by Kit Brennan
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?)
“Because I was pretty, my father knew I could help the family,” she said. “He became my pimp when I was twelve. But then he wanted every centime of my wages, and that wasn’t fair, n’est pas? I left Normandy and moved to Paris at fifteen, starting work in a dress shop. The following year, I began the career I enjoy now. My little sister here took on my role in the family—and now she too needs to escape to Paris.”
As Merci said this, she nodded over at Pierrette, and I understood. Such a bedraggled thing, with her shattered expression and lank hair. I guessed she couldn’t be more than fourteen.
“If she can bring herself to it, Pierrette will do well here, and I’ll help her,” Merci went on, quietly. “The men I associate with prefer women like myself to be tiny and pale. The mothers and fiancées of these men are robust, with sturdy child-bearing hips. From me, les gentilshommes want something else. They want to believe they are handling a breakable object.” Just then Merci began to cough, waving her handkerchief up and down vigorously. “Oh, this smoke! It shall be the death of me!”
I glanced again at the girl-shadow who obviously lived in terror of her father—the sort of man who’d come to find her and drag her back to Normandy? Even if she managed to evade him, she would not take to Parisian life as Merci had done. The father had ruined her, and everyone could see it. The girl was gnawing on her fingernails, one after the other, like a mouse at its paws.
Just then I was startled by another voice, a kind of thick treacle dripping into my ear: “Mademoiselle Montez, we meet again. I knew it would not be long before I had the pleasure.” Beside me stood the short in stature, wide in girth Dr. Koreff.
“Oh, doctor,” breathed Merci, “you’re just the man I need to see! I take it you’ve met Lola?” She turned her gamine face back to me to say, “Dr. Koreff is a genius, a darling, we’d never survive without him!” And then, “Please, doctor, let me ask you about my dear sister. I’m so concerned…” She led him off to one side to whisper earnestly at him.
I smiled at the scared mouse in the corner. “Bonjour, Pierrette, I’m Lola. I’m new here, too.” She seemed close to panicking. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” a breathy voice quavered. “I feel—very ill. And frightened.”
I looked more closely. “You are quite pale, perhaps…”
“Please don’t look at me. I must just sit here—but I can’t seem to stop moving…”
It was true, the poor thing was twitching with nerves.
“Perhaps if you ate something?”
“No!” She almost jerked with revulsion. “I—I can’t.” And she began rocking back and forth, back and forth. It was a distressing sight, and I didn’t know what else to do.
“C’est dommage,” I sighed, turning away, telling myself that at least I had tried. Needing cheering, I searched the room for something else of interest.
And there it was.
A beautiful man in a violet waistcoat and close-fitting trousers. I stopped breathing. He had just arrived, was handing his coat to the maid, pulling of
f a pair of soft leather gloves, and finally his hat. Would he notice me? Would he come over?
Merci returned just then and sat down, before noting the object of my gaze.
“That man is Henri Dujarier.”
“You know him?” I asked, and then with a pang, “And in that way?”
She pouted out her lips and made a pardonnez-moi gesture. “Of course, but.”
“Is he yours?” I could barely get it out.
“None of them are mine,” she smiled. “They are—passing through.”
What a peculiar thing to say, and so casually. I’ve remembered it always—and partly because of what became of her, not so long thereafter.
“Dujarier interests you?” she asked. “Do you know about him?”
“Not at all.”
I could feel Dr. Koreff leaking our way again, with his eyes on Pierrette in a professional manner, but his ears tuned towards us.
“Dujarier’s brilliant,” Merci told me quietly. “He’s a writer and businessman, with the newspapers. From a modest background, and an honest one. He’s become part owner of La Presse, along with the equally brilliant Émile de Girardin. Girardin is taking care of news and politics, Dujarier of business, culture and subscriptions. It’s an incredible combination of talents. Dumas père considers Dujarier almost a second son—which of course does not please his real one.” She squeezed my hand. “He’s a new style of man, Lola. Made his money in private banking and was rich at twenty-four. He’s one of Olympe’s, of course. I doubt you can budge him; he’s in very deep.”
My God. I was surprised to realize that my face was flushed. Did Merci have any idea what kind of tigress she was encouraging with these bits and scraps? A voracious hunger had suddenly leapt into my belly at this third sighting of the stranger whose name I knew and not much else.
He’d turned back to the maid and taken from her a large bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne. Another turn, and then he stood facing us in the gorgeous flush of young male pride: Henri Dujarier. I can never say that name often enough; it purrs off my tongue with a sensuous, heartbreaking moan… Henri Dujarier. Everything and everyone else fell away.
Henri Dujarier, on that fateful day, was twenty-eight years of age. Tall and well-built, with black hair which fell over his collar in thick, waving chunks, as if startled out of his head and trying to spring free. His eyes, ringed with dark lashes, were a warm toffee colour. Strong wrists and arms were clad at that moment in a Parisian frockcoat of great beauty, a kind of chartreuse shade with dark green lapels. His trousers were well cut and dashing, hugging dreamy, long thighs. The cut of a well-made man’s trousers is a wonderful thing… Oh, just thinking of them makes me wet…
His handsome face lit up when he saw me with Merci, across the room. Then Olympe Pelissier hurried over to him, gushing and preening; he kissed her lips, presented her with the champagne and roses, and spoke softly. She laughed gaily and flounced off again with her trophies. Even before he turned back to look at me, I think I knew—I knew even then. Henri Dujarier is the one. He will always be the one. How do we know these things? It’s one of the great mysteries, but somewhere, deep in our bodies and inside our souls, we know.
Merci, giggling, took my hand and led me through bodies across to where he stood, watching us come. I could feel a flush moving up from my breasts, onto my neck, and across my cheeks. Oh mon Dieu.
“Henri, may I introduce—”
“The Spanish dancer, at last,” he said, and my knees went watery. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Montez,” he breathed, taking my hand and kissing it with warm, steady lips, then smiling into my face before kissing it again. “I enjoyed your audacious performance at the Opéra. You gave us something to think about.”
“Did I really?”
“Oh, yes.” Toffee eyes… Scrumptious…
Several other pairs of eyes were fastened on this encounter: Olympe, looking daggers; Eugène, supremely amused; Dr. Koreff, who should take his fat, old nose out of other people’s business—and one other set of eyes, I could feel them. At that precise second, Olympe rushed up, grabbed Henri’s arm and whisked him away, and I turned to see… George. Gazing at me with her incomparable smile.
Olympe began making a lot of noise over by the table at the entrance, urging Henri to open the champagne. He did so with a mighty pop and a cascade of foam and liquid onto the priceless carpet, causing more tinkly laughter from the courtesan.
George gestured at me to come to her, and Merci murmured, “Do you know the great Sand?”
“I do, a little bit.”
“I will see you later, perhaps. She frightens me.” Merci gave a small wave with her fingers and moved off.
Trying to keep one eye on Dujarier and the hostess, I headed over to George. She seemed very thrilled as I drew near—or perhaps disturbed, I couldn’t tell. “At last, sweets,” she gushed. “And how are you faring? Is Eugène being good to you? Did the money hold out?”
I thanked her again and said that, for the moment at least, I was not ‘skint’.
“Did you hear?” she then asked, clasping my wrist. “Franzi’s in a mess. The consecrated wafer has got his balls in a vice—he’s done for, as far as I can tell. He’s heading out on a six-month tour of the Iberian Peninsula as soon as Belloni can pull final details together. Will meet the new young Queen, apparently—Isabel the Second.”
My God, I thought, as my mind hurtled back: Bella, the little porker princess with the itchy skin, already Queen of Spain? But of course she was—she’d now be fourteen. Images of her flashed through my head: scratching herself, listening to the grotesque tutor in the palace in Madrid. Age twelve going on thirty, awaiting her courses and therefore a husband. And her sweet sister, Infanta Luisa Fernanda, adorable eleven… The failed kidnapping… Diego… Oh God.
George’s wry voice was rattling on, “Reminds me. I had a good laugh the other day, couldn’t help it. I’d written Franz and asked—delicately, of course—about the affair. You know the one. He wrote back, ‘The Spanish lady was like the eye of a storm that whips up a sea of sand and dirt on the plains of Castile, and leaves one red-eyed and spent when it has passed.’” She pulled back to look at me, her cat lips all curled. “Isn’t he witty, isn’t that fun?”
Sometimes the woman made me want to hit her! But perhaps (I consoled myself) the stiff, formal words actually meant that he’d cried when it ended.
“The upshot is, Madame d’A now has the field to herself,” George went on again at full volume. “And she’s got a plan—oh my, does she have a plan!”
I suddenly wondered, with Liszt out of the way, would the countess come after me, to punish me? I swallowed my chagrin at George’s gossip and listened intently.
“She’s given herself a nom de plume, and the silly cow now thinks she’s a writer!” George dropped her voice again, conspiratorially. “She was worried that using her own name might make someone—her long-suffering husband, Count d’Agoult, perhaps?—have to defend her in a duel, if her views in print were criticised. Girardin at La Presse suggested, ‘why not take a pseudonym?’ So Madame d’A wrote down the first given name that came into her mind: the name of her little son, Daniel. No doubt she feels she’s about to enter the lions’ den. For the surname, she chose the German for ‘lucky star’—and so now she’s Daniel Stern, can you believe? She’s headed off to the country to pen her masterpiece. I’m guessing it’s going to be a juicy exposé of her years with Franz, a roman à clef, and likely sensational!”
I’d never seen George Sand so aroused—with venom? Could it be? Was she jealous?
“But never mind all that!” she declared, landing a plump kiss upon my cheek. “You’re looking luscious, darling. Is that a new jacket from Eugène?”
And so was she, looking luscious, that is, in an interesting way. She had on the ever-present trousers, of course, but also a most becoming dark green frockcoat, with a frothy neckerchief in cream-coloured silk. It made me wonder what it would be like to be ab
le to wear men’s trousers every day. What would I look like in them? Quite the stunner, I bet, my tight little buttocks roundly defined. Would Henri Dujarier think so? And where was he now?
These musings were interrupted by George again. “Here, have some wine” (as a waiter floated past). “And Eugène? How’s his mood?” At this, I shrugged, and she nodded. “The secret to Eugène, Lola?—ordinary life’s too dull. All that surgeon’s gore, and sawing off of limbs at the Battle of Navarino, is my guess. He admires horror, goes searching for it—writes it, too.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “Les Mystères petrified me.”
“So beware.” Linking her arm through mine, George began guiding me towards the pompous planet at the centre of the apartment: Alexandre Dumas. “Now, have you met our prodigious, exceptional—?”
“I have. Several times. Not that he knows it.”
Pulling back, I dug in my heels. I’d also just spotted Rosemond de Beauvallon, leering away at Dumas’ latest long-winded story and fingering his watch chain. I didn’t think I should antagonize the best shot in Paris again, not so soon at any rate. “I’m not going over there to be humiliated again. I don’t like Alexandre Dumas.”
“Oh come, come!” George retorted. “How could anyone dislike our big bear? He’s simply ebullient.”
“He’s a boor.”
“And maybe that. But good-hearted. Come along.” And she dragged me onwards.
As we approached the boorish bear, he was (of course) still holding forth—at that moment, about the splendour of his patron, an aristocratic-looking gent at his side.
“The duke has invited me to attend his wedding in Madrid, should he be lucky enough to pull it off next year!” Dumas crowed. “If only they can get the other one married because, certainment, the youngest princess can’t marry first, that would never do.”
