyes proud, face carved in stone. Franz came up to her—still calmer than I could believe—and said,

“The Spanish lady. Lola Montez.”

Out of Marie’s constricted throat, I heard, “I have never objected to being your mistress, Franz. But I
do
object to being
one
of your mistresses. You will be sorry for this.” She reached out and slammed the bedroom door powerfully in my face ’til it rang in my ears and I was closed in again, with my shame.

*

I have never felt like that before, and I hope to God I never feel like that again. I continued to stand there, a dreadful, sick hollowness in the pit of my stomach. Could I have brazened it out? Should I have? Juan de Grimaldi’s wife, Concepción, would have done so, with a shrill torrent of Spanish imprecations while throwing herself about. At one point, I might have tried to emulate her, but now? It all felt too sordid. And I also knew, very surely, that this was the end between Franz and myself. It was over. His decency would never allow him to treat the mother of his children so badly if there was any way that he could salve the situation. I was dispensable, just for fun. Of course I’d known it, somewhere at the back of my head, but I’d been going along, not worrying about possible endings—and certainly, not this one. The situations from farce are not nearly as amusing in reality as they seem onstage, in a comedy.

There were sounds of items breaking in the outer room, but no feminine screams or flinging of herself out the window. Liszt’s voice went on and on, low, melodious. After some minutes (which felt like hours), I heard the outer door open and then close, and they were gone. That’s when I started to shake—delayed reaction, I suppose—but somehow I managed to haul myself into my nearest day dress, button my boots, throw all of my belongings into my portmanteau and drag it down the back stairs. I held my head regally upon entering the lobby, requesting one of the valets to call me a cab. Curse them, there was whispering and pointing throughout, and I knew they must have gathered something of the high drama that had taken place upstairs. But they did as I asked, and after some fraught, silent minutes in which I tried to ignore them and they vibrated with repressed gossipmongering, my portmanteau was placed gently beside me in a hansom that had drawn up at the curb, and away I went.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I found myself another hotel (how I’d pay for it, I had no idea). I flung myself down upon the bed and sobbed; I knew I’d miss Franz very much. His solemn expressions, his hot and wiry torso, that long, thin member of his—as well as everything else: his talent, his genius! His quiet relaxation after sex, with his long fingers wrapped by strands of my hair… Then suddenly, overlaying those images, flaring nostrils and a pale visage: the outraged face of the countess. Oh, fuck it, I wept. A society woman with her own salon in Paris—Paris! My target, my goal! Now closed to me? No. But, what will I do now? Where can I go? Why am I always in such an unruly mess?

I crawled under the bedclothes and felt like a fool, a harlot, a shameful beast… I’d never wanted to be the sort of woman who stole husbands, who stole love. I wanted a love that was freely given and that might even last the test of time. Diego’s murder by firing squad had shattered my vision of that possible world. Beneath the impersonal covers, shivering (what was I doing, trying to hide from myself?), a tidal wave of regret and memories engulfed me again, rolling me under and dragging me back into a riptide of dread.

In Spain, unbeknownst to myself or Diego, there was a killer loose, and dangerous. We’d thought he was a Cristino, but he was a Carlist, and he was party to Diego’s summary execution—I don’t know how, but I’m sure of it. In the frightening aftermath, desperate to escape the wrath of Prime Minister Espartero, who knew I’d been involved in Diego’s plans, I’d galloped north from Madrid. I’d been followed by this killer: Father Miguel de la Vega, Jesuit priest, spy and double agent. He was an acolyte of a secret cult, and dangerously insane. He’d slit the throat of the woman guiding me out of the country, smothered her baby, then captured me. He’d been taking me to Pamplona, to the headquarters of the Society of the Exterminating Angel, where they would have tortured and destroyed me like that brotherhood of wolves I’d seen demolishing the deer. As he’d hauled me onwards, the priest had bragged about his infernal society. It was a terrorist sect, vowing to reinstate the Inquisition, to exterminate liberalism—and as many females as possible. De la Vega deeply feared and detested anything female, wished to eradicate the sex completely. He’d tricked everyone who knew him. He wasn’t human, couldn’t possibly be considered human. He was a serial killer who relished the work.

On one of the terrible days as his captive, I’d managed to shoot him in the upper thigh. Desperately reloading, not enough time—perhaps for that fraction of a second, I’d lost my nerve. I’d left him bleeding on the road and headed for France; then I’d crossed the channel, gathering the shards of my shattered life.

On the night of my London début, the fiend was there. How he’d managed it, I have no idea. He’d denounced me onstage, called me a fraud and an adulteress. Lying in wait outside the theatre afterwards, he’d pursued me again through the streets, limping and lurching but still swift as a cobra, brandishing a switchblade, which I’d fully expected to feel hurled between my shoulders or slashed across my throat. And then rescue—miraculous rescue—by London policemen. While they struggled to subdue the hell-hound, I’d snatched up the blade, which had fallen to the cobbles. It’s the knife I now carry with me always, tucked into my waistband: a reminder of true evil, and also, I hope, an amulet against it.

That treacherous madman, Miguel de la Vega, remains a guest in Her Majesty’s prison, accused of multiple murders of young London women. He was the instrument of so much horror and death. May he rot in hell. May they throw away the key. I whisper these things to myself over and over. Only the certain knowledge of his incarceration keeps the nightmares at bay.

In the new, anonymous Dresden hotel, beneath the covers, I curled into the smallest ball possible, arms clasping my ribs, chin against my chest. A small silent being in a dark space. Breathe deeply, keep breathing…

By nightfall, the evil, sorrowful memories had played themselves out and I was almost calm, though certainly very, very low in spirits. I’d eaten nothing all day—didn’t know how I’d pay for that either, when and if I ever felt like eating again. And then there came a knock on the door. Christ on a donkey, I thought, yanking the covers back over my head, I’m not answering that!

“Lola, sweet Lola, it’s only me, George. Open up, won’t you?”

I crept across the room, put my ear to the wood. “George?”

“Yes, it’s me, not the avenging Marie d’A, don’t worry. I’ve brought you some things; let me in, dear?”

I swung the door open and there she stood, in her men’s breeches, frock coat, and a gentleman’s topper on her head. She entered, swung out of the coat and slung it on a chair. I examined the breeches as her back was turned. They looked good on her, I have to say, though she was—I’m just being honest—somewhat broad in the beam. She flung the topper onto a coatrack. There was a mischievous grin on her face as she bent to retrieve something outside the door and then waltzed further into the room, carrying a large basket over one arm.

“Treats and goodies, yummy yum,” she declared. “Where shall I put them?”

Removing a vase of flowers, she plopped the basket down on the nearest table and placed the flowers beside the bed. “This is quite nice, isn’t it?” she said, glancing around, noting the state of the bed-linens, all rumpled and cried upon. “Have you been suffering, sweets? Never mind. Must have been one hell of a scene—will you tell me?”

“No.”

“I can imagine it. You must be starving.” She began pulling delectable food from the basket: half a roast chicken, a meat pie, fresh and still warm bread, a bottle of wine and some elegant pastries. My treacherous stomach began to gurgle and groan.

“And that is not all,” she said triumphantly. “Look what else I have here—” She held up several sealed envelopes and waved them. “From Franz. He brought them to me an hour ago. How he managed to write them, I’m not sure, but he did. They’re for you. Letters of introduction to some of our gang in Paris, press-men and theatre managers. They’ll love you, love the way you look—and that’s all you need to get you started, isn’t it?”

The tears flowed again as I took the envelopes from her and held them to my lips. I could smell, just faintly, the scent of Franz: his cigars and cognac, his particular essence.

“It’s been a bad day, Lola, I can imagine that, too. But these will help immeasurably. You mustn’t lose your audacity; you’re too pretty for that—and more than pretty, aren’t you?” She bobbed her sparrow’s eyes at me, curious, interested and more than a little greedy to know, to understand—to empathize with the story I was living.

“How is he?” I whispered, ruefully.

“When he delivered these, he told me he’d asked Belloni to announce several more concerts here before he leaves. Marie will stay and that’s a miracle, then they’ll go home to Paris together. His words: ‘I feel a great weariness of life and a ridiculous need for rest.’”

I shook my head, unhappily.

“He also asked me to tell you that you must not try to contact him again, ever. The letters are the last things he can do for you, he told me to say that. And now I have.”

I couldn’t help myself; it just fell out. “I will miss him terribly!” And the tears spilled forth, despite my angry attempts to hold them back.

George bustled around, laying out the dinner, lighting several other candles, brightening the atmosphere and whistling to bring a bit of cheer into the room. As we sat down together, she spoke again of her life, her artistic circle of friends, the joy of creation—anything to take my mind from the horrible day and its dreadful reverberations. And I was grateful; I did begin to listen, I ate and drank wine. Life was beginning to go on—as it does, and as it must.

As we finished the bottle, she got up and went to the door. “When you come to Paris, you’ll have to get used to long discussions over food—arguments, loud shouting matches, deep philosophical debates—we all do it. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not leaving.” She opened the door, leaned out and picked up a second bottle she’d left outside. “Just in case,” with a wicked grin.

I smiled. “Oh, thank God. Thank
you
.”

“
Ça ne faire rien.
I require a whole one, myself, or I can’t get to work.”