Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (11 page)

I began
El Oleano
in earnest. As always, it passed in a blur of concentration and exertion: the young girl frisking about in a meadow, stooping to pick flowers. She steps unbeknownst on the hairy tarantula’s nest, and then—the twirling and stamping. Get them out, the tickly spiders crawling up my legs! And now I had a riding crop, too—so I used the whip to sting them out, lightly—ankles to knee, flick, flick!—flashing my skirts, higher and higher! From the audience’s angle, glimpses of frothy crinolines were being revealed, as well as the garter on the other thigh, and—wait!—is she whipping her own legs, her thighs? Does that hurt? Is that—ethical? And ever higher it goes, the whip, the skirts! Are they simply imagining, or is there…?—a glimpse of black lace, beautiful, black Spanish lace, between those thighs. The kind the widow ladies use on their heads when they enter a church, but for this dance? Oh, there are other uses for lace than going to church! A kind of strangled, masculine roar erupts, then recedes.
¡Deliciosa!
And now—aha!—the innocent girl pauses, breasts heaving, before spying the hideous, demonic spider protecting its lair. Rush towards it, and stamp! And stamp! It is dead, it is vanquished, and the girl at last is free.

I came to a breathless halt and curtseyed deeply. In front of me, a sea of Parisian faces—and silence. Then my journalist friends seemed to remember themselves and led the charge, clapping and hollering. I curtseyed again before being signaled offstage by the bossy stage manager, gesturing at me madly from the wings. Underscoring my new friends’ hollers I could hear—
mon Dieu
, what was it?—a frightening “Boo!” followed by other sounds of the same nature, swelling and becoming meaner. As I nimbly skipped off, a belligerent couple rushed on. The orchestra kicked up again and the two began dancing frenetically in circles to a kind of organ-grinder melody. This was the avant-garde (and supposedly sensational) polka, the other “new” billing of the evening. I stood backstage, watching them, not sure what had just happened.

The rest of that night—as always, after performance—was also a blur, due to excitement, nerves, cheek-and-air kisses with dozens of well-wishers and jealous types, and too much to drink too quickly. George Sand had come, I noticed, along with her Chopinsky and children. “Did you like it?” I called, and she smiled, nodded and waved through the sea of bodies between us, and they moved on.

Then I caught a glimpse of the slim young man in the buff-coloured breeches. I was sure it was him, though at that moment he was just slipping into an evening coat and hat. Beneath the expensive overcoat, I could see well-cut and close-fitting dark trousers set off by a dashing violet-coloured waistcoat. My heart gave a bounce, and there was a quick, involuntary thrill in another area as well. He was by far the handsomest man in the room—in the whole of Paris, perhaps?

“Who is that man?” I nudged Eugène with urgency.

“Dujarier again,” he said, and added, “I told you, he’s taken.”

All the pushing and pulling, as the crowd ebbed and flowed. I strained to gaze one last time at the finest-looking stranger I’d ever seen, in the violet-coloured waistcoat—the angel in tight trousers who had laughed a beautiful peal of laughter as I danced at the Club and had come, tonight, to see me again. Perhaps he would seek me out, perhaps he was thinking of me as a black-haired vision of femininity, and whatever is she doing with Eugène Sue? Perhaps…! But off he went, into the street and gone.

Eugène seemed largely amused by the whole crazy melée and had the idea that we carry on to the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin to take in the last of the events there before the night was truly over, so that’s what we did. We gave a lift to the short, fat, balding man who—it seemed—had also been at the Club on that sketchily-remembered evening.

“Come with us, Doctor,” Eugène drawled, holding the cab’s door open.

“Don’t mind if I do,” as he lurched up and in. He threw himself down beside me, close against my skirts, and looked up into my face. He was very wide and squat. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, taking my hand in his own short, fat fingers. “I am Dr. David-Ferdinand Koreff.”

“Society doctor to all the ladies,” Eugène added. “Originally from Berlin, held a chair at the University in animal magnetism. Now, in Paris, he’s keeper of all the secrets—am I right, doctor? It must be maddening, to be so relied upon and yet so ignored.”

“Oh, believe me, Monsieur Sue, I am never ignored.” The short man turned again to me. I judged him to be in his early sixties, perhaps, but full of a rather frightening vital force, and possessing a thick German accent. “You were intoxicating, mademoiselle. Congratulations.” He brushed his lips against the back of my hand. They were very wet, and I could swear he gave it a bit of tongue, too. I pulled my hand away—graciously, I hoped—then wiped it surreptitiously against the seat.

“So what did you make of the dancing that followed our fair one?” Eugène asked.

“The polka,” the doctor nodded. “Well, it’s a wonder they haven’t excited morality charges yet, those two.”

“Listen up, Lulu,” Eugène said languidly. Why, I had no idea.

The doctor continued. “The Sixth Court of the Correctional Police of the Seine is on the march against indecency. I know the judge, he’s a martinet—sentenced one young girl to six months’ prison just recently, for profound corruption.”

I was aghast. “What, for dancing?”

“In a public dance hall, yes.” The doctor’s thick thigh, pressed tightly against my own, was making me sweat, and I was hugely relieved as I saw the cab pulling in front of the Porte Saint-Martin.

As we were getting out, the doctor said softly into my ear, “If you ever have need of me medically—for anything at all, or even if you are simply not feeling perfectly well—I am at your disposal. In fact, I would be delighted.”

Eugène whisked me away—on our longer legs we could move much more swiftly—and asked, with a smirk, “So, has he added you to his stable yet?”

“Not on your life,” I retorted.

“Now, now. A good man to know in a fix, surely. Every young woman in your position needs a Dr. Koreff.”

“Ugh.”

“Exactly.”

And we were inside the foyer. Another crush of bodies—we’d just missed the last of the entertainments, but Eugène wasn’t concerned. “I’m here more for the libations. Can I get you another?”

Just then I felt a large, hot presence over my left shoulder and, suddenly, an uncomfortably sharp pinch of my posterior—almost as bad as the pinch-twist combination for which I was known and feared as a boarding school girl in Bath.

“Ouch!” I shrieked, as the man who’d accosted me surged past and drew Eugène into an enormous bear-hug.

“Good fellow, well met!” the man enthused, embarking upon a long-winded story about everything he’d seen that night on the stage, during which Eugène laughed immoderately, looked over at me with an amused shrug and carried on listening. I had full opportunity, therefore, to study the giant with the crusher pinch. It was Alexandre Dumas himself. He was immensely large as well as tall, with the habit of leaning into the person to whom he was speaking, almost resting his chest and stomach upon them in exuberant fellowship.

“And what are you working on at the moment,
mon bon ami
?”

Eugène ducked his head, dissembling a bit. “Oh, I’m readying something new for
Le Siècle
, but not prepared to talk about it.”

“Ah,” cried Dumas, “but I’m running in
Le Siècle
, as you know, and don’t plan to be finished for months! You’ll have to wait!” And he was off again, gesticulating, laughing and bragging about his infernal Musketeers and their adventures.

Finally Eugène managed to turn off the tap of the other writer’s overflowing words and direct his attention to me. “Alex, stop a moment. We’ve just come from a big success of our own. My charming companion’s success—at the Opéra. Do you know our dear Lulu?”

“Don’t call me that,” I remonstrated, squeezing Eugène’s arm and giving it a shake. “Call me my proper name.” To the narcissistic giant I said, in Spanish, “
Me llama
Lola Montez.”

Dumas’ large head was weaving a bit, trying to focus, then his eyes caressed my body lasciviously. I thought, ha, this should be good—the monster of self will see that the young girl he insulted is now a young woman of substance. A success. I drew myself up to my full, and full-bodied, height.

“Never seen her before.” Clapping Eugène upon the back, “But that’s why we write for the theatre, isn’t it? Easier access to the latest young pieces.” He guffawed and moved off.

Once again, Alexandre Dumas had left me speechless. And maddened beyond belief.

I don’t remember what time it was when Eugène and I left the Porte, but it was very late and many drinks later. There was some rather coldly detached sexual congress in my bed afterwards, I seem to recall. Eugène, when tired, was abrupt and unwilling to look out for my needs and wishes. Perhaps it was his training as a surgeon—having viewed too many bodies on a slab or coming off the field of battle sporting bloody stumps where limbs had been—and he no longer gave a damn. I don’t know what it was, but kisses and caresses were of little interest to him. Perhaps because I was drunk and unsatisfied, I do remember some angry blubbering, followed by indignant fury at the memory of Dumas’ latest slight. That bum-pinch, plus the crass snub, set me off on a jag—I got into a state!—of railing and ranting against the large writer, then against
all
men who were cads, or selfish beasts—or depraved monsters. I ended by pouring forth my final encounter with the Jesuit madman, Father Miguel de la Vega. It just spewed out, amid violent tears and thumps of the mattress. When I finally stopped, depleted (as well as regretful for having said so much), Eugène looked more thoughtful than usual. There seemed to be a certain new something in the back of his mind.

Lying on his back, smoking and staring upwards, he said almost tonelessly, “But you’re all right now?”

“Well,” I began and took a deep breath, but he cut me off.

“Count your blessings. And don’t read the reviews.” He sat up quickly, then stubbed out his cheroot. “Now I must work—I’ve had some ideas, need to get them down.
Adieu
.” That man could dress more quickly than a trout slipping upstream.

Jesús!
Would I never be given the credit that is due me? Must I always play second-fiddle to some man and his great deeds? Time for some heavy-duty target practice, I thought with a huff, then turned over and fell to sleep like a stone.

*

Later that day, I was poring over the newspapers and holding my head—for several reasons. First, I was beginning to think that Eugène Sue might be bad for my health. This was only one of many days on which I’d woken with pounding noggin and tongue like a sock. Really, he was too smooth for words, and everyone seemed to be part of his own personal hypothesis test: how much
will
she drink? Will she
really
do such and so? Let’s see what happens
then
, if she does. In the light of day, I suspected the garter episode had not done me any good before the Opéra audience of Parisian snobs.

Second, that pompous shit Théophile Gautier had written some dreadful things about my dancing! “Mademoiselle Lola Montez has nothing Andalusian about her except a pair of magnificent black eyes,” I read in
La Presse
. “What country is she really from?” he asked in the next line. Dammit! I jumped ahead. “We could say that Mademoiselle Lola has very pretty legs—as for the way she uses them, that’s another matter.”
Merde!
The turd babbled on about my run-ins with the police (how on earth—!) and my “horsewhip discourse” with Prussian officers (that damned cartoon) and the closing line: “Having heard of her equine achievements, we suspect Mademoiselle Lola is more at home on a horse than on the boards.” Fuck! I wanted to rip his wild, flowing hair from his head.

The other papers followed similar themes. None of them were kind to my dancing, though many flattered my personal attributes. This alleviated the hurt to a small degree, but not for long. I suddenly realized it was of paramount importance that I scoot off to Leon Pillet’s office at the Opéra to confirm my second appearance, scheduled for that Friday evening. I rushed around my tiny
appartement
, getting prettied, wearing my finest and then hailing a cab—head dully throbbing the whole time.

At Pillet’s office, my fears were confirmed. “I am sorry, mademoiselle,” he shrugged, “but I have canceled that performance. Your services will not be required.” I could see the morning’s papers lay scattered across his desk. “I will arrange for the payment we owe you, if you will be so good as to wait in the hall.”

Triple
merde
! The gobshite! The snotty lump of unsavoury pooh!

So then I found myself at Lepage’s shooting gallery, clasping a Smith and Wesson pistol and discharging it, reloading, then discharging it repeatedly into the target fifty yards away—an evil concentration having taken hold of my mind, and uncaring of anything else that might be going on around me. I remember thinking that this was the most satisfying thing I’d done in weeks. And—bull’s-eye!

Clapping and low whistles followed this display of accuracy. I came to and glanced about: the gallery had gained another six or seven shooters since I’d begun.

“Lovely. Deadly,” said one of the gentlemen, stepping forth and coming to preen in front of me. It was the chestnut-haired fellow I vaguely recalled from the Jockey Club, the one who’d caught my garter that night. “Rosemond de Beauvallon,” he intoned, reaching for the hand that wasn’t holding the smoking pistol, and bowing over it.

“Try to beat
that
one, right off,” another of the gents said, waving his pistol at the target I’d hit.

“We dare you, Beauvallon,” added a second.

Beauvallon dropped my hand, whipped around and delivered a bullet directly into the heart of the circles. “Done!”

More low whistles and commendations. “Why don’t the two of you have a contest?” one of the wags said, proud of himself for such an audacious suggestion, and looking around at his chums like a large water spaniel that’s just dropped a duck at its master’s feet.