by Roland Perry
One of Brididi’s friends worked at the Théâtre Beaumarchais and he lined up an engagement for Céleste to appear in a revue. She would have to learn to dance the mazurka. This had been created in sixteenth-century Poland and made popular in recent years by that country’s finest composer, Frédéric Chopin. Céleste’s confidence was high after her success with the polka, and she adapted to the mazurka quickly and efficiently. The colourful headgear, military band–style jacket, very tight white britches and long black boots allowed her to display her physical features, primarily, but not exclusively, her derrière and legs. Patrons rushed to buy the front-row ‘gynaecological’ seats and the theatre was often sold out, especially on Fridays and Saturdays.1
Mogador was soon the major attraction at the Beaumarchais as the press and sketch artists were now following her. On the matter of payment, she was promised much and given nothing. The odd patron would slip her some francs after the show, but the theatre management was playing on the belief, accurate enough in Céleste’s case, that she would not find work easily as a dancer elsewhere. The theatre owners knew she was registered as a prostitute and therefore under intermittent police surveillance. They were also aware that Céleste had failed to report once a fortnight to the police, who had called on her at the theatre to remind her of her obligations under the Registration of Prostitutes Act.
This weighed on Céleste, who was nervous about walking alone in the major boulevards, and particularly Montmartre, where the police paid close attention to any woman, even if they were promenading rather than loitering with intent to solicit for sex.
‘Every time a man looked at me,’ Céleste wrote in her memoirs, ‘I was afraid he was an inspector . . . My life, dominated by fear, was atrocious.’
Yet despite these general hazards and financial deprivations, Céleste believed she was on the road to becoming an actress. But when Pomare was jailed along with her husband for a crime he had committed, Céleste could no longer stand the parsimonious attitude of the Beaumarchais. She marched into the office of the owner/manager, Monsieur Robert Guichard, and said, ‘I want a piece of the gate!’
‘Impossible!’ Guichard replied.
‘Why? You’re playing to packed houses.’
‘You don’t understand, Mogador . . .’
‘I deserve some sort of stipend. Many people come to see me.’
‘Mogador, the theatre is closing down in a few days.’
‘What?’
‘The company has huge debts. The last few months we’ve kept doors open only to reduce the debts.’
Céleste was incredulous. Flush-faced, she said angrily, ‘You mean I’ve been used to get you out of a stinking financial hole?’
‘You may look at it that way if you wish.’
Céleste’s brief foray into a legitimate trade on the boards, where she could earn an honest living, would be over after only a few months. It left her in despair.
Adolphe had been furiously jealous of her success, so much so that Céleste had called off their relationship. Now she was alone and it seemed her only choice was to work as a lorette once more. To cheer herself up she parted with several francs to have her hair and nails attended to at the parlour of a beautician friend. While sitting in the chair being pampered, she told her story of bad luck and how much she desired to be on the stage. The aged male backer of the parlour happened to overhear her. When the beautician had finished working on Céleste, the old man stood in front of her.
‘Do you ride horses?’ he asked with a querulous tilt of the head.
‘I have, yes,’ Céleste lied.
The old man walked around her, stroking his chin and nodding his head. Finally he said, ‘You’re a fine figure of a young woman. Are you willing to take a chance?’
‘That’s the only way to make an interesting life, isn’t it?’ Céleste replied.
The old man smiled. ‘I’m looking for an elegant young woman to ride at the new Hippodrome.’2
This new Hippodrome was in Montmartre. It was a kind of outdoor circus in an open stadium that would hold 8000 people. The beautician thought it an excellent idea. Céleste had shown courage at the Bal Mabille and on stage. It seemed another, perhaps more enterprising, step into show business.
The old gentleman told Céleste she would be taught by the best riding master in Paris. She would be ready to perform on horseback in a month.
Uppermost in Céleste’s mind was her impoverished state and the prospect of not even tips at the theatre.
‘How much will I be paid?’
‘You’ll start with 100 francs a month.’
‘For how long?’
‘Let’s start with a one-year contract.’
‘So 1200 francs?’
The old man nodded.
‘I accept!’ she said with a big smile and shook his hand.
A week after signing, Céleste was being trained by the experienced ringmaster, Monsieur Franconi Laurent. He drove her hard with three sessions a day, starting with a gentle trot on a docile mare, and building within a week to a more challenging stallion. His advice was simple: Céleste should never whip her mount hard enough to draw blood. It was important to cajole the horses in her charge, not yell at them. But she also had to make sure she was respected. A light rein should be kept at all times, and the horse should never be jerked. The ringmaster told her to let the horse know what she wanted.
‘If your mount is feeling good,’ Laurent said, ‘he’ll do most of what you want. Try not to dig a stirrup into him if possible. It may be necessary in the heat of competition, but again, don’t draw blood. Your heels, as a rule, should be soft. Same with your hands. Your mount will then respond more with what you want. Depending on the horse, sweet words of praise in its ear will help. The animal may well know your voice, if you’ve practised on it, as you will have. People say horses have the minds of three- or four-year-old humans. I don’t believe this. They’re more than instinctive animals. They have intelligence and common sense. They have personalities. You, I’m told, are a person of character and personality. Keep your back straight in the saddle. You’re not a jockey, you’re a grand performer at the Hippodrome, so ride proudly and look confident, even if you’re not. Act it. I’m told you want to be an actor, so start at the Hippodrome.’
Laurent was determined to have her ready for the grand opening. But he had pushed her to the limit. Céleste bled from the nose in what a doctor described as a ‘slight haemorrhage’ and she was prescribed three days’ rest. Although not fully fit, she returned to training. There was a troupe of sixteen, from which ten would be selected for the opening night. Her determination saw her chosen for the team after just two months’ training. She was to appear in three acts: the grand parade, a race between five riders and finally a stag hunt.
There was not a spare seat in the stadium on the first night. Anybody who was anybody among the city’s elite was in attendance.
The parade of ten female riders swept onto the arena to a terrific roar. When the crowd settled to watch the horses prancing around the perimeter, Céleste heard her name called many times as people spotted her. ‘Mogador! Mogador!’
A band played. She would have preferred to have been in the first act, but had to wait, mounted on her large white stallion, Pedro. Her nerves built, and she felt the same stage fright as at the Bal Mabille. She shrank lower, as if hiding behind Pedro’s long neck and mane. She felt a slap on the shoulder. It was Laurent.
‘Are you going to ride like that?’ he demanded. ‘Pull yourself together, if you please!’
It was just what she needed. She sat up ramrod straight.
‘Good, now you look like a broomstick,’ Laurent said. ‘Get settled into your saddle, body straight but not stiff, elbows in, head high, fingers firm but not hard.’
Céleste was now focused on following his instructions.
‘That’s better,’ Laurent added, ‘and don’t be afraid, you’ve a good mount.’
He patted Pedro’s head and rem
arked about Céleste to an inquisitive spectator nearby, ‘She’s my pupil; she’s good . . .’
The first act came to an end. Céleste lined up with the nine other riders and their mounts for a 600-metre race of two circuits of the arena. A starting horn sounded. Pedro got away well, but Céleste found herself fifth after half the first circuit. She looked over at the other riders. The two in the lead were leaning over their horses’ necks in jockey-like positions. This was not the stiff-backed equestrienne positioning that Laurent had insisted on. Céleste leaned forward.
‘Go Pedro, go!’ she said, sharply, not shouting. She did not use her whip, instead she dug her left heel in with every word to him. The seventeen-hands-high Pedro got the message. He lifted, and was soon lying third behind the two who had led from the start. Into the second circuit, the spectators were on their feet, shouting. Many had bet on Mogador because she was the only performer they knew. A chant went up for her from one section of the crowd. Céleste began to pass her rivals. Her heart beat faster. She began to think she could even win the race.
Céleste took a risk and cut a sharp corner, nearly hemming herself against a barrier, to squeeze through ahead of the second-placed horse. The crowd roared. It inspired her. She spoke to Pedro again, this time saying almost gently, ‘Go for it, boy! Go for it!’
‘I shut my eyes and left everything to the horse,’ she said, ‘and just dug my heel into his left flank.’
Pedro responded and pegged back the lead animal, a big chestnut Arabian stallion. Pedro’s head was now bobbing with effort. His rider, eyes still closed, held on. With the finish tape only twenty metres away they were dead level, but Pedro found an extra strong stride to end up ahead. Céleste heard her name being chanted again, around the stadium this time. She opened her eyes and found she had won.
She patted Pedro, said sweet things in his ear, and then paraded around the ring to sustained applause from an appreciative crowd. She was more thrilled than at any other moment in her life to that point. Bal Mabille had been exhilarating; the Hippodrome made her ecstatic. She walked up steps to a dais to receive the victory bouquet. The cheer was the biggest of the show and demonstrated she was the crowd favourite.
A proud Laurent helped her prepare for the final event—the stag hunt—where a deer was released and chased down by dogs and mounted horses. Céleste noticed congealed blood on Pedro’s left flank. In her frenzy to win, she had dug her heel in too sharply. She patted the horse, made a fuss of him and apologised. Then she gave him four sugar lumps and if the horse had been miffed at her treatment of him, all was now forgotten.
The hunt began with the release of the poor stag, who wandered about in a daze at all the noise and movement. Then the dogs were let loose. They had been cooped up for forty-eight hours, their handlers believing this would cause them to be hungry for the chase. But the dogs were over-excited at being freed, and with the crowd laughing at their wild antics, they obeyed no orders. The stag was the last thing on their minds as they zipped about the arena at a frenetic pace, with a couple even dashing past the disoriented and almost stationary stag. Céleste led Pedro into the centre of the arena, but there would be no chase. Instead there was farce. The crowd seemed to enjoy the chaos, as if it had been planned as an amusing end to the afternoon’s events, with only circus clowns missing.
That spectacular first day lifted Céleste’s self-confidence higher than ever before. And feeling more secure thanks to her year-long contract, she moved nearer to the Hippodrome to the more distinguished Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
CHAPTER 11
Mogador, Courtesan
The continued Hippodrome success lifted Céleste’s reputation from being a notable in the dance halls to being a high-profile Parisienne, simultaneously famous and notorious. Her courage, fiercely competitive spirit and speedily acquired skills as a horsewoman attracted people and press attention. This gave her a strong image, and independence of a sort. With that weekly advertisement, Céleste felt certain her popularity in the complex world she lived in and was creating for herself, was the key to gaining access to the richer, better-bred and more worthy partners available now, not just those in France. It caused her to always take risks in the races, and in so doing she discovered she had a high pain threshold. Falls, crashes with other competitors, hitting barriers and other mishaps were a weekly event. The riders marvelled at their luck.
‘Every day accidents happened in which we might have been killed,’ Céleste noted, ‘but generally we escaped with a few bruises. I would rest for a week and then go on again, more wildly than ever.’
So alluring was the Hippodrome show that many young women lined up to join the troupe, which made those already in the troupe take even greater risks. Some of the races were choreographed to an extent, to make them more spectacular, and despite the desire each rider had to win, there was a good camaraderie.
Pain and fear, the ringmaster told them, were not to be displayed. The audience did not pay to view frightened and vulnerable performers. This was Céleste’s attitude by nature.
After a month, the organisers devised more daring races, including a steeplechase with formidable hedge barriers that would never be allowed at any normal horse race. Céleste was now on a lovely and highly spirited chestnut mare named Grace.
‘She would tremble for an hour before going on,’ Céleste noted, ‘and when the gate was opened, she was already in a full sweat.’
One day Grace was more anxious than usual and Céleste almost beat the horn to start the three circuits of about 1000 metres. It had high hurdles every 200 metres, a big commitment for both rider and mount. She and Grace led the field by a long way down the straight on the first circuit. Then Céleste felt herself tilting to one side.
‘I wanted to stop,’ she said, ‘but I was right in front of a hedge. [Grace] jumped. I tried to throw myself to the side so I would not be dragged under her feet. I fell on the track, past the hedge.’
All those coming up behind jumped over Céleste. She covered her head as other horses galloped by, but she was not trampled on. Céleste felt the pain from a strained foot, though her commitment to her image and the show overrode it. She examined her foot, decided that no bones were broken and looked around for Grace, who had galloped off. Céleste brushed herself down and signalled for stewards to bring the horse to her. In full view of a clapping, cheering public, she mounted Grace, patted her and spoke words of reassurance to which the horse had become accustomed. Céleste trotted back into the race, aware that Grace might now baulk at the next hurdle. She took it carefully and the brave mount cleared it easily, drawing a roar from the audience. They finished the run last but received the biggest, most prolonged applause.
All such incidents added to her popularity. Céleste felt it was time to wipe her name off the dreaded prostitutes’ registry. She made an appointment with the Prefect of Police. Her reputation had preceded her. He knew about her performances at the Hippodrome.
‘It’s too soon,’ he told her.
‘Why?’ she asked, ‘I haven’t worked in a brothel for some time. I have regular work, as you’re aware, Monsieur.’
‘But what happens if the Hippodrome closes down?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’d be out of work. You’d have no regular, respectable employment.’
Céleste had no answer to what the harsh but experienced prefecture was alluding to.
‘You’ll be monitored and we’ll note your progress or otherwise.’
This threat had a poor impact on Céleste. She worried more than ever about police surveillance and possible efforts to entrap her, send her to jail again and make sure her name stayed on the registry. One night her concierge told her that a policeman had visited and demanded she take down her garden window boxes from her balcony or she would be fined. Céleste obeyed the directive, believing she was being watched.
She suspected that some members of the establishment and police were mean-spirited about her fame and success.
They seemed to object to the fact that a young woman from nowhere could weave her way up through the social ranks, propelled by her skills as a dancer and glorified stunt jockey, and her sexual charms.
Justified or otherwise, she was nervous, sometimes paranoid, that every approach to her might be a ruse by the police. Scores of young suitors, including rich local dilettantes and foreign noblemen with abodes in Paris—which was fast becoming the city to be in—wanted to meet her. Having Mogador on their arm at any social function was a prize, a testament to their virility. They employed female intermediaries, forerunners to agents, to arrange introductions. She accepted their blandishments, gifts and invitations, but she rejected them.
She commented in her memoirs that the inclination among the lorettes and courtesans was to always accept an offer.
‘Nothing gave me greater satisfaction,’ she wrote in her diary, ‘than to say “no”.’
This increased her exclusivity. The men she chose had to be special, and she had to like and respect them. This made her one of the most established and sought-after courtesans in Europe.
But she did say ‘yes’ to a couple of titled noblemen from other countries. Perhaps this was because she believed this would enhance her status without offending wealthy families in France, who might object to one of their own involving himself with a woman of her background. Or maybe her motivation was that she hoped one day to be a woman with a title herself, which might help her expunge the past. The most notable of her choices was the Spanish Duke of Osuna, Mariano Téllez-Girón, who was a decade her senior and a dissolute type, intent on working his way through inherited riches.1
Many of Europe’s male aristocrats of the era prided themselves on not working. They were openly disdainful of those from their class who had some employ even in the prestigious diplomatic corps or armed services, or anyone who had to earn a living. They preferred to be known for their hedonistic lifestyle, whoring and partying.
