Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  On the stairs, hampered by her full skirts, she almost fell but she kicked free and rushed on. At the bottom, she stopped short as the door opened. De Boigne stood there with his hand raised in warning. He recoiled at the wildness of her expression. ‘Don’t, Lola, don’t come out,’ he faltered trying to take her arm.

  She shook him off. He had not expected her to be so strong.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ she screamed.

  He let her go and turned to the wall, his head in his hands. Then he heard a long, long cry he would never forget and knew she had found Dujarier’s body.

  *

  For days she would not leave her bed, not touching the food her maid brought her and refusing to see any of the friends who called. On the day of his funeral however, she rose at dawn. She went to the mirror and stared at her puffy, red-rimmed eyes and dull, tangled hair, then she rang for her maid. I must look my best today, she thought. He would have wanted it.

  In spite of the steaming water with which the maid filled her bath, she shivered. Afterwards, she sat in silence as her hair was brushed. When it had been twisted into a knot at the base of her neck and her swollen eyes were soothed with rosewater, she stood up. Her maid laced up her corset, helped her into a black dress and carefully placed a veil of black lace over her head.

  On her way out of the room, she noticed a pair of leather gloves on a table. They were his. He must have left them there. She picked them up and held them to her cheek. The clean, masculine smell of the leather, mixed with the aroma of his favourite cigars brought tears to her eyes once more, but she choked them back. Today, she must not cry.

  Dumas had sent a carriage to take her to Notre Dame de la Lorette. When she entered, she saw the church was almost full. Unacknowledged by the ushers, she slipped into a seat at the back.

  Dujarier’s family filed in silently and walked to their seats in the front pews. The essence of respectable grief in their mourning weeds, they seemed to belong in another world.

  Lola knelt to pray, but when a sound like a sigh spread through the church, she raised her head to see that the rest of the congregation were on their feet. She stood too and a moment later, the coffin came into view. The bearers, Dumas among them, bore it at shoulder height to the altar then lowered it onto a platform covered with crimson velvet.

  She closed her eyes. The sweet sickliness of incense and lilies nauseated her and her head swam as the priest intoned the supplications for the dead. All she could think of was Dujarier as he had been in life: impatient of formality; serious when seriousness was called for; but swift with a witty remark when it was not. Her mouth quivered in the ghost of a smile. He would probably have made a joke about all this fuss. Then she remembered she would never hear his laugh again and the grief flooded back. Guilt too pierced her heart. She had heard the whispers as she entered the church: her love was a curse.

  *

  In the weeks that followed, the world seemed to have blurred into a morass of grey. Her friends tried to rouse her but she wanted to be alone. Day after day, she remained in her lodgings. Sometimes she read the books Dumas brought her and it was to a sonnet of Shakespeare’s that she returned over and over again.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment, it began. Yes, she thought, what we had was a marriage of true minds, but how can I deny the fact of death? No words can cheat death, however beautiful they may be.

  ‘Do you need money?’ Dumas asked when he visited her one day.

  She shook her head mutely.

  ‘You can’t live on air, Lola. Have you any expectations from Alexandre’s estate?’

  ‘He left me his shares in the Palais Royal Theatre, but his family have made it very clear they will oppose the bequest. I won’t demean myself by fighting them.’

  ‘I understand, but then you must let me help you. Have you decided what you will do?’

  She sighed. ‘I have tried to, believe me, but my head aches all the time. I can’t concentrate on anything.’

  He put his large, swarthy hand over her pale one. ‘It’s almost August. Paris will be empty. You need life and activity, Lola, if you are to recover your spirits. Why not go to the spa at Baden Baden or to the coast where there will be plenty of diversions?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ But she knew it would be a long time before the pain of losing Dujarier went away.

  Chapter 22

  Palais de Justice, Rouen

  Under the gilded ceiling of the medieval hall, the public galleries bulged with onlookers, packed so tightly that when the procession of judges entered, majestic in their red robes, the crowd struggled to stand. Heat squatted on the courtroom like a toad. Even when the president departed from convention and permitted the windows to be opened, hardly a breath of air stirred.

  On the witness benches, Lola sat and waited for Beauvallon’s trial to commence. Across the courtroom, she saw him, stocky and bewhiskered, talking with his counsel, Pierre Antoine Berryer.

  She had heard of Berryer, who had not? He had the reputation of being a veritable bulldog. She prayed his feared tenacity would do Beauvallon no good. Opposite her, Dujarier’s family sat in silence. Their counsel, Duval, on whom the burden of prosecution as well as the family’s claim for damages lay, was deep in conversation with the advocate-general.

  Lola took her eyes off the two groups and bowed her head. The ferocity of the attention directed at her from the public galleries was almost tangible, but she was determined not to look round. She didn’t want to see the scribblers from the Paris press or the curious public. After she had left Paris, she had tried to drown her grief in an endless round of travel and parties. She knew that every indiscretion had been gleefully seized on.

  She scowled. What did people want of her? If she had entered a convent, it would have denied them all the fun of damning her. She doubted they would have liked that.

  The court stilled as the charge was read out and the opening statements commenced. Then it was Beauvallon’s turn. She watched him closely as he answered Duval’s questions. He was fluent and assured. Not a twitch of a muscle or a faltering word betrayed any doubt of his innocence. Her knuckles whitened at the rising murmurs of approval from the onlookers as he reached the end of his testimony.

  ‘Order!’ the president’s voice rang out. ‘The defendant may stand down.’

  The doctor who had performed the autopsy on Dujarier’s body took the stand. Lola was unprepared for the evidence he brought with him. When he produced a bulky parcel and opened it, all the horror flooded back and her head reeled.

  A bundle of blood-stained clothes tumbled out. An usher took them to the bench and the president stroked his beard as he inspected the garments.

  ‘Have you anything else to show us, doctor?’ he asked when he had finished.

  The doctor held up a small, flattened piece of metal. Fresh murmurs rose from the crowd. The bullet: the bullet that killed him.

  The president’s gavel struck the bench, making Lola jump. The doctor continued.

  ‘Observe how the shape has been distorted due to passing through the deceased’s face and brain, then smashing into the back of the skull.’

  Lola gasped. The mess of blood and bone that had once been the face she loved so much rose before her. The room went dark and she swayed.

  Duval approached the bench and murmured something to the president. The old man nodded.

  ‘Dona Montez, I realise that these details may be distressing for you. Do you wish to leave the court?’

  With an effort, she recovered her composure and shook her head.

  ‘Do you have any more questions, Monsieur Berryer?’

  ‘Thank you, my lord, I do not.’

  Monsieur Duval?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then we shall hear the next witness.’

  The court rose at six. By then Lola was exhausted. What a charade, she thought miserably. The truth was plain.

  The following morning at
ten, the session resumed and Dumas was called. Lola smiled for the first time. How magnificently he swept through this gaggle of parasites and fools. He would turn the jury against Beauvallon.

  But Berryer was too skilled to allow Dumas to dominate him. When he stepped down and Lola heard her name called, she still sensed that Beauvallon’s advocate had the courtroom in his hand.

  Lola took Dumas’ place, raised her black veil and removed the glove from her right hand. She rested it lightly on the leather-bound bible placed before her and swore to tell the truth.

  Every question Berryer asked stirred painful memories of her life with Dujarier and their last evening together. He seemed to ask the same thing in many different ways. She knew what he was doing. Under a veneer of politeness, he wanted to discredit her and show that anything she said was worthless. Normally, she would have fought back, but today, all spirit had deserted her.

  At last, she could endure no more.

  ‘Always the same questions,’ she said brokenly. ‘No more I beg you. I will always repeat the same things. I was sick - surrounded by doctors and the law - a woman would have to be nearly heartless - it was I who received his dead body.’

  The president cut in. ‘Dona Montez, the court appreciates that this must have been a great shock for you, but please answer Monsieur Berryer’s question.

  ‘Mon Dieu, monsieur! I opened the door of the carriage. He fell into my arms. He was dead.’

  The room held its breath. Would the president suffer such contempt in silence? The old man studied her with his piercing eyes for a few moments. Then he raised one gnarled hand.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss, madame. In view of it, I shall excuse this performance, but do not try the court’s patience again. You may stand down.’

  *

  ‘If the matter were to be decided in accordance with the law, there is no question Beauvallon would be found guilty of murder,’ Dumas said the following week. The final arguments were due to be heard that evening.

  ‘Then he will be convicted?’ Lola asked.

  Dumas shrugged. ‘Everyone knows the courts never convict in a duel if it can be proved the code has been observed. There must be clear evidence that some unfair advantage has been taken.’

  ‘You don’t call it an unfair advantage that Beauvallon shot to kill when Alexandre was already disarmed?’

  ‘Alexandre elected to shoot first. The rules were obeyed.’

  Lola was too angry to speak. Gently, Dumas took her hand.

  ‘Even the best and holiest causes have been lost, Lola. If the worst happens, our consolation must be that a defeat will shame our opponents. If Beauvallon leaves the courtroom absolved, the fraudulent duel will have won the day, but the principle of duelling will be irreparably dishonoured.’

  That evening, thousands of people besieged the Palais de Justice, angry there was no room for them inside. Squads of soldiers and gendarmes fought to hold them back. At midnight, the jury retired to consider their verdict. In the noisy courtroom, Lola alone was silent as bitterness fought with hope. If Beauvallon escaped, she would leave Paris. It would be impossible to remain to endure his triumph.

  A bare ten minutes had passed when the jury returned. Listening to the verdict, she sank into despair. Her worst fears had come true. It was as if Beauvallon had murdered her lover a second time. He was a free man.

  Part 3

  1846 - 1848

  Lola and the King

  Chapter 23

  Munich

  Ludwig of Bavaria wrapped his faded green housecoat tightly around his skinny frame. It was the time of year when the kingdom celebrated his birthday. At the parade ground on the edge of the city, the Oktoberfest would be in full swing for days. He would have to pretend he was enjoying it all, even though he was old and tired and didn’t care for parties any more. He felt as dried up as the kitchen scraps the servants threw out.

  The fire in the grate barely took the chill from his study. It was a quarter to six in the morning but he had already been at work on his papers for an hour. He prided himself that, winter and summer, since he had ascended the throne of Bavaria twenty-one years ago, his lamp was always one of the first in the city to be lit.

  He ran his eyes down the account book open on the desk before him. The sum for logs used in the palace last month seemed excessive. His thin fingers ached as he picked up one of the quill pens that the servants sharpened in readiness for him each day. When he had scrawled a reproof in the margin in his spidery hand, he went on to the entry for the number of onions that had been used in the kitchen.

  He finished his scrutiny, stood up and went to the window. Slowly, his beloved Munich was emerging in the grey, dawn light. Whatever household economies he insisted on, money spent on the city’s beautification was never wasted. He thought fondly of all the works he had commissioned during his reign: spacious parks, elegant squares and fine buildings of classical grace and power.

  The sky lightened and all over the city, church bells tolled the hour. Ludwig frowned as he strained to listen. The deafness that had afflicted him all his life became worse every year. With a sigh, he turned away and went back to his work. Later he would dress and breakfast with the queen before they attended the festivities.

  *

  Lola had arrived in the city a few days previously. Struggling to put Paris behind her, she was en route for Vienna, but on the way, it had occurred to her that Munich’s Octoberfest might provide an opportunity to secure a guest appearance at the Court Theatre. As usual these days, there was never as much money in her purse as she would have liked.

  The city was bursting at the seams with visitors but she charmed the owner of its best hotel into finding her a small suite overlooking the elegant Promenadenplatz.

  Her next step was to visit Baron Frays, the manager of the Court Theatre. He was not impressed by her suggestion that she perform at his theatre for half the box office takings. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘all decisions are made by the king.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll agree when he knows I’m here.’

  Frays laughed. ‘You’re very confident, Dona Montez, but the king is a busy man. You might have to wait some time for an answer.’

  ‘But you will ask him?’

  ‘Perhaps, but please do not count on his agreement. In any case, I have no need of a new dancer at present.’ He bowed. ‘I wish you good day.’

  Back at the hotel, she stood on her balcony watching the people passing by below. Perhaps she would attend the festival races that afternoon. It was a pity she knew no one in Munich. It would be more congenial to have an escort, but unless luck brought any of her friends to town, she would have to go alone.

  At her feet, her lapdog, Zampa, pawed her skirt. She picked him up and tucked him under her arm. ‘Never mind, I’m sure we’ll soon find new friends, won’t we my pet?’ she smiled.

  She was about to turn back into the room when a figure strolling across the Promenadenplatz caught her eye. She recognised the well-dressed man straight away, for they had often met in Paris. Baron von Maltzahn was a charmer, a man made for any occasion, yet under his urbane manner she recognised a kindred soul. She felt sure he saw life as she did: a game to be played with every trick and skill at one’s command if one was to win. And what else was there in life for her now but winning? Since she had lost Alexandre, love was impossible.

  She leant over the balcony. ‘Baron! Up here!’

  He tilted his panama hat back from his forehead and looked up. His face broke into a grin. ‘Why, Lola! What a delightful surprise.’

  ‘My rooms are at the top of the stairs.’

  He bowed. ‘I’ll be there directly.’

  She hurried inside and after a quick glance in the mirror over the mantelpiece, arranged herself in a chair. It couldn’t be better: thrice-widowed and richer with every bereavement, the baron knew almost everyone who mattered. She recalled him mentioning that he had met the Bavarian king on several occasions. With his help, she might be
able to sidestep Frays.

  ‘Have you been in Munich long?’ he asked when he had sat down, one manicured hand resting on his gold-topped cane.

  ‘Just a few days.’

  He reached out to stroke Zampa. The little dog wagged his stumpy tail.

  ‘I’m glad to see you still have this fellow to keep you company. But you look a little pale, Lola. I trust you are in good spirits?’

  The kindness in his voice shook the defences she had built up since Dujarier’s death.

  ‘I try to be, but it is not always easy.’

  He saw a flash as she twisted the ring on her finger.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘It was foolish of me to ask. Dujarier was an exceptional man. You must feel his loss deeply.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His smile held a hint of mischief. ‘But life has to go on, eh?’

  Lola gave him a sharp look. The months since she had left Paris had been closely followed by the press and the public, but she shrugged off their slurs. The lovers she had chosen for consolation were no one else’s business.

  Maltzahn flushed. ‘I meant no offence.’

  Her expression softened. ‘And none is taken.’

  ‘So what are your plans? If there is anything I can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask.’

  ‘How kind you are and you’re right, life must go on. There is one thing you could do for me. I had hoped to dance at the Court Theatre but the manager tells me he must consult the king before he can give me an answer and that will take a long time. I wonder, may I ask for your help?’