Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  He sat up suddenly, swung his legs off the bed and stood up. ‘I have to go out for a while. There’s some business I need to see to,’ he said.

  ‘You will come back soon? I want to celebrate tonight.’

  He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, my love. That will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve accepted an invitation to dine at Les Trois Frères.’

  ‘Take me with you.’

  ‘Impossible,’ he bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘It’s no place for a woman, my love. All the men go to gamble and the company can be rough.’

  She felt a twinge of jealousy. ‘Why do you want to go without me?’

  He pressed her hand to his lips. ‘I don’t. I promise I won’t accept any invitations after this one, but I’ve told some people I’ll join them tonight. I can’t go back on my word.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘No one of importance: business associates.’

  ‘You’re sure there are no women?’

  He laughed and kissed her cheek. ‘If there were, I would insist you came too.’ He took her face between his hands. ‘I swear on my honour, Lola, you are the only woman I desire.’

  She kissed him ‘Then you may go.’

  *

  The dinner at Les Trois Frères was a rowdy affair. After the meal ended, everyone adjourned to the gaming room to play cards. Dujarier found himself sitting opposite a man whose company he always tried to avoid.

  Jean-Baptiste Rosemond de Beaupin de Beauvallon was a tall, well-built man whose chestnut hair and whiskers framed a patrician face habitually set in a supercilious expression. He wrote theatre criticism for a rival paper and was the brother-in-law of its editor.

  St Aignan, who had agreed to act as banker, dealt the cards. Dujarier’s spirits rose when he saw his hand although he was careful to keep his expression neutral. He cast a covert glance at Beauvallon. He would enjoy taking the rat’s money.

  An hour later though, Dujarier was losing; he reached out for the brandy bottle and poured himself another glass. His luck must turn soon. He knocked back the brandy in one gulp.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said loudly, ‘I propose we raise the stakes.’

  St Aignan frowned. ‘The bank won’t stand it.’

  Beauvallon exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and his lip curled. ‘If the stakes are raised, I’ll take the bank. What do you say, Dujarier? Shall we be partners?’

  A low murmur went around the room. Most of the gamblers knew of the animosity between the two men.

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ Dujarier replied. ‘St Aignan, do you wish to remain in?’

  St Aignan nodded.

  Beauvallon raised his glass. ‘To our success.’

  Just after three o’clock, the party began to break up. The private room reeked of cigars and alcohol. Dujarier’s head throbbed. He rubbed his eyes and waited while St Aignan made the final computations. He felt too tired and irritable to be bothered to take part in the desultory conversation around him. The evening had been a bore. Even though he thought he had recovered his losses, he doubted his winnings would amount to much. He would far rather have spent the evening with Lola. Perhaps she would be waiting for him when he returned.

  St Aignan frowned and cleared his throat. ‘I’m ashamed to say I made a mistake earlier this evening. The bank’s losses are heavier than I thought, but as the fault is mine, I will find the money.’

  ‘We wouldn’t hear of it, would we, Dujarier?’ Beauvallon interjected.

  If it had been anyone else, Dujarier would have agreed immediately but Beauvallon’s assumption annoyed him. ‘If St Aignan says the fault is his I can’t see why he shouldn’t pay,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Times must be hard at La Presse.’

  The table rocked as Dujarier started from his seat, the blood rushing to his face. The men on either side of him tried to pull him down.

  Beauvallon smirked. ‘While we are on the subject of debts, perhaps you would like to settle the trifling one that has been outstanding for six weeks? Eighty-four louis, if I remember rightly.’

  The rest of the table watched the exchange with apprehension. A man like Dujarier didn’t get to where he was in life without being stubborn, and Beauvallon’s ruthless, belligerent nature was notorious.

  Dujarier’s eyes narrowed as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a roll of notes. One by one, he threw them across the table to Beauvallon. ‘I hope that will satisfy you,’ he spat.

  ‘Thank you. Shall we shake hands on it?’

  Dujarier glowered at Beauvallon’s outstretched hand. There was a long pause then he shook his head. ‘I think not.’

  A gleam of triumph came into Beauvallon’s eyes. Dujarier snorted then turned on his heel and walked to the door.

  He slept badly that night and in the morning, he cursed himself as he went over the events of the previous evening. Beauvallon was not a man to forget an insult and they had been at loggerheads for so long that he would probably welcome the opportunity for a challenge.

  Dujarier bowed his head and pressed his knuckles into his bloodshot eyes, the blackness fizzed with pinpricks of crimson light. He had never fought a duel before but he knew if it was not with Beauvallon, one day there would be someone else. The world of Parisian newspapers was full of jealousies and feuds. Sooner or later, he would have to be bloodied. If Beauvallon chose to pursue the argument, it might as well be now.

  *

  The Comte de Flers and the Vicomte d’Ecquevillez, came to see him at La Presse early that afternoon.

  ‘We are here on behalf of our friend, Beauvallon,’ d’Ecquevillez said. ‘I imagine you know why.’

  Dujarier waited.

  ‘He’s prepared to overlook your insulting behaviour last night in exchange for an apology,’ de Flers chimed in.

  Dujarier put his feet on the desk. His pride was at stake. ‘You must tell Monsieur Beauvallon the answer is no.’

  Silence fell. ‘Won’t you reconsider?’ de Flers asked after a moment.

  Dujarier shook his head. ‘Not for the world. I’ll send my seconds to you as soon as possible. Good day, gentlemen.’

  His friends Charles de Boigne and Arthur Bertrand exchanged worried glances when he asked them to act for him.

  ‘Beauvallon is a formidable opponent,’ de Boigne said. ‘Why don’t you let us deal with this? I’m sure we can come to some arrangement with his seconds.’

  ‘Would you have me apologise after all? No, I won’t humiliate myself.’

  Bertrand frowned. ‘He has fought many duels: you none at all. You’re mad to do this.’

  Dujarier scowled. ‘I won’t back down.’

  De Boigne sighed. ‘At least as you have received the challenge, you can choose the weapons. Swords would be best. Beauvallon is a gentleman. When he sees your skill is inferior to his, honour will compel him to do no more than inflict a minor wound and disarm you.’

  ‘I shall choose pistols.’

  De Boigne looked aghast. ‘What? Don’t you know Beauvallon is a crack shot?’

  Dujarier raised an eyebrow. ‘I have fired a pistol before, you know.’

  ‘A few visits to Lepage’s shooting gallery? That hardly qualifies you to take him on.’

  ‘I won’t give him the satisfaction of sparing my life. I mean this to be a serious encounter.’

  De Boigne sucked air through his teeth. He had tried his best but he knew Dujarier’s nature. When he had set his mind on a course, it was no use trying to persuade him to give it up.

  ‘Very well, shall we ask them to agree a time in the afternoon? You know you’re fit for nothing before midday.’

  Dujarier shrugged. ‘Let Beauvallon choose.’

  *

  Lola returned to her own lodgings on the night of the dinner but she slept fitfully. When morning came, her head ached from lack of sleep and a feeling of unease assailed her. She rose and dressed, then after breakfast, set off for her morning rehearsal at the Porte St Martin. There, she could not help noticin
g how groups of people fell silent when she passed. The rehearsal proceeded as usual but the feeling of unease grew.

  That evening, Dujarier called to take her to dinner as he had promised, but during the meal, he spoke very little and hardly seemed to notice what he ate. With alarm, Lola saw other diners cast curious glances in their direction. It was unusual too that no one came to their table to pay their respects.

  ‘I want to know what happened last night,’ she said abruptly when she could endure it no longer.

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing of importance.’

  ‘Then why are people looking at us as if we have the plague? They were talking about me at the theatre too, I’m sure of it.’

  Dujarier stabbed his steak and blood oozed out. ‘People talk too much. There was some foolish difficulty over the bank last night, but it was soon forgotten.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Alexandre.’

  She scrutinised his face. ‘There is something more, I can tell, and anything that happens to you is important to me.’

  He put down his knife and fork. Suddenly, his expression was so sad that she was really afraid.

  ‘An argument over the cards? That’s it, isn’t it?’

  He nodded.

  She crossed herself. ‘Oh God, say it isn’t true.’

  ‘I wish I could, but you have no need to worry.’

  Her voice rose. ‘No need?’

  He tried to give her a confident smile. ‘These things happen. It will be nothing, you’ll see. A mere formality.’

  ‘A duel? That’s what you mean. A duel is not nothing: your life is not nothing.’

  He put his finger to his lips. ‘Hush, do you want the whole room to hear?’

  She looked around defiantly and several of the other diners lowered their eyes.

  ‘It seems I am the last to know,’ she said. Her voice was quiet now. ‘Who has challenged you? What weapons? Has the time been set? You must tell me everything.’

  ‘No, my love, I cannot.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said softly.

  Unwillingly, she nodded. In her heart she knew she must not meddle in an affair of honour. If he withdrew from the challenge now, he would be branded a coward. He would never endure such shame.

  ‘May I stay with you tonight?’

  He shook his head. ‘I must spend the night alone. We can be together again when it’s over.’

  *

  Later he sat in his study, staring at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him. He had sent the servants to bed hours before and the fire was almost out. Clumsy with cold, he got to his feet and went to pick up the poker. The embers stirred into life and then died again.

  He huddled into the old cloak he had thrown around his shoulders and returned to his desk. The blank sheet of paper stared up at him. He took a swig from the glass of brandy at his elbow and adjusted the wick of the oil lamp to cast a brighter glow. His inkwell was almost empty and a pile of letters addressed to his family and friends lay sealed and ready to send, but he had reached the hardest task he had to perform. He had to compose the words that would tell his Lola how much he loved her.

  It snowed in the early hours of the morning and when, after too few hours sleep, he woke at dawn, a white shroud covered the deserted streets. His hands shook as he dressed: in black as the code duello required, putting his warmest flannel shirt under his coat. He did not want to be seen shivering in the cold. The bottle of brandy stood on the night table. He poured himself another glass and swallowed it in one gulp before stuffing the bottle into the pocket of his coat.

  Downstairs, his carriage waited and his principal second, de Boigne, stood by the door. ‘I’ll ride with you,’ he said gravely. ‘Bertrand has gone to fetch a doctor. He will meet us at the Bois.’ He pointed to the bottle sticking out of the top of his friend’s pocket. ‘Dutch courage, eh? No harm in it but I hope you’ve just had one.’

  The carriage jolted through the quiet streets. It was too early for anyone but delivery drays and sweepers to be out.

  ‘Do you want me to go over the arrangements with you now?’ de Boigne asked.

  Dujarier listened but he found it hard to take in his friend’s careful explanation of how the duel was to be conducted.

  There was no sign of the challenger, Beauvallon, or his seconds when they arrived at the clearing in the woods near the Madrid Restaurant, the traditional place for such meetings. Dujarier got down from the carriage and a twig snapped under his foot. He flinched and de Boigne put a reassuring hand on his arm.

  It was bitterly cold. Bertrand arrived with the doctor and they all paced up and down in the snow stamping their feet and blowing on their reddened hands to keep warm. De Boigne looked at his watch for the hundredth time. ‘They’re late.’ There was a tinge of hope in his voice.

  ‘I’ll go and look around,’ Bertrand said. ‘There shouldn’t have been any confusion about the site but I suppose we must make sure of it.’ He turned to Dujarier. ‘We needn’t wait much longer before you can depart with your honour intact.’

  When Bertrand returned with no news of Beauvallon and his friends, de Boigne’s numb lips cracked in a wide grin. He clapped Dujarier on the back. ‘A lucky escape, you can stand us all a good breakfast.’

  ‘Not yet. We must wait a little longer.’

  Bertrand exploded. ‘Do you want to be killed? The appointed time has passed. There’s no shame in leaving.’

  ‘If I leave now, I shall only have to face him another day. Better to get it over with.’

  De Boigne opened his mouth to speak but he was cut short by the sound of hooves on the frost-hardened ground. The drumming grew louder and a carriage bowled into view and slowed at the junction of paths. Blood roared in Dujarier’s ears and his vision clouded. He forced himself not to move as, slowly, the coachman negotiated the corner and drove towards them. A moment later, he saw Beauvallon step from the carriage.

  ‘A thousand apologies, gentlemen.’

  His nerves taut, Dujarier hardly heard the excuses. He felt the pressure of de Boigne’s hand on his arm. ‘Remember, you stand thirty paces apart,’ his friend muttered. ‘When I clap three times, you advance no more than five paces and fire. If he shoots first, you must stand still and return fire immediately.’

  The pistol felt like a shard of ice when de Boigne put it in his hand. He gripped it and heard the click of the trigger. De Boigne leapt backwards.

  ‘For God’s sake, man! If the powder had ignited, you would have killed me.’ Ashen faced, he snatched back the pistol and cocked it once more. ‘Take it: I’m going to step away now. Fire as soon as you hear my signal. That way he won’t have the advantage of narrowing the gap.’

  Only the creak of snow under their boots disturbed the silence as the two men paced out the distance and turned to face each other. When the signal came and Dujarier fired, the explosion almost deafened him. He failed to control the pistol and it jerked up and sideways. With a high-pitched whine, the bullet passed to the right of Beauvallon, a few feet above his head. Beauvallon levelled his own weapon and took aim. With surreal clarity, Dujarier saw the black circle of the muzzle against the snow: a well of darkness ready to suck him in.

  ‘Stand sideways!’ Boigne hissed. ‘Shield your head with your pistol!’

  Dujarier didn’t seem to hear him. De Boigne felt a pulse hammer in his ears. He glared at Beauvallon across the bleak clearing.

  ‘Get it over with, damn you!’ he shouted. ‘Fire!’

  *

  Lola flung on her cloak and raced to Dujarier’s house. She could not bear to wait any longer.

  ‘Where is your master?’ she shouted at the servant who answered her frantic knocking. He looked at her in astonishment. Her hair straggled from its pins and she was panting.

  ‘I don’t know, madame. He left very early and didn’t say when he would be back. Will you wait or shall I give him a message?’ His voice tailed away for she was already running down the
street.

  In the Chaussée d’Antin, she pounded on Dumas’ door.

  ‘Monsieur is breakfasting,’ the servant who opened it said. ‘If you would like to wait, I’ll announce you.’ He recoiled as she barged past him.

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried, bursting in on Dumas. He put down his coffee cup and stood up, his expression full of apprehension.

  ‘The Bois, but I’m sure there is no cause for alarm. He will probably return with a flesh wound at worst. A few days should suffice to mend him.’

  Lola’s eyes glinted. ‘Who is he fighting? Tell me.’

  Dumas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘I’ll find out soon enough. Tell me now.’

  ‘Jean-Baptiste Beauvallon,’ Dumas said quietly.

  ‘The weapon?’

  ‘Pistols.’

  She gasped. ‘Then he is a dead man. You must help me find him. If I have to, I shall take his place.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Beauvallon would never fight a woman.’

  ‘I can shoot as well as any man.’

  ‘And shame Alexandre?’ He took her hands. ‘This is his quarrel.’

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She broke away and hammered her fists against his chest. ‘No, no, no: I will never bear it if he dies.’

  Dumas grabbed her hands again and held her away from him. He felt her body shake.

  ‘Alexandre won’t die,’ he said gently. ‘All Beauvallon wants is a little of his blood, then honour will be satisfied. You can nurse him to your heart’s content when he comes back. I know it is hard, but you must go home and wait. Do you want me to come with you?’

  Lola shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I’ll go alone.’

  At Dujarier’s house, she sat in the drawing room watching the hands of the brass clock on the mantelpiece creep forward. Every carriage that rattled by, every shout in the street sent her racing to the window. At last, a carriage stopped in front of the house. She saw Bertrand climb out followed by de Boigne. Unsmiling, they glanced up at the window where she stood. Her heart jolted.