by Kit Brennan
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.
“Tell me, Bon-bon.” Afraid to breathe, afraid to make a sound. Ice water trickling down the spine. As if, somehow, I already knew. “Tell me how she died.”
He got up and took a turn around the room.
“Please, sweetheart?”
“Her throat was slashed,” he said quietly, shaking his beautiful head, then passing a hand across his eyes. “It almost took her head off.”
¡Jesús! Oh my God, it was coming true—that was the modus operandus of—no, Jesús, no, it cannot be! He is in a deep, dark cell! But into sharp focus—at last, and too late?—the certainty swarmed me: these hot-heads that Dumas and Pier-Angelo have spoken of—these brethren… I had told Henri the outline of my flight from Spain, but not the gruesome details, not all of the horrors that haunted me… Not Matilde’s identical murder, and the smothering of her baby, nor the violation of de la Vega, watching me, naked, in the stable… I couldn’t put those horrors into Henri’s head, into his dear self, I couldn’t do it…
“I’m not sure how to ask this…” I moved to look into his brown eyes, but he turned his face away. This chilled me, too—was he hiding something? I had to know. “Was there anything else, Henri? Anything that would lead one to recognize… the perpetrator?” I quavered, trembling, not wanting to know, but needing to know, with an aching dread now throbbing through my body, and a feeling of approaching sorrow.
“What else would there be, darling?” Henri asked, pale as paper, and coming to sit again close by my side.
“Please, tell me.”
There was a long pause, then, “There was. Something terrible. The large, open wing of a grey seabird. Or owl, no one was quite sure. But it was spread over the young woman’s breast.”
I chewed my lip. What could this mean? “And?” I urged.
Henri looked stricken, then was very nearly ill himself. His eyes closed, his hand clutched mine as he said:
“And her left breast, over her heart… Was gone.”
*
Events began to tumble onwards with unseemly haste. It was as if Dumas’ hateful words—his baleful prediction—had unleashed a monster from the deep jungles of Fate, and terror had begun walking the streets.
Henri, my Bon-bon, a man who was usually so light of outlook and cheerful, was cast into a profoundly melancholy frame of mind by the horrific murder he’d witnessed at our doorstep. At first he wouldn’t let me out of his sight, hugging and squeezing me almost convulsively during the following days and nights. We tried to observe my birthday (my first with Bon-bon, St. Valentine’s again and another year older, Dios mío). Despite best intentions, it was a subdued event. He’d bought me a beautiful necklace with a sapphire pendant in honour of my eyes, but again his embrace was so tight that I nearly fainted. I was worried about him!
The dancer’s murder was followed up by the police, and three days after it had happened, they arrested a vagabond who’d been spotted in our arrondissement during the time in question and threw him into prison. The streets were safe once again, they declared, and Henri and I assured each other that this appalling event was behind us. Each convinced the other that we believed this to be the case. Deep inside, I knew that I’d been living in a happy bubble, and I kept thinking, oh, my God—they’re here! But I wanted our life back, the way it had been—and I dared not tell Henri, I wanted to protect him!
On another front, I couldn’t understand why I still felt so sluggish, and why I couldn’t shake it. Could it have been the bang on the head, when I collapsed and hit the table? That’s what Henri believed. He tried to convince me to cancel my engagement in La Biche aux Bois.
“No! I’ve just started again! I can’t back out now; I don’t want to,” I told him heatedly. “I can’t give in to fear and trembling, Henri, and neither can you!”
As of March 1st, I shook off his over-wrought concern and managed to attend each and every one of my evening rehearsals for La Biche; I also continued working in the studio during the day on my solo venture, ‘La Dansomanie’. Both openings were now approaching at speed, and I vowed I must be astonishing. I struggled on through the headaches, taking the powders that seemed to help, and not letting on to my love that I was definitely not at my usual capacity. At first, Henri would accompany me to the Porte Sainte-Martin every evening and wait for me in our fiacre, outside—but this was ridiculous, I told him, he’d catch his death sitting there hour after hour. Eventually I convinced him to stay at home or go to his club—to enjoy himself. As a compromise he sent his valet, Gabriel, to wait for me and to keep a sharp eye on the streets.
Located in the 10th arrondissement, the Théâtre de la Porte Sainte-Martin was located in a huge building which seemed a gaping cavern when viewed from the stage. I was told the audience capacity was about two thousand persons. The lowest ticket-price holders would stand in the parterre (reserved for men), while four rows of boxes surrounded the other three sides, where women and their escorts were seated. The building had an illustrious history, at one point having housed the Paris Opéra after their first home had burned to the ground. Now, the Porte Sainte-Martin was well known for its light amusements and beautiful actresses, so I was told (and blushed prettily upon being told so by the manager, Henri’s friend). Many of the sporting set came to see their girlfriends’ legs on display in the various bits and bibelots of what passed for scenes. I found the other dancers and the orchestra for La Biche rather run-of-the-mill, though nice enough. I began learning several dances with the others, and was also given a sprightly little solo, somewhat Spanish
in nature, which was to occur in about the middle of the program.
Henri and I also began banging the ‘La Dansomanie’ drum to our dance and theatre critic friends: we had to, if we wanted to recoup our investment. We told Théophile Gautier (he of the monocle and giggly laugh, who’d trashed me in my Opéra début, though Henri was sure he would not do so again), as well as Jules Janin, Pier-Angelo (of course) and—unfortunately—Rosemond de Beauvallon.
“Not him, Bon-bon,” I pleaded. “Don’t invite him.”
“We have to, my love; he’s Le Globe’s drama critic.”
“It’s not drama I’m doing, it’s dance!” I protested.
“We don’t want his nose to get out of joint; he’s quick to take offence—so let’s send the invitation, just in case.”
He rolled towards me in our bed and pinned me in a strong embrace. “You know how much I love you, don’t you, Lola? I adore you; I’d do anything for you. You make me inexpressibly happy.”
“I am yours, Bon-bon, always.” I tucked myself into his shoulder, and he held me, his chin resting against my hair.
He spoke very tenderly. “I’ve been thinking, darling… I know you want to dance, and you shall. But perhaps, when your performances are over, and you’ve enjoyed your Parisian success—we could leave all this.”
I pulled away, alarmed, to look into his eyes, but he urged me back into the curve of his body and the warmth of his embrace.
“Just listen to my thoughts. Here, are you comfortable? By the end of March, I was thinking we could go somewhere very warm, perhaps the southwest, to the sea. There’s a chateau near Bordeaux that I know about where we could stay, and maybe we could find a small one of our own, buy it outright, make it into our home.”
“Henri, cariño—”
“Shh, Lola, let me finish? It’s quiet there, I know—perhaps too quiet for you. But it’s safe; it has many amenities. My family had roots in the area, a century ago. I suppose it’s in my blood, the sea and the land in that part of France. There are long sand beaches on the coast that go on forever, where we can ride, and the horses will love to run. And… well, darling, I was thinking… perhaps we could have our wedding there.” He kissed the top of my head. “And perhaps… in time, a child will come…”
My heart sank, I wanted to crawl inside his bones and weep. There they were, the remaining secrets I had not yet revealed. Will this be the truth that drives him away?
“Henri, sweetheart…” And so I began. I had to. Lying against him, crying quietly, I told him the story of my recklessness, of the unborn innocent who paid for my folly in India. I kept it simple, the bare facts. He had to make of it what he would; that was only fair to him. But I wished to die, in those moments. I had no idea what would happen next.
“My poor darling…” His breath against my hair.
“There’s more,” I said. “I have to tell you it all, before I lose my nerve. Before that, Henri, I had a baby. When I was fifteen. Her name is Emma. She was adopted by my step-aunt and uncle, in England. She is ten years old this year. Oh, Bon-bon, I should have told you. I would have told you. I am so sorry…”
I finished, and there was silence. I closed my eyes and stayed very still, not even breathing. I could hear his heart thumping at an accelerated pace—and then, slowly, quieting back into its steady ‘buh-bump, buh-bump.’ The most precious sound in the world. Soon to be lost to me forever?
His voice, rumbling from his chest, “Then maybe we should begin by writing to them, and travelling to England. We could see Emma, meet with your relatives. They could get to know us. And maybe… Perhaps… We could see if Emma wished to live with us. For part of the year, if that’s all they would allow? Or perhaps… Always. Would that make you happy, Lola?”
I pulled away far enough to look into his dear face. “You would stay with me, still, after knowing this?”
“Always. It is you I love.”
We kissed.
“I am so worried for you, my Lola, my love…”
“And I am, for you.”
“I want to protect you.”
“As I do you.”
He began to stroke my hair, my cheeks. “I’ll leave this rat-race in Paris. We’ll do something else together; why not? A fresh start. Agreeing to change our lives, to be happy together… Sounds like heaven, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” And I could see it, suddenly, our life together near the sea, with the ocean breeze always smelling of freedom and space to roam. With our hair curly from the salt and our skins brown from the sun. I rolled to face him, trying to smooth the crease between his eyebrows as his toffee-coloured gaze regarded me steadily. “I think I would love that, as long as I could continue to dance, re-establish myself there, in that smaller city—why not? Paris isn’t everything. You are everything.”
“As you are to me.”
“But you mustn’t worry so much, Bon-bon. I’m fine, I’m strong and I can take care of myself.”
“You don’t need to. Let me do so.”
“No, Henri, I do need to do so—remember, that’s what you loved about me, right from the beginning? My adventurous spirit? Don’t squash that or try to change it, darling. We’d both grow to hate that, even if it happened out of the deepest love.”
He was quiet then, his lips against my cheekbone. My heart expanded as I thought over what he had said, what he had offered. The love surrounding me, the acceptance of every confidence. Oh, thank God.
We made love quietly, gently, and with deep thankfulness. Afterwards, entwined, I urged him not to tell anyone yet of our plans to escape. That I wanted, so much, to dance in La Biche aux Bois for at least a month or two, to build my confidence—which he thought was a fine idea; there were many things that he, too, had still to bring to a successful close. Our breathing slowing, I lay thinking. Our love-making had mellowed; we were ardent as ever, and we cried out as often as usual—but the urgency had turned into something stronger and more profound than simply of the flesh. It was the first time I had ever experienced that, and it was amazing. I knew him so well, knew what he liked in bed, what made him smile, what made him hard. I didn’t even long for anyone else, nor cast many glances at other slim men’s trousers, nor the circumference of their chests nor the size of their biceps. Could this really mean that I was… Grown up? That my mind had perhaps caught up with my body? And that astonishing question led to others. Did love change over time? Would it become routine, or boring, to be in bed with Bon-bon for the rest of my life? I certainly didn’t feel so, but… I was now twenty-five. I could hardly believe it. What would that mean—this hurtling pace—in five years, or ten? Would Henri still desire me? Would I desire him? And what if we made it into old age? How did love survive all that time? Could it? But could I imagine myself alone after having known his love? Oh, never! At that chilling thought, I reached my arms around his dear chest once more and squeezed him tightly, as tightly as I possibly could: never, never! “How I love you, how I treasure you!” I whispered fiercely.
He coughed and laughed. “What’s happening, sweetheart?” He’d been almost asleep.
In a moment his breathing softened again and he had gone under, off to some dream world of his own. Mi corazón, my sweet heart…
I raised my head to look into his face. His marvellous face. His love touched every bit of me, and I was so thankful. I’d never felt the tiniest fragment of such a profound love before. And did I love him back? Was I the hellcat, the opportunist, that some others thought me? Oh, not with Henri, the one I adored from the first moment I laid eyes on him, the man I could see myself growing old beside. Me, who had never before considered such a frightening event. With Henri, I could do it, I could face it and be with him forever. I was so sure.
A Fateful Gamble
On the evening of March 6, I danced before an audience of four hundred. It was the first night of ‘La Dansomanie’ and it was both well attended and delightfully fun. I had chosen some excellent music, I thought, and put a grea
t deal of careful consideration into my costume. At the Paris Opéra—thanks to Eugène egging me onwards—I had revealed (probably) too much leg and too much cleavage. This time I was determined to dress in perfect taste for the most discriminating Parisian: sequins and lace in becoming shades and a decorous modesty, plus long, black lace mantilla for the full Spanish flavour. This didn’t mean, however, that the dance program itself was chaste and boring, no! I began with a cachucha, followed by a polka (I hoped no policemen would be in attendance, remembering Eugène and Dr. Koreff’s discussion of same, the previous year), then a mazurka and finishing with a final cachucha. All brand new, never-before-seen, and created by me!
Afterwards, Théophile and the others were coy but somewhat encouraging. “You’ll have to wait ’til the morning, Mademoiselle Lola,” Théo said with a giggle and a wave of his fingertips. I was euphoric with excitement and relief, and probably drank too much champagne (it’s so difficult not to!). At one point I saw Henri over in the corner with Granier de Cassagnac from Le Globe; they seemed to be having words, but I didn’t hear what it was about. I was kissed and back-patted many times, my cheeks hurt from smiling and by the time most of the audience had departed, my limbs had begun trembling from exertion and fatigue.
In the morning, we decided to forego our dawn ride in favour of coffee and the papers. Henri read Théo’s review out loud to me. “Listen to this, darling, it’s great—‘Go see her: it’s curious, it’s funny, and above all, it’s entertaining!’ Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Yes,” I said, “but let me see?” I peered at the lines. “What does he mean by ‘curious?’”
Someone else wrote about my ‘unbridled audacity,’ and another my ‘mad ardor and wild verve’—I liked those ones very much. There were some that were not so complimentary. Beauvallon in Le Globe was snotty and supercilious; we ripped it up together, Henri vowing that he wouldn’t let the man get away with it, that he’d soon put things right. When I asked what he meant by this, he shrugged, “Ça ne faire rien, chérie.”
