§
I soon had my own tricks to get by. The less I told men, the better they thought they knew me. Silence was a mask of a kind; it let me be whatever or whomever they needed me to be in our hours together, a little cabaret of their loneliness, really.
Of theirs and ours.
To survive, much less succeed, I learned I could not give myself over to either pleasure or misery in excess. Whatever you felt was not important. To feel either enjoyment or self-pity meant you might allow them too much time, and this meant possibly missing your next monsieur. I soon found the pleasure I could sneak, which I preferred, enjoyed like something I’d picked from their pockets. But I somehow knew without ever being told that to really give myself to one of them was to begin to fray, to make in myself a weakness I could never undo, and so whenever some were able to pleasure me, here or there, I tried to bring the hour to its quickest end.
At Odile’s direction, I would make notes of habits, gifts received, preferences, and displeasures. I reviewed this before they arrived, and this made each client believe they were so important to you that you remembered everything they liked, every little gesture, each time they visited—an impossible act of memory, really, but one they never questioned, for it suited them to think it was so. This was, of course, part of what they paid for, perhaps more than any of the acts themselves—to be so remembered.
A great scandal appeared in the press shortly after I joined the house—all of the girls talked of it—a disappointed lover had rifled a famous courtesan’s books, hoping to find the truth as to whether she loved him, only to see she was not kind to him, at least there. She was made to seem insincere in the press, and this angered us. It was like charging backstage, shocked to discover Phèdre had been played by an actress when you knew all along you were in a theater.
Odile joked of hiring someone to write a diary for all of us in which each client was described only in the most flattering terms—and to leave them where they might be found easily, our real journals hidden elsewhere.
To keep ourselves safe, the system was simple enough. We named clients by their jobs, like minor characters in a play. I wanted it to be clear to myself as well as to whatever future spy might see it that I never really thought of him except like this. What’s more, names would have made a gentleman into someone I could feel affection for—love, perhaps, or hate. It was better, easier, to feel nothing—if you loved him, he could disappoint you; if he disappointed you, you might hate him; if you might hate him, you would still have to see him for as long as he had funds to pay. It was enough to remember them all; that was all that was needed, nothing more. But this lesson, to feel nothing for them, was one I seemed always to be tested on, never more so than by what happened next.
One night, after I had been there for several months, I returned to the salon to find it consumed with dancing. A man was playing a cancan on the piano, and the room had exploded with it. Even Odile, whom I rarely saw move more than her counting hand, had her skirts over her hips. The dancing spilled out into the hall and from there into the garden, not usually used. The night was warm, and the windows into the garden were thrown open so we could hear the music there as well.
We had been visited by a regiment. Odile didn’t usually let her doors open to enlisted men, for soldiers normally used women too brutally.
The piano music finished as I entered. I found Euphrosyne in the arms of one of the soldiers, a beauty. He was Prussian, had arrived that day from Morocco; the sun there had turned his skin bronze, his sleek blond hair bright.
This is her, Euphrosyne said, as she reached out and drew me closer, turning to face him again. She’s my friend who can sing, she said.
He’s not really a soldier, she said to me. He’s a singer.
A tenor, he said.
§
Here then is the one who owned me.
He was the only man Euphrosyne had ever competed with me for, the only one who ever came between us. She introduced us.
Of those I feared had betrayed me to this writer, he was the one I knew was not over me. He was the Prussian tenor at the Paris Opera, rumored to be marrying me, said to be the real reason I was leaving the stage—and the first man to insist I get on one.
Five
IF WE WERE called to perform in a fantasy, we had to do so and do it with all our might. Most times the fantasy held. And so when Euphrosyne’s tenor friend suggested to Odile that I sing for him as he took Euphrosyne in the seats of the little theater, she sent me to change into a formal gown at once and put me on the illusion stage there in front of the boxes where no one had ever stood and sung before.
Odile prided herself on the education we received at her hands in preparation for these fantasies. She regularly took us to attend the opera, the ballet, and the symphony, each trip narrated by her, making points as to appropriate conduct, the way to gossip in an entertaining fashion, and then the occasional sharp remark for whichever of us had misbehaved. She had seen too many girls embarrass clients, themselves, and their houses in public with ill manners or ignorance; educating us this way was good for business, and then the sight of us, our little parade in our new dresses and jewels, meant she educated us even as she advertised us to the gentlemen in the room who would see her and then us, and know instantly we were the Majeurs-Plaisirs. Their friends might ask after us; their friends would explain.
I was new and had been to the opera exactly once. The opera was Lucia di Lammermoor, the story of a young woman who falls in love with a man her family despises. They love in secret, marry in secret in the woods, and when he becomes a fugitive, are then separated. While he is away, her brother forges a letter to tell her this lover has betrayed her and forgotten her, and urges her to marry the man they have chosen for her instead. Lucia does, reluctantly, and then murders her new husband on her wedding night, at which point her lover returns to find her mad and singing of how they can be together again as she drifts down the stairs in her gown covered in blood. She dies, and her lover, in order to be with her again, takes his own life as well.
Her first aria, “Regnava nel silenzio,” or “Reign of silence,” is her telling her maid she has seen a ghost in the woods, the ghost of a girl killed by a man from the family of her lover. This is what she sings before she goes to marry her lover in secret.
Whenever I thought of it, I could still hear the oboes murmuring as Lucia enters. The night we went, Adelina Patti sang, one of the very best Lucias in history.
Odile was moved enough by my attachment to this aria that she had urged some of the various musicians who came to the house to help me learn to sing it—so I could prepare, perhaps, for a concert in the salon. She often had us enact salon dramas and tableaux vivants as a way to begin the night; some nights we began as begowned princesses; others, as harem girls; still others, as goddesses. One composer even promised a salon opera. She had decided I would go from being the girl with a crop to being her opera siren. A baritone client, on hearing of my love for the aria and the opera, had even written out the lyrics for me one night and left them for me as a love note.
I had suspected this meant Odile was somehow moving Euphrosyne out. Which I could not imagine. But if a circus was a family you had to audition for, a maison close was a family that would sell you as a compliment.
Regardless, this was truly all the training I had in this kind of singing at the time, and while I was reluctant to sing for anyone with so little by way of preparation, I sang my best rendition of “Regnava nel silenzio,” accompanied on the piano by the tenor’s friend who had played the cancan in the salon, even though I knew it was all crude improvisation and the illusion stage was so close to them I could see Euphrosyne’s legs shake in the air—I still cannot imagine it gave him any pleasure, and yet it did not matter what I could imagine, what matters is what happened next.
It seems to me that when I am near him, heaven opens itself to me, Lucia sings at the end, telling her maid of why she will go to marry in the woods.
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When I reached this and the diminuendo of the piano, the scene above came into view: Euphrosyne’s tenor leaning over the box, staring at me with fierce ardor. Euphrosyne behind him, her face lit by the ember of a cigarette.
Incredible, he said. And then he began to clap, finally turning to Euphrosyne, who clapped at last as well.
§
What training do you have? he asked me. We were downstairs in the salon again, drinking Odile’s champagne, seated on a crimson velvet chaise. Euphrosyne had left for her ablutions.
I gestured to the men around me.
Truly, no training in voice at all?
I shook my head and laughed. His interest seemed preposterous.
How . . .
I sang as a girl, I said. And I have seen one opera. Adelina Patti singing in Lucia. I was imitating her.
One opera! You must see more. And with me. I will arrange it with Odile.
Odile, at the mention of her name, appeared at his shoulder.
Chérie, what you have hidden here I cannot begin to explain, he said.
Don’t explain, she said, it’s too boring. Tell me what you want with her instead.
She must go to the opera, he said. She must sing opera. I will see her on that stage if I must set her down there myself. We start this week. She must see Cora Pearl! I have tickets.
She will be delighted to join you, Odile said, and smiled at me approvingly.
Six
AND SO IT WAS I went to see the legendary courtesan Cora Pearl perform during her infamous two-week run as Cupid in Offenbach’s Orphée aux Enfers. And began my education as a singer.
We arrived that night to join a long line of carriages for the theater, each disembarking guests who practically bounded up the steps of the Gaîté. The tenor had boasted of having these tickets, for the evening had sold out, as had the entire run. This meant little to me. I arrived largely ignorant as to Cora’s legend, the scarcity of tickets, or sold-out runs. Nothing in the cirque had prepared me. This was my introduction.
As I sat in the box with my new friend, I could not help but be fascinated by the fevered anticipation in the crowd. To the audience that night, the opera had a single star, despite her slight role. She did not appear until the second act. The opera began, but the murmurs continued—they would remain until Cora appeared.
I had exited the carriage self-consciously, dressed dutifully in what Odile and I could muster for my opera finery, which, I knew from the scene around me, was not quite fine enough, but there had been no time to order better—it was a navy velvet, and the opera bodice had a white lace collar at the neck and machine-embroidered white roses spreading across the front that I hoped made it look better than it was. It was the finest dress I had ever owned, and yet I was not quite proud of it.
I had no jewelry then except a new choker I liked, a pale gray-green enamel perfume locket worn on a black ribbon. I liked it as it looked like something from the sea, almost a natural pearl, and I knew these ribbon chokers were very chic then—the Empress Eugénie wore them, sometimes as many as ten or more, each with a different locket, though she would never have worn them to the opera.
The locket carried a few drops of Eau de Lubin, a gift from this man—he liked it very much and I knew to reapply it at least once before the evening ended. The scent was rose, musk, and oranges; and the richness of it at my throat was, to me, a little like wearing a gem, if secretly—like a ring turned toward your palm. In the short time I’d worn it, I’d learned to recognize it on others and to notice when it acted as a signal as you passed by someone on the stairs of the opera house or as you handed your cloak to the cloakroom; if you wore it, the person encountering you simply understood you to belong.
It was the atmosphere of wealth and security I did not know I had longed for, not just to surround me, but to belong to me; and I enjoyed it, too.
Orphée aux Enfers, the opera we saw that evening, is an opéra-bouffe-féerie, a comic farce on the myth of Orpheus—the bereft singer of myth enters the underworld to retrieve his wife only out of a sense of obligation. He finds she has fallen in love with the King of Death. She does not want to return. Gradually, despite the lack of interest in the other performers, the jokes won over the audience, and I nearly forgot, as the first act closed, why we were there.
The roar began from below and above before I could see her. Her hair was a mass of blond curls; her legs at first looked bare in their stockings, shapely, almost stark in their erotic intensity. She carried a bow and wore the most incredible high-heeled boots; as she walked, you could see the soles were made from diamonds. Pearls and diamonds covered her neck, in a sort of ridiculous collar, and the rest of her was a figure made of diamonds also. She glowed and flashed in the gaslight. As she turned so the audience could see all of her and walked toward the back of the stage, little wings, I noticed as she turned, dangled from her back comically. A bow rested against her thigh.
She glanced up into the boxes, as if to take attendance; and noticing my companion, she offered him a sly wink and a wave that made the audience laugh. He smiled back at her and blew her a kiss. And then she sang her song, looking directly at him for the first bars and notching her bow before turning to regard the crowd.
The crowd was silent as she sang, as if speaking might obstruct the view; and her plaintive, off-key voice struggled through its few bars.
She was dreadful, but not one of them laughed. She was the most powerful woman in Paris in that instant.
Paris, which, when I looked close, was a vast opéra-bouffe-féerie—and you did not know your role, I think, until it was too late, and the crowd was laughing at the joke you had uttered in all innocence. Which is to say there was another part of the evening I remembered for a very long time, and it began like this.
We will go to pay a visit to her after, the tenor said, as we stood. She is receiving friends.
§
She threw open her own door and kissed me twice as I entered, smirking as if I had told her a joke. Even without her diamond suit, she dazzled. She wore an evening gown of a loose pink silk toile and her golden stage curls were gone—a shocking red mass of hair had replaced them. Up close, I could see she had the pale eyebrows of a blond, painted over to match her hair.
Eau de Lubin, I bathe in it! she shouted past my shoulder, as she drew her head back and looked me over. She had a loud Cockney accent and spoke English and French mixed together. Un plaisir! She took my hand and began to pull me up her grand staircase, littered as it was with celebrants. Our mutual friend dragged along behind. Chérie, she said to me then, dropping her voice, tell me, how much do you charge? You can tell me, whisper it here, and she pointed to her delicate ear.
Our audience on the stairs smiled drunkenly from below. You can’t afford her! she shouted down at one as he reached up. You still owe me! Look down! Look away from us. He looked down.
Again she asked, How much?
I lied to her, and said, Two thousand francs.
Chérie, it’s good that you are that price. Because then he can afford us both, and we can be friends! With that, she pulled me into her dining room.
I turned to see my friend behind me following along, a somewhat hurt expression on his face. Cora turned back with a grin. You see? You bring her here to flaunt her to me and now she’s more expensive, just like that. I do believe it’s all your fault. Cora pulled me back to her side. You’re so pretty, not in the ordinary way at all. You must allow nothing, and I mean nothing, to happen with our friend here until he can bring you to the opera with better than an enamel locket. He can afford it. Come with me. You! There! Give this petit ange something; are we still in champagne?
She did this constantly, turning to people you weren’t sure were there or in her sight, and she would yell to them directly as if she’d been speaking to them all along.
A cool glass of champagne came into my hand.
This way! she shouted, I understood, at me.
So, we will be like s
isters, or first wife and second wife, or who knows? Who knows how many he has? she said airily, as she continued our procession. Three, five, a thousand.
Her dressing room was sumptuous with gowns thrown this way and that, as if it had been the scene of a fight. I dressed quickly, I always do, she said. She reached down to the floor. Here! This is what I wanted. Something for you, she shouted as she raised a small bag from Boucheron into the air. The gentleman who gave me this was unworthy, she said. I threw it at him and it landed here, but my maid still has not picked up. I must beat her. But you are a jeune fille still, you can wear this, it will look beautiful and it will be a sign of our good friendship, yes?
I pulled the velvet back until the box came into view and opened it.
Inside was a small emerald pendant, perfectly beautiful, but something of a pebble, it was easy to see, a poor companion to the dazzling collar, bracelets, and earrings she wore. I held my hand to my mouth and laughed. You didn’t give this to someone who had diamonds on the soles of her boots. You gave it to a woman who said her prayers before bed.
This was meant for his wife, I said finally.
Good eye, she said. Never trust a man who gives you something he was going to give his wife, she said. And with that, she pulled the necklace from the box and draped it around my neck and turned us to look into her mirrors.
The sight of her against my neck, like some terrifying devil come to tempt me, the beautiful small matrimonial emerald glinting in the candlelight. I knew it was more than I’d ever had. She smiled. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? she said. I nodded.
I will warn you of two things, she said then. He will try to make you a singer. Do you have a good voice?
I do, I said.
Good, she said. I didn’t, and I never will. See where I am now! If I had a voice, I could conquer. Now. Do you love him?
The Queen of the Night Page 11
