The Mistress of Paris

by Catherine Hewitt

  To Valtesse’s relief, Manet made light of the confusion and agreed an alternative day. She was careful not to miss the opportunity a second time. When the day arrived, Valtesse, accompanied by Gervex, travelled to the painter’s studio in the Rue d’Amsterdam and the sitting began.

  Examining the subject before him, Manet decided that a side-on, head and shoulders view would be the most flattering composition, and he selected soft pastels, increasingly his medium of choice as his failing health reduced his strength.26 Using bold sweeps of blue pastel, Manet’s sure hand traced the sharp contours of Valtesse’s bodiced waist, changing to swift, loose, vertical zig-zags to create the ruffles of her collar. Confident, undulating strokes of sand, brown and red depicted her trademark hair. But her skin, with its smooth, pale complexion, demanded a different handling. Under Manet’s skilled hand, it appeared flawless, with the rosy hue of Valtesse’s cheeks blending seamlessly into the pale peach of her jaw. Against her milky skin, Manet’s depiction of her pink rosebud lips and bright blue eyes with their heavy lids made her likeness all the more compelling.

  The sitting complete, Manet felt content with his efforts, and Valtesse was elated. Never one to compromise her position with excessive flattery, Valtesse conceded that in Manet’s case, she must make an exception.

  ‘Dear master,’ she wrote to the painter when the work was presented to her, ‘I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have created my portrait, nor how much I like it. Thank you with all my heart, it was most amiable and gallant of you. I say gallant because you have flattered your model. In short, I feel immensely proud to have posed for a master such as yourself. Yours, Valtesse de la Bigne.’27

  A firm friendship blossomed from Valtesse’s sitting with Manet. Manet lived close to Boulevard Malesherbes, and Valtesse began to join Gervex and the host of other artists, writers and fashionable members of society who would call on Manet at the end of the day for stimulating conversation and an aperitif. And just as Valtesse admired Manet, he too warmed to her. The painter was impressed by her quick mind and entertained by her bold repartee. Valtesse was refreshing. As he grew to know her better, Manet felt qualified to start using an affectionate nickname: the ‘Châtelaine of Ville-d’Avray’, a playful reference to the tragic heroine from the 13th-century French romance, The Châtelaine de Vergi, who takes her life when she believes her lover has betrayed her trust.28

  Manet and Valtesse often dined together and shared ideas. ‘I was meant to take lunch yesterday at Montelais with the beautiful Valtesse,’ he informed his close companion, the actress-turned-courtesan, Mery Laurent, at the end of September 1880. ‘But the gathering was postponed,’ Manet went on, explaining: ‘the Châtelaine of Ville-d’Avray already had someone over for lunch.’29 Even a celebrity of Manet’s calibre had to be viewed in perspective; a star-struck courtesan was a sorry creature indeed. She neglected other connections at her peril.

  Still, Valtesse was only too happy for Manet’s portrait to be exhibited at the Galerie de la Vie Moderne a few months later.30 It was a public testimony of her link to the celebrated artist and for such a man to have painted her portrait it led viewers to the inexorable conclusion that Mlle V must be an important figure in society.

  Not long after Manet exhibited his portrait, Gervex asked Valtesse if she would pose for a very important commission. She had grown used to her lover’s requests to sit for him. But the painting Gervex now had in mind was to be different. He had been asked to produce a decorative painting for the Salle des Mariages of the Mairie in the 19th arrondissement of the city. The piece was to be a glorious visual celebration of Republican ideals, and to ensure that it met the brief, Gervex’s work would be scrupulously monitored.31 But the artist already had his own ideas about the piece’s composition. And on one point he was certain: he wanted his mistress to appear in it.

  The theme of the piece was matrimony. Following the Revolution, marriage had been secularised. Since then, couples had been obliged to have a civil marriage at the mairie before the traditional religious ceremony which would take place a day or two later.32 However, for many, civil marriages were unsatisfactory, ill-attended events void of all the sentiment one should expect of a wedding.33 But Gervex felt sure he could challenge such criticism. He simply had to sell the civil ceremony to his modern audience.

  Gervex began making sketches of a civil wedding ceremony taking place in the very room in which the painting was going to hang. He called on the son and future daughter-in-law of the mayor Mathurin Moreau (who was also a sculptor) to model a couple in wedding attire.34

  Gervex positioned the couple in the centre of his canvas, standing before Moreau in his role as mayor, to take their vows. Then, behind a large desk, he placed a pair of officials busying themselves with paperwork. The couple’s family were seated in the front row, and behind them, Gervex painted his pièce de résistance: the congregation. In among the fashionably dressed gathering of people, Gervex included some of the most popular celebrities of the day.35 He turned the civil wedding into an unmissable social occasion.

  Gervex was determined that his civil wedding should have all the visual appeal, pomp and grandeur of the traditional religious ceremony. In her elaborate white wedding dress, the bride still looks radiant.36 The desk takes the place of an altar, and the mayor, that of the priest. The Bible is replaced by his lofty tome, while the usual ecclesiastical stained-glass window illustrating a distant religious story is exchanged for a transparent window providing a familiar, up-to-the-minute view of Paris. Every aspect of The Civil Marriage had been carefully considered – so it was with dismay that Gervex discovered his efforts had failed to impress.

  Critics railed against the use of an oversized genre painting to decorate the town hall. The Catholic Church was particularly ferocious in its response.37 The piece was denounced as cold and ridiculous, lacking in all religious sentiment.38 ‘If M. Gervex claims to have conferred prestige on the lay ceremony,’ wrote the reviewer in La Défence sociale et religieuse, ‘he has failed in the attempt.’39

  The virulent critical responses brought one pleasing advantage, however: swarms of curious viewers came flocking to the Salon to see the painting everyone was talking about. And it was Gervex’s star-studded congregation that provided the greatest interest. When viewers beheld the painting, they could indulge in a diverting game: how many stars of the 19th-century social scene could they recognise?

  There in the crowd was Zola, and close to him, Manet. People spotted the notorious socialiser, the Prince of Wales, and the future Tsar Nicolas II. There was the journalist Richard O’Monroy with his trademark moustache. And there, next to him, a single figure stood out. One woman looked straight back at the viewer, confidently, defiantly: it was Valtesse. Surrounded by royalty, lovers past and present, and sworn enemies in the sacred matrimonial ceremony, Valtesse held her head high and stared her viewer in the eye. The work was a triumphant testimony of her success: here she was, a courtesan, playing a starring role in a painting about marriage. Conventions no longer impeded her. And how comfortable she looked alongside her fellow models, the Prince of Wales and the future tsar. It was almost as though they were intimate.

  Paintings were a vital form of personal propaganda for Valtesse. Through art, she was securing her place among history’s most memorable figures. She had won the heart of Paris, and that support was to prove invaluable; Valtesse’s next battle would have international ramifications. Now, she would ensnare one of the country’s leading politicians and conquer France’s overseas territories.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Political Affair: Gambetta, Annam and Tonkin

  There was far more to Valtesse than her appearance, social astuteness and cultural flair. Her bright mind needed constant exercise, and France’s fast-paced political scene provided the perfect material.

  Valtesse’s staunch Bonapartism had earned her the doubtful honour of close police surveillance. Her response to the intrusion was defiant: she ensured that the author
ities’ suspicions were never disappointed. Her social calendar was liberally punctuated by intimate gatherings which she hosted for her Bonapartist friends in Ville-d’Avray.1 Meanwhile, her spectacular annual fireworks display on the anniversary of Napoleon’s birthday had become one of the big social events of the summer.

  The world of politics was intoxicating. Valtesse loved the heady combination of power struggles and principles. It stretched her curious mind and nurtured its growth. She saw no reason – and harboured no desire – to conceal her political views. The press were constantly reporting her latest political activities, and the authorities’ outrage amused her.2 She had no intention of refusing such an exhilarating drug.

  One of the causes that particularly captured her interest was France’s colonial position. The country’s hunger for colonies mounted after 1870 as France struggled to rebuild herself in the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian war and the Commune. Valtesse had learned a great deal about one of these areas of colonial interest, the Indochinese territories of Tonkin and Annam.

  Her knowledge was yet another gleaning of her affairs. Valtesse’s weakness for uniforms had left her with a ponderous backlist of military lovers. One of these was a naval officer who bore the weighty name of Alexandre-Camille-Jules-Marie Le Jumeau de Kergaradec.

  Kergaradec was a highly regarded member of the French navy. After enlisting in 1857, Kergaradec’s career path had carried him steadily up the ranks, so that by the time he met Valtesse he had secured himself the distinguished position of ship’s lieutenant and enjoyed a salary to match.3 He became Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur (Knight of the Legion of Honour) in 1864 and later Officier de la Légion d’honneur (Officer of the Legion of Honour). Official honours and military prowess always impressed Valtesse, and with his smart naval uniform, long face, dignified moustache and beard, and neatly groomed hair (even if it was thinning), Kergaradec boasted all the qualities she found attractive in a man.

  With their semi-nomadic lifestyles, soldiers and officers were notorious seekers of uncomplicated carnal pleasures. They provided courtesans with a ready source of clients. Valtesse had enjoyed a close relationship with Kergaradec when he was in Paris, during which time she basked in the air of distinction that surrounded him and enjoyed the approving looks he received whenever he entered a room. Friends insisted that it was on Kergaradec that the character of Horace in Isola was based. But while Horace is forced to leave Isola and travel to Brittany, Valtesse and Kergaradec’s affair was terminated by an even greater journey: in 1875, Valtesse’s lieutenant was posted to Indochina, where he became the French consulate in Hanoi.

  The loss of a suitor was always concerning for a courtesan. Still, Valtesse was never short of admirers; she felt confident that she would not want for material possessions in Kergaradec’s absence. Besides, the idea of a great expedition to such a faraway land intrigued her. When she began receiving letters from Indochina, she was eager to learn more. Kergaradec was happy to oblige his curious mistress.

  Kergaradec’s work required him to familiarise himself with the territory, its people and the political situation and to report back to France.4 Few men were better qualified to teach Valtesse about Indochina, and Kergaradec’s vivid descriptions of the territory captured her imagination.

  There were attractive bays, not least the vast and spectacular Bay of Along with its boats and ships, and the Bay of Tourane, famed for its beauty, its depth and the marble rocks which the Annam people believed sacred.5 There were sandy mooring points, and the coastline was dotted with pretty rocky islands. Inland, there were mountains, forests, and stretches of plain which would become flooded in the rainy season.6 With such varied geography, it was no wonder that the territory offered such a rich source of goods desirable to the West, such as coal, lead and zinc. Then there were the people. An Annam woman ranked below her man, but she enjoyed better living conditions than her Chinese counterpart. It was she who prepared the family meals, food that seemed strange next to the typical French diet. How much rice they ate! And even in the very poorest families, it was unheard of to celebrate a special festival or a feast day without tea.7

  The territory struck Valtesse as exotic, fascinating – and valuable. Before long, parcels from the East began to arrive at her home in Paris. She unwrapped them to find fine plates with delicate floral decoration, elegant porcelain vases, miniature pagodas and statues of Buddha, and all manner of exotic trinkets. Valtesse was elated. Her collection was already immense, but she made space for all the intriguing pieces her former lover sent her.

  In his letters, Kergaradec explained the French position. The French had been making their presence felt in Indochina throughout the second half of the 19th century, and by 1867 they had colonised the southern third of the Indochina peninsula. In 1873, Tonkin and Annam became the new targets. After a year of confrontation with the French, Emperor Tu Duc of Annam agreed to sign a treaty. However, correctly assessing the incompetency of the French representative, the Emperor seized the opportunity to get France to agree to conditions which set her at a disadvantage. This injured French national pride, but of greater concern was that the Emperor was ruling his people under a dictatorship. Shops were being pillaged, innocent civilians were being attacked – and the French seemed unable to extend their protectorate to Annam and Tonkin.

  Stirred by her own sense of patriotism and moved by the terrible suffering of the Annam people, Valtesse decided something must be done. The French government must take decisive action. If only she could gain access to the men who wielded power, she felt certain she could steer the government’s approach for the country’s benefit. She needed to speak to a politician with influence, someone who could convey her ideas to the top of the political hierarchy. Valtesse believed she knew just the man – as luck would have it, he was her next-door neighbour.

  By the 1880s, Léon Gambetta was a revered figure on the French political scene. Ten years older than Valtesse, Gambetta’s ambitious nature had spurred him to quit his provincial home town of Cahors in his teens and travel to Paris to study law.8 Once installed in the capital, the stocky, olive-skinned southerner was quick to publicise his strong Republican opinions, surprising people with his confidence and his mastery of rhetoric. Though an unsuccessful lawyer, Gambetta’s charisma and linguistic fluency impressed, and in 1869 he was elected to the Legislative Assembly. Becoming one of the principal activists for the defence of France during the Franco-Prussian war, Gambetta’s most memorable feat came when he took off from Paris in a balloon at the end of 1870, soaring triumphantly over the German lines before establishing himself at Tours. He was instrumental in persuading the National Assembly to vote for the formation of the Republic in 1875, and by 1880 he had become President of the Chamber of Deputies, the legislative assembly of the French parliament.

  With his bear-like physique, booming voice and personal magnetism, Gambetta seemed to overcome any political obstacle that was laid in his path. If ever there was a politician with influence, it was Gambetta.

  But if he lived his professional life in the public eye, Gambetta kept a closely guarded veil of privacy over his personal affairs. And that was the aspect that most interested Valtesse. It was the channel through which she hoped to reach him.

  In 1872, Gambetta had begun an affair with the captivating and intelligent Léonie Léon, whom he adored. The daughter of a French colonel, Léon had dark hair and piercing eyes which would fix those she met with unnerving intensity.9 She was the same age as Gambetta, she was attractive, charming, and she too was passionate about literature; in many respects, Léon was Gambetta’s intellectual equal. It would have been a perfect match, were it not for an irascible stain on Léon’s reputation: she was a courtesan.

  After her father died, Léon had been forced to seek employment in an upper-class house, where she was seduced. She was left with little choice but to become a mistress. In 1865, she bore a son, and by 1874, the police had been alerted to her activities. From then on, her movem
ents were tracked. ‘She was wearing jade earrings,’ observed one police officer when he spotted her, ‘a straw hat with blue feathers, a velvet beret, astrakhan cape, fur trimmed kid boots.’10 Léon’s painstaking efforts over her flamboyant appearance were a clear indicator of her lowly status.

  In the eyes of society, Léon was dishonoured and ruined. Ironically, given that Gambetta was leading the opposition to the Catholic party in France, she was also a devout Catholic. Marriage was impossible. If they wanted to be together, they would have to live as concubines, betrothed but unmarried. It was a state both were willing to accept.

  Gambetta needed to be in Paris for work, but he found it impossible to keep his personal affairs private in the city. Moreover, it was tedious to be always surrounded by work. So in 1878, Gambetta decided that he needed a more comfortable venue for his affair with Léon to flourish, somewhere his mind could escape the heavy business of politics. The location must be picturesque, romantic and untouched by the crude hand of modernity, but it still needed to be close to Paris. Gambetta believed he knew just the place. He settled on a charming town he had passed through many times on his carriage rides back to Paris from Versailles: Ville-d’Avray.

  With its forests and peaceful country walks, Ville-d’Avray was the ideal spot for a couple fond of walking to make their love nest. To begin with, Gambetta rented a small house, but by the end of the summer of 1878, he had become the satisfied owner of a portion of the property formerly owned by the writer Honoré de Balzac, Les Jardies.11

  Gambetta was delighted with the property and with Villed’Avray. He wrote to Léon when he was there alone:

  How I love the pleasures – new for me – of solitude, this great and beneficial silence, these wonderful wooded refuges, these calm and sleepy waters at the foot of perfumed heaths, and above all the voluptuousness of reflecting, of thinking, of meditating at one’s ease, without hubbub and recriminations from outside!12