‘My profession? Son of a landlord,’ he retorted.
Laughter rippled through the audience. Silence was called for.
No, he did not recall seeing anything. Was he certain? No – perhaps he saw a cane raised. He could not say who held it. He certainly did not hear the insult that was supposed to have been issued. But other witnesses had.
‘Tarts!’ people insisted they had heard Meldola call out when she saw the mother and daughter.
It looked as though victory was slipping through Meldola’s fingers. Napias reminded the court of the passage from Isola which he had quoted in the previous hearing.
Meldola grew angry. ‘The proof that I am not Mlle Valtesse’s maid is that I do not live with her,’ she snapped.
‘Really?’ probed Napias, amused. ‘Well, of the two pieces of correspondence you sent us, the first states that you live at number 1, Rue de la Terrasse, while the second gives your address as number 17 of the same road. On my advice, my client sent you a letter to the second address requesting a receipt of delivery. The letter was returned to her with the following advice: “Mme Meldola is unknown at number 17”. You do not live at number 17, but you and your husband live at number 1, Rue de la Terrasse, in Mlle Valtesse’s sumptuous apartment.’8
Lébre leaped to his feet and began to protest. The judge silenced him and demanded that he be seated.
The tribunal began to deliberate, but their decision was quickly reached. The scenario was a familiar tableau of Parisian street life: two working-class women, each bearing a grudge, had bumped into each other and a quarrel had broken out. The older woman deserved compassion. Mme Delabigne was acquitted.
A woman’s pride was a precious commodity. Valtesse understood that better than anyone. Still, the case resolved, it was hard to suppress a wave of relief. Her media profile could now regain its former sparkle.
But Meldola would not let the matter rest. She called for the case to be reviewed, and was pleased when she was granted a second hearing in June. This time the housekeeper could walk away satisfied; her adversary was ordered to pay a 25 franc fine and a further 25 francs in damages.9
But then at the end of 1882, something unexpected happened. A horrific accident took Parisians by surprise – and it scuppered Valtesse’s plans for serenity, thrusting her into the spotlight once again.
Valtesse knew that her mother’s defeat would only embitter the already fractious relations between them. However, Meldola’s loyalty deserved payment in kind. Besides, a happy and triumphant housekeeper was easier to live with – and more obliging – than a disgruntled one. Valtesse needed Meldola. She felt sure that the drama would pass and that daily life would resume its normal pattern. Edmond de Goncourt’s request for assistance in providing research material by way of a female perspective on adolescence for his novel Chérie (1882) was a flattering interlude in what Valtesse hoped would be an otherwise calm rest of the year, spent in the usual manner: socialising, enjoying art and literature and tending to her public profile.10
But then at the end of 1882, something unexpected happened. A horrific accident took Parisians by surprise – and it scuppered Valtesse’s plans for serenity, thrusting her into the spotlight once again.
One morning towards the end of November, a shock report appeared in the papers: Léon Gambetta had shot himself.11
Parisians were plunged into disbelief. Was the great statesman dead, people asked? No, but he was badly injured. Gambetta had been handling his gun at home in Ville-d’Avray when suddenly the weapon had gone off and a bullet had penetrated his right hand, exiting just below his thumb and injuring his forearm. Four of the best doctors and surgeons in Paris rushed to the politician’s bedside.
The nature of the injury was incredible. Surely the unshakeable statesman had not tried to take his own life? It must have been an accident – or a skilfully covered assassination attempt. Press and public alike buried themselves in hypotheses.
‘Was M. Gambetta responsible for his own injury?’ asked a journalist in Le Gaulois.12 ‘His friends say so, but the way they say it gives cause to doubt. Firstly, these gentlemen do not agree among themselves. Some say that the accident took place in Gambetta’s bedroom. Others claim that it happened in the garden.’
Theories abounded: Gambetta had shot himself; no, the gun really had gone off accidentally, while he was cleaning it; and maybe Gambetta had not been alone.
It has been pointed out that the weather was frightful, certainly too bad for the attractions of country living alone to have brought Gambetta to Les Jardies. It is supposed, therefore, that he had company.13
Every street corner in Paris buzzed with speculation. Had Gambetta been with Léonie? Was it true that she had sold sensitive government information to the fiery courtesan La Païva who had connections with Bismarck? Was Léonie now being blackmailed and, distraught, had she tried to take her own life, only for Gambetta to injure himself in intervening?
Then within the closed confines of private salons one more, scandalous theory began to circulate. Savvy society men muttered knowingly, fashionable ladies spoke in whispers behind their fans: perhaps Léonie had become insanely jealous of her lover’s association with the famous courtesan Valtesse de la Bigne, and shot Gambetta in a fit of rage.
Valtesse observed the commotion from the sidelines. She made no comment on the hypotheses. She did as she had so often done: she watched.
Valtesse was not alone in refusing to act. Public curiosity remained unsatisfied because, injured and bedridden though he was, on one point Gambetta remained firm: there would be no official enquiry.
Proponents of the ‘crime of passion’ theory had cause to smile knowingly. Less cynical Parisians were bemused. But that was Gambetta; it was promising if his hot-headed temperament was returning.
Then, at the end of December, an announcement appeared in Le Gaulois:
Yesterday afternoon, M. Gambetta had a violent attack and for quarter of an hour, doctors thought their efforts were going to be in vain. After half an hour of suffering, the invalid picked up a little. The rest of the day passed without incident.14
The relapse came as a surprise, but everyone knew Gambetta to be made of strong material. He would surely recover before the New Year.
But it was not to be; the wound that had got the whole of Paris talking, about conspiracies and crimes of passion and Valtesse, had gone gangrenous. On 31 December 1882, Paris awoke to some shocking news: Léon Gambetta was dead.
After the dramatic headlines came articles, reviews and reports scrutinising every aspect of the statesman’s life, career and mysterious death. For the last few months, Gambetta had been busying himself with matters in Tonkin, promoting the value of the territory for France and attempting to consolidate the country’s position in Indochina. When Commander Rivière was sent to conquer Hanoi with 500 men in April, media attention turned with renewed fervour to Gambetta and Tonkin. Within days of the statesman’s death, all matters concerning Tonkin – including Valtesse’s article – were scrupulously re-examined. Finally, the revelation that Valtesse had influenced Gambetta’s political strategies came spilling out on to the front pages of the Parisian daily papers.
‘Do you know where the idea of the expedition to Tonkin was born, that controversial project which was interrupted by Gambetta’s death?’ stirred the journalist Dandeau. ‘In an elegant private apartment, which is located at number 98, Boulevard Malesherbes, and is inhabited by a pretty woman, whom you will almost certainly have spotted at the theatre, in the Bois, at the races, and wherever fashionable society goes: Madame Valtesse de la Bigne.’15
The journalist detailed everything that had taken place between the ‘golden blonde with white skin’ and the President of the Chamber of Deputies. Their meeting was discussed, Valtesse’s report was transcribed in full, and the paper even went so far as to print Gambetta’s letters to Valtesse on its front page.
Where had the journalist uncovered such sources, people wondered? It was al
most as though Valtesse had fed him the information, that she had wanted her association with the revered statesman to be made public.
‘That is the true story of the collaboration between Mme Valtesse and M. Gambetta,’ the journalist concluded triumphantly. ‘It is not the first time that a woman and a statesman have collaborated in public affairs. But one must admit that there is something particularly spicy about the circumstances of this collaboration.’
The public agreed. Suddenly, the whole of Europe was talking about Valtesse’s relationship with the statesman and the scandalous possibility that France was in the hands of a politically powerful, real-life Nana.
‘Mlle Valtesse is the lady who, it appears, has inspired the Tonkin expedition,’ an English journalist exclaimed.16
‘She means to bargain France a piece of Tonkin as she used to do a deal over a landscape painting at the Hôtel Drouot,’ marvelled the French press.17
‘Statesmanship is often influenced by wire pulling,’ spat one Scottish journalist, ‘but it is scarcely credible that in our day the wire should be pulled by a woman, regarding whom it can be said that she did hold a high position in French society.’18
In June, La Réforme published an article that exposed the full extent of Valtesse’s communication with Gambetta, her relationship with Kergaradec and her involvement in the Tonkin expedition. The media backlash was unprecedented.
Valtesse had long been a Parisian darling, but now the press were watching her every move. People spoke about ‘her’ war in Tonkin, and she was compared to historically influential consorts, including Mme de Maintenon, Mme de Pompadour and Empress Eugénie. Meanwhile, the most innocuous letters or texts bearing her name were of the utmost interest.
‘Anything written by this eminent female artiste is an object of curiosity,’ declared a journalist in Le Gaulois.19 Suddenly, notable figures in society were appearing in press offices with letters that Valtesse had written. In those humble sheets of paper, the editor of Le Gaulois saw banknotes. Here was a way to increase circulation.
‘Mlle Valtesse has addressed some precious notes to a number of esteemed figures on some of the principal questions which concern our contemporary society,’ the paper announced.
There was a letter to Republican politician Gustave Rivet on paternity searches:
I have known lots of fathers. I have hunted for several on other people’s behalf. I must tell you, Sir, that these hunts have always proved fruitless. In our troubled times, no creature conceals itself as artfully as a father. […] In the great social fishbowl, it is difficult to catch a father, even with the best lines. […] When you have lost a father, it is pure madness to chase after him. The father is, as you say in legal speak, inaccessible and uncatchable. Perhaps you understand what that means.
There was a report written to the préfet de police about what Valtesse perceived to be a gross injustice in the card game of baccarat. She insisted that the matter demanded his immediate attention:
Nobody has yet found a way to win at baccarat, other than to cheat. […] I have found no solution, have you?
On one occasion, Valtesse wrote to the Lord Chancellor:
Magistracy is divided, as I am sure you will know, into two classes: judges [magistrature assise, literally ‘seated’ magistrates] and state prosecutors [magistrature debout, literally ‘standing’ magistrates]. People want to reduce one to the detriment of the other. This is wrong. If all the magistrates were ‘standing’ they would be exhausted after two hours. I have known many magistrates. They do not need that.
Finally, the paper included a witty letter Valtesse had written to the Minister of Agriculture, declaring her firm belief that what the country needed was more stud farms:
I have visited several stud farms … They are very interesting places, particularly at lunchtime. I have always left the yard feeling cheerful. I therefore believe we should increase the number of stud farms. There should be one in every road. The stud farm is man’s friend. There is a direct link between stud farms and the question of paternity searches. The stud farm is the triumph of paternity. If one is searching for paternity, look no further.
Valtesse’s sparkling wit brought a smile to people’s faces. Her quick humour danced off the page and Paris adored her for it. Some of the greatest courtesans had watched glittering careers crumble when they reached their 30s, or even earlier. Blanche d’Antigny was just 34 when she died, Marie du Plessis barely 24. At nearly 35, Valtesse was in her supremacy.
‘The whole world resounds with the sound of Valtesse’s name,’ gushed journalist Fernand Xau:
The newspapers talk only of Her and if this continues, we will speak of the century of Valtesse as they do that of Pericles or of Louis XIV. History, impartial history, will burnish her name on its bronze tablets.20
‘She is no longer The Union of Artists,’ declared another journalist. ‘She is The Union of People.’21
The mystery of Gambetta’s death remained unsolved, and the gossip columns eventually fell silent. But one thing was clear: Valtesse had been instrumental in laying the foundations for France’s actions in Tonkin.
Drama could be exhilarating, but it was exhausting, too. After the court case and the scandal of Gambetta’s death, Valtesse craved some light relief. She had been toying with the idea of publishing another book. In May 1883, a new pet project, Lettres à Nana, which included a selection of letters she had received from various love-struck suitors, enabled her to reconnect with her creative side.22 Valtesse never intended to repeat the bold literary statement made by Isola; she decided that only a few copies should be made available to a very privileged handful of readers. And her love letters, like her body, came with a hefty price tag: each book sold for a staggering 1,200 francs – people always prized more highly that which was unique and costly. Some might have read an ironic undertone in Valtesse’s dedication to her mother, but any gesture of filial recognition stood to dilute Emilie Delabigne’s bitterness.
The book was a diverting, if temporary project. Still, by the middle of 1883, Valtesse’s creative appetite was not yet satisfied. More than anything, she yearned for some harmless fun. That autumn, her wish was granted.
Over the preceding few years, Valtesse and her fellow Parisians had witnessed some incredible scientific advances and social transformations.23 The Exposition Universelle of 1878 had firmly reestablished Paris as a great European city, and the 1880s announced themselves as a spectacular period of change and progress. At last, the political landscape appeared stable and industry was booming. With the spread of steam power, the iron, chemistry and automobile trades were prospering. So was the electricity industry, which had a direct impact on communications. A Parisian could now take a train to most far-flung corners of rural France, and as travellers gazed out of carriage windows, they could see canals being built where previously only cattle had grazed. The Third Republic’s reverence for science and technology was rewarded by the emergence of public telephones in Paris from the 1880s. Citizens relished the novel luxury of flooding their homes with electric light at the mere flick of a switch, while the circulation of newspapers increased in response to growing literacy levels and improved printing technology.
Whether conscious of wider industrial advances or not, men and women of Paris noticed a measurable change in their everyday lives. The poor were still poor, but the middle and upper classes had more money in their pockets at the end of the week, while the rise of mass consumerism and the ever-expanding entertainment industry offered an outlet for those spare francs. Women’s fashion became a matter of popular, not just elite, concern. That supreme wonderland, the department store, bewitched the Parisian housewife, while an eruption of café concerts, balls, music halls and sporting events served pleasure-hungry Parisians a gluttonous spread of entertainment possibilities. Paris was heaving with new and extraordinary wonders, while the city sparkled and shimmered with the hypnotic glow of electricity. It was a time of excitement, prosperity and optimism. It was
the dawn of the Belle Époque, and it seemed it would last forever.24
That such a climate should influence the arts was inevitable. Jules Lévy, a former member of the avant-garde literary club Les Hydropathes, was sensitive to the atmosphere of change. When a gas explosion left residents of the Rue François Miron injured or homeless in 1882, Lévy decided to organise an unprecedented exhibition.25 Humorous, satirical artworks would be created exclusively by amateurs and exhibited at a fundraising event intended to parody the official Salon. Works’ titles played on words, and were jocular and deeply ironic. Delighted with his initiative, Lévy baptised his radical new art movement ‘Les Arts Incohérents’. After a first exhibition in July led crowds of curious Parisians to discover the new group, Lévy repeated the event in October. The show was a resounding success, and plans were soon under way for the first official exhibition in twelve months’ time.
Early in September 1883, a newspaper announcement caught Valtesse’s eye.26 It was a call for entries for the next exhibition of ‘Les Arts Incohérents’. Valtesse studied the requirements with interest. The exhibition was open to all. She could exhibit a sculpture, drawing or painting. The only conditions were that the work she presented should not be pornographic, and, most of all, should not be remotely serious. If accepted, her piece would be on show for the whole of Paris to see for precisely one month. Valtesse’s creative imagination began to race.
For all her respect for tradition, the concept appealed. Painting was a favourite hobby of hers, and she loved parody and wordplay. Taking up her brush, Valtesse set to work. In the first week of October 1883, she sent her finished canvas along to the Galerie Vivienne.27
On 15 October 1883, the doors of the gallery opened to a bustling crowd of visitors. Viewers made their way through the four rooms of the gallery and up the staircase, stopping to admire paintings and sculptures by amateurs as well as those by seasoned artists like Henri Pille.28 A corner of the gallery was even set aside for works guaranteed to be originals by eminent personalities, including the Comte de Chambord and Louis-Philippe. And as visitors flicked through the catalogue, they came across an intriguing entry:
The Mistress of Paris Page 21
