‘The Colt fires a faster bullet,’ said Garstrang coldly. ‘But I was firing from twice the distance — from the bushes.’ La Grange turned and indicated his hiding place at the far side of the bridge.
‘I am utterly confused,’ said Oscar, arriving on the scene from the belvedere end of the bridge, bringing my coat and jacket with him.
‘But mightily relieved, I imagine,’ said La Grange, laughing.
‘What happened just now?’ asked Oscar. ‘Will someone tell me?’ He looked at La Grange: ‘Why are you here at this godforsaken hour?’
‘Last night,’ explained the old actor, ‘when my Saturday night duties with Marais were done, I played a game of cards, with Garstrang, and Monsieur Branco and Dr Ferrand, as is our custom. Garstrang lost.’ La Grange smiled. ‘Garstrang lost and he got drunk.’ La Grange looked at Garstrang: the American betrayed no feeling. ‘Garstrang had already told me about this morning’s proposed escapade,’ La Grange continued. ‘He had promised to “wing” my dresser, nothing more:
“teach the pup a lesson”, that’s what he said. But when Gabrielle returned from her supper with you, Oscar, and came to my room to bid me goodnight, she told me that she had just seen Garstrang in the hallway and that the poor man could barely stand.’ He glanced again at the silent Garstrang. ‘I decided therefore that, under the circumstances, all things considered, I could not trust his marksmanship.’ He looked down at the gun that he was holding and turned it over in his hands. ‘So, today, I came to do what I have done: deflect the tip of the barrel of Garstrang’s pistol with a well-aimed bullet from the terrible Mr Jarrett’s Colt revolver.’
La Grange turned to Dr Ferrand who was standing beside Garstrang nursing the damaged duelling pistol. ‘My apologies, Pierre. I know it is a family heirloom. I will make it up to you. I always do.’
‘What happened to my shot?’ I asked, handing my pistol back to Dr Ferrand.
La Grange narrowed his eyes and peered along the bridge towards the temple belvedere. He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Poor Sibyl. I imagine the bullet went straight through her heart.’
I laughed. ‘Am I so poor a shot?’
Garstrang said quietly, ‘Your aim was at least a foot too high.’ Some colour was returning to his cheeks. He ran his thin fingers through his yellow hair and smiled at me. His smile was not unfriendly. ‘Have you ever fired a gun before?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Robert!’ cried Oscar, clapping his hands in amusement. ‘What we do for love!’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Edmond La Grange, turning to Garstrang and to me, ‘shake hands. I command you. Do it now. Go on.’ His eyes shone with authority, humour and benevolence. ‘For my secretary and my dresser to fall out over my mistress is an absurdity. Surely we can all enjoy her? Isn’t that what mistresses are for?’
‘A great man speaks!’ declared Oscar. ‘Do as you’re told, Robert.’
I shook Eddie Garstrang by the hand. I did so without hesitation. I felt oddly exhilarated — and curiously relieved.
‘A wise man speaks,’ added Dr Ferrand.
‘An old man says it’s time for breakfast!’ La Grange slipped the Colt revolver into his coat pocket and spread his arms towards us, the palms of his hands upturned, as if about to take a curtain-call. ‘Our carriage awaits.’
Edmond La Grange had secured a four-wheeled coach and pair with a driver who had no scruples in the matter of aiding and abetting duellists. The man was waiting by his carriage with a supply of bandages and a flask of brandy. When our party appeared, full of vigour and bonhomie, he looked positively crestfallen. ‘Three shots fired and no blood drawn?’ he scoffed. ‘Have I risked arrest for this?’ I displayed my scorched hand proudly: he gazed upon it with ill-concealed contempt.
We clambered aboard the vehicle and set off for town. I sat facing Eddie Garstrang: we did not speak, but we looked upon one another without rancour, no longer as enemies, nor yet as friends; simply, I suppose, as rivals reconciled.
‘It is a curious thing,’ said Edmond La Grange, as if reading my thoughts, ‘but a duel does clear the air.’
‘It was a duel upstaged,’ said Eddie Garstrang.
‘It was a theatrical duel,’ said Oscar, ‘a duel in the Euripidean tradition — blessed with a deus ex machina.’
‘My friend,’ said La Grange, leaning towards Oscar and touching him lightly on the knee, ‘do you know the inkwell story? It’s my favourite story of upstaging.’ It was scarcely seven o’clock on a bitterly cold February morning; Edmond La Grange was sixty years of age and cannot have had more than four hours’ sleep; yet he told his story with all the verve of a great vaudevillian at the height of his powers. ‘This is the cautionary tale of a young actor in weekly repertory who hated his leading man. The young actor was consumed with jealousy and in his journal he confided the details of his obsession. “Tonight,” he wrote, “he ruined my finest scene.” “Tonight, he trod on all my laughs.” “Tonight, he killed my exit round.” Then came: “Monday, 6.15 p.m. Dear Diary, Tonight I believe I am going to get the better of him. We open a new play and I have a speech ten minutes long. Downstage. In the light. Facing out front. And he is upstage, seated at a desk, with his back to the audience, writing a letter. I think I must win …” Later, a drunken hand added: ,,11.30 p.m. He drank the ink!”‘
Encouraged by Oscar, as our carriage rumbled through the empty Sunday morning streets, La Grange told story after story. He told them as if he had never told them before and delivered them, in a jolting coach to an audience of five (he made sure that the coachman was listening), with all the passion and panache that he brought to the playing of Molière to a full house at his own theatre. As I listened to his tales — all theatrical stories: he knew no other kind — I thought that Edmond La Grange was the funniest and most brilliant man alive.
Suddenly, the coach-and-four drew to a halt. The driver called down to La Grange: ‘Is this it?’
La Grange glanced out of the carriage window. ‘It is. È finita La commedia. Breakfast is served.’
We climbed out of the coach. We were not, as I had expected, back at the Théâtre La Grange. We were nearby, certainly: I had noticed us come into the place de la République while La Grange was telling his last story. I had assumed we were making for the boulevard du Temple, but this was a different street altogether.
‘Where are we?’ asked Oscar, looking up and down the cobbled roadway.
‘Rue de la Pierre Levée,’ said La Grange. ‘It’s a street of warehouses and small factories. Printing works and ceramics manufacturers in the main. The theatre is eight streets away, due west. Five minutes on foot, no more.’ He took us across the road towards a narrow wooden door that was let into a high, windowless brick-built wall. From his coat pocket, with a flourish, he produced a small wrought-iron key and held it up before us like a magician displaying an object that he is about to make disappear. He unlocked the door. ‘Follow me,’ he said, stepping through it.
We did as we were told and found ourselves inside what appeared to be the warehouse to a ceramics factory. Through the gloom we discerned straw-filled wooden crates and pallets piled high with tiles ranged in rows around the room. We followed La Grange across the darkened space and through a second door into a workshop beyond. Here the daylight, streaming down a central stairwell, almost dazzled us. ‘Up you go,’ said La Grange, indicating the steep shaft of wooden steps. One by one, we made our way up the stairs, climbing through a haze of white dust.
We reached the summit. The stairwell opened onto a huge loft, a space as wide and deep as the Room of the Dead, but filled with cold sunlight: dormer windows of assorted sizes had been cut into the roof of the building.
‘Welcome to El Paradiso,’ said Edmond La Grange.
The room had the dimensions of the Room of the Dead, but the feel of a thriving bordello. The floor was covered with Persian rugs; the walls were hung with silks; there were cushions and divans all about and, at the far end of the room, directly opposite
the stairwell, beneath a wide window that overlooked the rooftops of north Paris, was a huge, unmade bed.
In the centre of the room, on a long, low, narrow table, like a diminutive altar, breakfast was laid out. There was bread and cheese, cold cuts of meat, fruit, red wine, brandy and champagne. It was reminiscent of supper at Le Chat Noir, except that here there was absinthe on offer, too; and, separately, carefully arranged on a wooden tray placed at one end of the table, the ingredients for laudanum: tincture of opium and liquid ether.
‘A table, messieurs,’ said La Grange, pointing us towards the cushions and footstools arranged about the table. ‘I’ll prepare the coffee — unless the combatants require something stronger.’ He looked towards the doctor. ‘Pierre, make sure our guests have everything they might require.’
‘What is this place?’ asked Oscar, his voice full of wonder. ‘Where are we?’
‘This is my love-nest,’ said La Grange. ‘The doctor knows it quite well. He has handled one or two emergencies here down the years. I share it with friends — with good friends, with those I truly trust.’
Oscar looked about the room admiringly. I noticed his eye fall and settle on a small marble bust that stood alone on an elegant Chinese lacquered sideboard. La Grange was near the sideboard, crouching down by an oil-fired stove, attempting to light it. ‘I’m an Epicurean, Oscar, as you know,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I follow my hero’s philosophy.’
‘You pursue pleasure; you avoid pain.’
‘I cultivate a small circle of close friends.’
‘You have your public, yet—’
‘I keep myself to myself.’ La Grange got to his feet. ‘Unlike other actors I could mention, I steer clear of politics: public life only leads to trouble. I do as Epicurus advised.’ He turned to the sideboard and picked up the small marble bust: it was the head of the Greek philosopher. He handed it to Oscar. ‘He looks like Dr Ferrand, does he not?’
‘He is handsome, certainly,’ said Oscar, inspecting the marble.
‘He is ancient and bearded,’ grumbled the doctor.
‘Read the inscription,’ said La Grange.
Oscar studied the words inscribed at the base of the head. “Live secretly”.’
‘Isn’t “Seek seclusion” a better translation?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Oscar pleasantly, returning the bust to its place on the sideboard. ‘It’s a year or two since I last won a prize for Greek translation.’
La Grange laughed. ‘The point is: I think my hero would have approved of my hide-away. I hope you approve of my hide-away, Oscar. It’s yours for the borrowing, my friend, as and when it suits you. You may bring whom you like here. No questions will be asked — at least not by me. There is only one key. I keep it in my possession at all times. So if I lend the key to you, you can be sure that no one else has it. You can come here knowing that you will be quite undisturbed.’
Oscar bowed towards La Grange, gratefully. The old actor turned to Eddie Garstrang and to me. ‘I’m glad, gentlemen, that we’re agreed that I cannot have my secretary and my dresser fighting over my mistress. It is undignified and unnecessary. If you both want her, you must both have her — if she’s willing. Bring her here by all means. She knows her way around. Bring her here —separately or together. As you please.’
Over breakfast, La Grange made us take part in a playful ritual, passing the wrought-iron key around the group, making each of us kiss it in turn and swear an oath to keep the existence of the love-nest a secret — especially from Liselotte La Grange!
‘Mother may know best,’ said Dr Ferrand, ‘but there is no need for her to know everything!’
‘There are those who despise my mother,’ said La Grange. ‘Members of the company play a game at her expense, I know. They raise outlandish topics in her presence to see how quickly she manages to turn the subject back to herself and the glorious heritage of the Compagnie La Grange! I don’t despise my mother. I love her. I am whatever I am because of her.’ He paused and sighed. No one spoke. He looked up and grinned at us — a little awkwardly, I thought. The way he bared his teeth turned the grin into a grimace. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am grateful for my mother’s devotion, but it is somewhat exhausting at times.’
‘A mother’s love is very touching,’ said Oscar, ‘but it is often selfish.’ Oscar’s eyes darted about the breakfast table as if he were taking the temperature of a public meeting. He returned La Grange’s smile. ‘Your secret is safe with us, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ replied La Grange. ‘After breakfast, you may sign the book.’
When we had eaten, before walking back together from the rue de la Pierre Levée to the boulevard du Temple, our host showed us the apartment’s facilities — the tiny kitchen, the well-stocked linen cupboard, the bathroom with its skylight to the stars — and then, from a drawer in the Chinese laquered sideboard, produced a leather-bound visitors’ book and, in turn, invited Oscar, Eddie Garstrang and me to add our names.
‘You are now official members of my little club,’ said La Grange, blowing dry the ink on our signatures before closing the book and replacing it carefully in its drawer.
‘Is there a subscription to be paid?’ asked Oscar, smiling.
‘All I ask is the occasional account of your more amusing adventures here. There are no rules, no obligations.’
‘And only one key?’ said Oscar.
‘Yes, and I change both the key and the locks quite regularly. Even the maid who comes once a week — and is wonderfully thorough and completely discreet — has to claim the key from me personally.’
‘Did I see Sarah Bernhardt’s name in the book?’ asked Oscar.
‘You did,’ said La Grange. ‘You are very observant, Oscar. Madame Bernhardt is our only lady member. I gave her membership by way of a wedding present. I thought that she might find it useful.’
Dr Ferrand laughed. ‘I’m sure she does.’
La Grange stretched out a hand and placed it on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Pierre has been a member of the club for many years. In fact, I believe he’s now our longest-standing member.’
‘Is that since the departure of Carlos Branco?’ Oscar enquired.
‘It is,’ said La Grange, looking at Oscar and raising an eyebrow. ‘Did Branco tell you about the club then?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Oscar quickly, ‘not at all. There’s a line through his name in the book. I noticed it. That’s all.’
‘Ah,’ said La Grange, ‘you are very observant, Oscar. ‘He began to usher us towards the stairwell. ‘Club membership is entirely at my discretion — at my whim, even. My old friend Carlos Branco is no longer a member of the club. His performance as Polonius is really not up to scratch.’
16
The Dress Rehearsal
The next day was Monday — 26 February, the feast day, as I learnt from Oscar, of St Porphyry. My friend arrived early at the Théâtre La Grange wearing a purple tweed suit and clutching a copy of the life of the saint. He found me, alone, in La Grange’s dressing room, seated on the chaise longue, polishing the great man’s shoes. ‘You don’t read Greek, do you, Robert?’ he said by way of greeting, brandishing the book in the air. ‘I shall have to translate this for you. It’s the most wonderfully lurid account of paganism in antique times. Paris in the late nineteenth century has nothing on Gaza in the early fifth!’
‘You are on song this morning,’ I observed, looking up from my labours.
‘I need to be!’ he declared, dropping the book onto La Grange’s dressing table and feeling in his pockets for his cigarette case. ‘I have a “business appointment” with Monsieur Marais at ten o’clock. When a man offers you a meeting to discuss business you know that whatever the outcome it will not be to your advantage.’ He placed a cigarette between his lips and struck a match, closing his eyes and breathing in the sulphurous fumes as he did so. ‘I don’t want money,’ he went on. ‘It is only people who pay their bills who want money and I
never pay mine.’
‘Very droll, Oscar,’ I said. ‘You are on song.’
‘Thank you, Robert.’ He offered me a modest bow and, turning to the cheval mirror that stood by the dressing table, studied his own reflection. ‘I don’t care about money, but Monsieur Marais cares about it very much. I believe he has been swindling La Grange for years.’
I looked at him, surprised. ‘Why? How? Marais seems devoted to La Grange.’
‘Why? Because he is deaf and resents the world. I don’t blame him. How? By the old expedient beloved of box office managers everywhere. Have you noticed that there are thirty-four rows of seats in the stalls in this theatre?’
‘Are there?’
‘There are. But on the theatre plan that Marais goes through every Saturday night with Monsieur La Grange there are only thirty-three. Monsieur Marais reserves the revenue from the invisible row all to himself.’
‘How extraordinary.’
‘How simple. Marais’s a swindler. At our last “business appointment” I told him so. I told him that he might swindle his employer and get away with it, but that he wasn’t going to swindle me.’
I laughed. ‘How was he trying to swindle you, Oscar?’
‘He offered me the equivalent of one hundred pounds for my work on the translation of Hamlet. I told him that La Grange had already promised me twice that.’
‘And had he?’
‘No, but he might have done. Marais will pay me one fee and tell La Grange that he’s paid me quite another —and pocket the difference.’
‘That’s scandalous, Oscar.’
‘That’s business, Robert. But I intend to stand my ground. A translator is worthy of his hire. I want twice what he offered me at our first meeting, not because I care about the money, but because I care about the principle.’ Oscar tugged at his waistcoat. He regarded the cut of his new suit with apparent satisfaction. He took out his pocket watch. ‘Why are you here so early, Robert?’ he asked. ‘The dress rehearsal doesn’t begin till twelve.’ Smirking, he turned back from the looking-glass and gazed down at me. ‘Are you hoping to catch Mademoiselle de la Tourbillon before Eddie Garstrang does and commit her to a tryst in the “club room” on the rue de la Pierre Levée?’
Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile Page 16
