Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume

by Kit Brennan

  Oh my God, I cried inside, why haven’t I lived like a nun these past months, instead of fretting and drinking and whoring—yes, whoring—with the blasted Eugène! What a fool, what a colossal boba. Without a doubt, this could be the most hideous mistake of my misbehaved youth! Is there always a reckoning? Was I to lose the love of my life because I’d been slow to untangle myself, because I’d been anxious over money—how callow of me!—or selfishly lonesome—and loose? An immoral being? Like the third-rate Angel, scrabbling naked across the parquet? And for what? For nothing—not even for pleasure. For worse than nothing. How dreadful. How—sobering.

  I took a deep breath. I knew that on my next words rested all of my hopes—but at the same time, I wished to tell him only the truth: a new and daunting experience for me. I admit (in my heart of hearts) that I’m a practised liar. I prefer to call it prevarication, or augmentation of truth—it’s storytelling, with set-up, build up and then the pay off: usually laughter. It’s as natural as breathing to me. But Henri is the one, and I can’t lie to the man who I know is the one! I wanted him to love me as I am, not fall in love with some pale or seemingly innocent semblance of myself which I’d then have to try to live up to, and which might forever blunt me—and then, inevitably, blunt our love.

  So I spoke slowly and truthfully, terrified all the while. I told him of my ambition to dance on the world’s best stages and my increasing worry that I would not be successful. I said a lot about my desire for freedom and to make my own way, and a tiny bit about my year in Spain, when I’d faced danger, confronted evil. I held his hands as I finished with the hardest part, “And I haven’t been an entire innocent. You know that, you’ve seen that, Henri. And yet, I’ve never been so immediately in love with a man as I know I am with you. I will never do anything to harm that, ever again. I promise you.”

  In turn—and as the early morning sun turned into the brilliant heat of the day—he gazed into the distance, thinking. He told me that most of the women he knew were either simpering, girlish creatures or bold strumpets who made their way by bedding rich men, and that because he was rich, he’d become a target for both. (Fear rose again with these truthful words: did he really regard me as one of the second kind? I supposed he’d been burnt once too often, and so of course I’d appear that way to him.) On the other hand, he said, there was something about a woman who’d travel to another country on her own that made him happy, that filled him with curiosity. He admired the unusual. Oh yes, my adventurous spirit was part of the attraction, that’s what he told me. And—thank God—he didn’t think less of me for that recklessness, that ambition, he felt more. This was a revelation, and a colossal relief.

  “And as far as your experiences with other men go…”

  My heart stopped. “Yes?”

  “I’d heard all the rumours about you and Franz Liszt, long before Eugène Sue. Didn’t Liszt break it off and lock you into a hotel room so that he could steal away before you woke?”

  “What?” I pulled back to look at him.

  “And when you did wake up, you broke the furniture?”

  “I did what?”

  Henri began to laugh. “That’s what I’d read—some story from Dresden. How much did you break? Did Liszt have to pay for it?”

  “It’s a complete fabrication!” I retorted hotly. “I left him!” Then I kissed Henri all over his lovely cheeks and upon his eyelids.

  Before too long, we were so engrossed with each other’s charms again that we’d become entangled by my stocking garter and I couldn’t help him disengage us, having been reduced to the state of a pat of melted butter in a warming dish. Mon Dieu, Henri was so beautiful that—!

  All at once, he pulled himself together, rubbed his hand over his whiskers and said, “Come home with me, Lola. Let us do this up in style, not on the ground like desperate adolescents. I have silk sheets and a bedroom with a breeze. Champagne, caviar. Whatever you wish.” He kissed me ardently. “What do you think?”

  “I think, yes!”

  *

  And now began the most glorious time of my life, to date. It was as if Henri and I had been starving, and in each other’s form and face we at last found our banquet. It was a feast that we both wished to go on and on—food that was sustaining, that would calm the restless hunger pangs that had plagued us both and had made us choose badly in the past. Everything now was in the present. I longed to stay there, forever.

  He took me to his apartment at 39 rue Lafitte, and our lovemaking was a new kind of revelation. He was very skilled and at the same time rather shy. I supposed his skill came from a good deal of practice—with Olympe, and others of her ilk—but I couldn’t very well feel offended by the knowledge, since I had my own history of former lovers. I suppose, too, that my appetite had been reawakened by Franz, and though I still privately mourned the death of Diego, there was nothing I could do about that; I was quite sure Diego would have understood my fierce desire to live fully and joyfully with whatever time I had. He would have done the same, I knew, if our fates had changed places.

  Henri’s bedroom was as lovely as he’d intimated. Fresh, white sheets, and a breeze wafting through; we stood in the doorway, admiring. Flowers provided a heavenly scent. The shutters stood wide open, letting in the sounds of the street below. He took me by the hand, leading me into the bedroom and away from the luxurious outer rooms, which had also caused my jaw to drop. They were filled with incredible antiques, in furniture and upholstered items, with deluxe oil paintings and small marble sculptures. He really was rich, as well as adorable. A sudden troubling thought assailed me: what will people think? That I’m an opportunist? An unprincipled, money-hungry piece of goods? I threw these inner harpies out of my mind resolutely. Pooh on them all!

  Standing together, still holding hands, and gazing at the calm beauty of everything that lay within, he turned to me.

  “Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Would you like—?”

  I kissed him, hard, to let him know that what I wanted at that precise moment was nothing more nor less than all of him.

  What we had begun in the Bois de Boulogne was soon matched and eclipsed in his lovely bedroom. My amazon riding jacket was unbuttoned first. As each button was slipped free, Henri paused to slide his palm inside, at first to gently cup my breast, then my ribs, then waist—at which point he passed his arm around me, inside the open jacket, and pulled me against his chest.

  “I’ve been dreaming of this for weeks,” he breathed.

  “As have I.” Mon Dieu, I had.

  I unbuttoned him next—first his riding jacket, which I slid off his arms, placing it on a chair nearby. Then his necktie, kissing the Adam’s apple thereby revealed beneath his dark, whiskered chin. His linen shirt was open at the neck; a slender but strong chest, not hairy, but not naked. Just right. I pulled the shirt off over his head, which rumpled his mass of thick, springy hair in an incredibly appealing way, and I laughed; I couldn’t help it.

  “What is it?” he asked, looking concerned.

  “Just you,” I answered. “Just this! You’re wonderful!”

  And then we were kissing, deeply, for many more minutes. His lips were firm and gentle; there was no crashing and mashing of teeth or lips, even though we were both so aroused. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he kisses. Some are voracious, some too wet and your lips feel immediately chapped. Some are too dry, and it’s like kissing an autumn leaf. But Henri’s kisses were… perfection, his breath sweet and warm like honey.

  Little by little, we undressed each other, and then stood naked in the bright light of day. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about that—most often, I’d been comfortable in more subdued light, with shutters closed for privacy, or fire and candles glowing at night. But somehow on this glorious day I wanted Henri to see all of me, all the good and the bad, without augmentation. I was proud of my body—I’ve always been taut, with good legs and high, firm breasts—so that wasn’t at issue. No, I wanted him to see the truth: that I was ver
y much in love, and falling more so with every passing minute. I had never allowed anyone to clearly see that much truthfulness in me, completely naked and open. I’d sooner laugh, and make a joke—or use my body energetically to feel or create pleasure. No lies with this man, I vowed to myself. Henri is the one. I wanted it so much.

  And I loved what I saw. He, too, was taut—all that riding, I suppose. Although he sat all day at a desk, none of that showed on him. He was the sort of man who will look his lover straight in the eyes, and his eyes were remarkable. As I came to know them, their colour deepened and lightened at different times, depending upon his moods. When angry, they resembled mahogany; when languorous, the softening effect turned them almost golden. Magical eyes, I would drown in their sweetness forever if I could… His warm arms hugging me, skin to skin, felt heavenly; when he gently reached his hand between my legs, stroking me, he too moaned with pleasure to learn that I was equally excited. I unbuttoned his trousers, and gently slid them over his hips and down. His prick was standing straight as a flagpole and it gave a knock, up against his belly. I admit, as he sat upon the bed to remove his trousers and boots, I noted that the appearance of his member was another item of satisfaction—it was a good length, straight and circumcised. Later I found that he had one of those fascinating ones which appear very modest and discreet when unaroused, but which grow and lengthen and harden amazingly—it’s like a Christmas gift, the best kind, with many, many happy returns.

  This first afternoon of lovemaking, though saturated with passion, was also marked by a sweet gentleness. My recent (and bitterly regretted) final encounter with Eugène had made me think that men secretly crave coercion, and force. Perhaps, even, to inflict pain. But no, from that first time and always, Henri put my pleasure first and was careful. He asked me what I preferred, he spoke openly about it—and because of his solicitude, strangely, I felt incredibly shy. I’d never really talked about what I liked, or tried to describe it—I just liked it. But he really wanted to know. So I tried. I think I blushed a deep crimson. And he laughed, very sweetly, hand propping his chin and brown eyes regarding me steadily.

  “Does this make you uncomfortable, Lola? Talking about it?”

  “A little. I’m surprised, too.”

  “By what?”

  “By your… I don’t know. Ability to wait?”

  He nodded. “So am I. I don’t want to. Truthfully, I want to ravage and tear.”

  I turned then, to look at him questioningly. “Really?”

  He laughed again. “Not at all. But it’s a delight to glory in your splendour… to feel your lovely skin, your silky hair. The look in your eyes, their sapphire glow…” He took my hand again and guided it to his stiffness; he pulsed against my grip. “Let me give you some of what you like—may I? I’m simply overjoyed to be here, in my bed with you, Lola. I want it to continue on and on.”

  “But can’t we…? I mean, can’t you…?”

  Smiling, he said, “No fears. Lie back.”

  Oh, what intensity in the anticipation. I lay back against the mattress, with my legs hanging down and Henri kneeling on the floor. Again, shyness (who, me?)—blushing and overheated. I covered my face with my hands, to cool my cheeks and, perhaps, to hide my widening grin. As the sensations began to move through me, I had a sudden fear of not being able to relax, or of taking too long. Then I forgot all that; I simply became one with the rhythms that Henri was invoking. “Isn’t it pleasure, love?” “Oh yes,” I breathed. Such soft devouring, going on and on—should I be embarrassed? Should I stop him? Oh God, no… “So salty, love—let go, trust me, let go in my mouth.” Should I?—never mind that, I will! The tide turns, the ripples grow wider, a kind of desperation takes hold and the need for satisfaction is the only thing in the world—ripples turning into waves, and on into the surging rhythms of a great sea. “Oh—o-ha!” A quick explosion behind my eyes and through my sex, the voluptuous pulsing and quivering which follows. “My God… Oh, love… Oh, ah…” A merry fatigue, limbs splayed, unashamed. Henri rose upon the mattress, smiling, his mustache and beard all wet with me, and I think I cried. I know I did. We hugged fiercely, and kissed, mingling our essences.

  Then it was his turn. He was very close, and had to keep stopping me from what I was doing, “so that it won’t be over so soon,” he said. When we both were unbearably ready-randy, Henri turned onto his side and then on to me; his prick glided up me, slowly and deliciously, until it filled me completely. We soon upped the tempo, under siege from inner promptings. The quicker his thrusts, the more my muscles responded and gripped, until with short, deep thrusts from Henri, I felt myself coming once more. First I, then he, were roaring our satisfaction into the hot Paris afternoon: “Ah!—oho—darling, yes—hoha!” We lay panting then, laughing, wet with sweat and other salty effusions, amused by the imagined notion of some innocent passer-by down below looking up, startled, at the loud sounds that had emanated so suddenly from above.

  That afternoon was a delicious beginning, with the promise of much more to come. By the time evening had rolled around we had made some important decisions, as well as several additional hollers and roars. The decisions: I would move in with him, to 39 rue Lafitte in the 9th arrondissement, to an adjoining apartment that he also owned, which had connecting doors. And—by my moving in with him—Henri was declaring that he was no longer at liberty to see other women.

  “Lola? Do you know what I’m telling you? I am yours.”

  Bliss.

  A Nom de Plume

  For the remainder of that summer and on through the autumn, Henri and I revelled in our new-found love. We told each other everything: I heard about his previous mistresses; I told him about my failed marriage, and Diego. About the unjust execution of that wonderful man, and the terror of that time—but only a tiny bit about the mad Jesuit. It was like a superstition, suddenly; I didn’t want to bring that decadence anywhere near my newfound love. That abhorrence has nothing to do with us, I said to myself. Henri told me of his youth, in Paris, of his early prowess in banking, and about some of his own youthful dalliances and mistakes. I even confided (in strictest confidence) that I was not actually born in Spain, that my ancestors were Irish—but reiterated that this was an absolute secret and that I was perfectly Spanish by nature. We were full of the wonder of fate that had taken all of these previous experiences, shaken them, and brought us together.

  “Teach me Spanish, darling,” Henri whispered into the curve of my neck, “and I will help you improve your French. You know you need it.”

  “I admit nothing, rien de tout,” I laughed and nipped at his chin.

  As far as the two of us were concerned, there were few complications, only enjoyment. We rode in the Bois every morning at dawn, loving the fact that we were both horse enthusiasts. He had a fantastic stable of gorgeous steeds, and he let me pick one for myself. I chose a spirited gelding called Magnifique—a gleaming chestnut coat with shiny black mane and tail, no white markings; a horse that loved to run, but also listened to instructions like a professional soldier. A wonderful horse. Henri’s current favourite was the pure white, named Enchanté, a mare who was very swift and light on her feet, whose mane and tail were shot through, naturally but highly decoratively, with strands of grey; she had a matching soft grey muzzle. Truly lovely.

  After our early morning ride, Henri would wash and dress—always impeccably—and walk to his office at La Presse. He would be gone the entire day, returning quite exhausted every evening at about seven. Sometimes we would go out to a piece of theatre or a concert; often we would stay in and make love. He had a very good chef who would make us whatever we fancied, and we drank superb wine, enjoyed mellow ports and cognacs afterwards. Life was very, very good—and I could easily have gotten used to such a pampered existence.

  But I’m a restless soul, I need action as well as love. I want to use my body, to do something with it, energetically, enthusiastically—above and beyond what I can do with it in bed with an adored lover.
I can’t help but crave independence, a certain kind of freedom, and I still longed to be good at something, to make my mark. All around me, the ferment of the Parisian artistic world banged and trumpeted away. Surely there was something that I could do that I would become known for, that would be admired, applauded? And paid. That was crucial. A woman crack shot or sabre-rattler would never be considered a respectable career—not in a million years—though I knew I had the interest and propensity for it. Neither would I be able to make a living as a female equestrian—far too immodest! Only in a carnival or animal side-show might one find a woman rider, and she’d be living a hard life as a kind of lower caste freak. Perhaps I’d do best to keep these talents under wraps, I thought to myself, save them for when I truly needed them.

  Although I continued to seek dancing engagements and kept up with my private dance lessons, I confess I was extremely frustrated that I’d been unable to secure another engagement. It troubled me. In fact, it pissed me off severely, and I ranted and railed to Henri about it, quite stormily. Oh, God, in hindsight how I wish, in that particular instance, that I had not pushed and shoved my restless spirit onwards in my usual manner. Perhaps the dangers and ultimate terrors that were about to be unleashed, unbeknownst to us all, could have been avoided; fate might have lifted its sharp finger from our throats and been coaxed on to someone else, and I would still be cuddled up in our bed, safe and warm, with Henri’s arms around me, nose to nose in sleep, breathing in each other’s scent throughout the dark, still, peaceful hours.

  But no. The change, the beginning of everything that ultimately unravelled my new life, in love and in Paris, began with Alexandre Dumas, père. I might have known that he would be there to interfere with my happiness; his presence in my life had always meant turmoil.

  It started innocently enough, and that was part of the problem. It happened like this:

  Each night after work, darling Henri told me everything that he’d been up to that day, his involvements with writers, the news he’d picked up. As soon as word had spread about the two of us, tout le monde de Paris was instantly agog; speculation was rife about his infatuation with the Spanish danseuse who’d been trashed in the press. Who is this woman who’s come out of nowhere, they wondered, and how has she snagged the most eligible bachelor in the entire Ville de Lumière? We hooted with laughter over that one.