Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (27 page)

Then management fired me. They didn’t approve of the tone of my performance, the manager said. “But you’re a friend of Henri’s,” I protested. “Surely you understand the stress that I’m under.”

“Frankly, mademoiselle, although it is sad, that is none of my business. My business is the theatre, and you are bringing the play into disrepute.”

So that was that.

Meanwhile, the investigation into Henri’s murder remained the scandal of the day, and the newspapers were full of it. Thank God that, at this difficult time, I was told my living expenses would be paid by the courts, since I was to be a main witness for the case when it came to trial. No one knew when that would be, for Beauvallon was still out of the country—hiding, like the bullying coward he truly was.

At the end of April, I moved out of 39 rue Lafitte: our nest, our world of love-making, our beautiful bedroom with the summer breezes cooling our skins… Where I’d lain beside my darling’s cold, dead body, kissing and drenching with tears his hair, his brow, his beloved hands and—with sickened trepidation—the unmarred left cheek, my own eyes closed so that I wouldn’t see up close the gaping hole, scorched flesh, and the dark, congealed blood on the other side. But I could smell it. Rich and rusty, a sharp, feral scent.

Sobbing, then, uncontrollably, my ear against the still, white chest with its broken, silent heart…

All gone.

*

Somehow the days went by, one after another. I took a tiny apartment near Montmartre, and spent many hours curled up on the small divan with which it was equipped. A few friends came by—Pier-Angelo, for one, dear man, and he helped me out with rent for the month. George Sand also paid a visit, and I was surprised by this.

“Darling, I’m devastated,” she told me, sitting beside me and taking my hand. “I was so sure that you were set up for life—and such a man! Such a true gentleman.”

“Please don’t.”

“No, of course not, too painful indeed.” She raised my hand and kissed it. “I enjoyed you in
La Biche
, my dear, and thought you put up an awfully good fight.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What else can we talk about?” She patted the hand. “Well, let’s see… I’ve been struggling with my own
Nélida
. To see d’Agoult’s book causing such a fuss in the press is too nauseating, so I’ve embarked upon my own—calling it
Lucrezia Floriani
. I’m so annoyed with Chopinsky at the moment that I could scream; he’s absolutely mesmerized by that cock-tease daughter of mine. So I’m getting him back.” She flounced up and took a turn round the little room. “He won’t notice anyway; he never does notice things like that, even when it’s staring him straight in the face.”

“A disguised story of your love affair?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“I wish you all the luck with it.” I didn’t dare tell the celebrated Sand that I’d harboured fictional aspirations of my own. My flashy
nom de plume
, Lorenzo Milagros, now seemed tawdry and atrocious. Why would I write about nearly true events, in disguise or not? I didn’t wish to relive them, couldn’t stand to think about them. Tragic ends to beautiful love affairs… Diego, by firing squad. Henri, by duelling pistol—why, oh why? And the ghastly thought struck like a hammer blow: is Dumas right?
Do
I bring the evil eye to any man who dares to link his destiny with mine?

George could see that I was in no condition to gossip and be diverted. She gave me a series of soft kisses from cheek to cheek, murmuring condolences, and rose to leave.

“Thank you for coming, Countess Dudevant,” I managed.

“I’ll be back. I won’t let you sink, Lola; there’s life in you yet. And you know that I’ll always be George to you.”

After she’d gone, I found a fat packet of cash pushed under my pillow.

*

One day in the middle of May, I received another unexpected visitor. I’d been sitting at the little table by the window, toiling over my deplorable story. Having been reminded of it by George’s visit, I bit back my disgust and resolved to try again. Frankly, I wasn’t sure how else to attempt a living in Paris, where I was constrained to remain until the trial had taken place. Perhaps Girardin would take pity on his partner’s
fiancée
and publish the wretched thing? After
La Biche
, I didn’t think I’d be hired again as a dancer, or certainly not right away. And my heart wasn’t in it anymore, either. Go stuff it.

Almost every day, each of the newspapers ran an article connected with Henri’s death. The great public of Paris had been roused to fury, finally, at the ongoing tragedy of illicit duelling between reckless young men. The international papers also expressed their outrage and castigated the French for the senseless crime. Beauvallon’s name was being dragged through the mud, and I deeply approved. I longed for the trial to begin and for the outcome I devoutly desired for the man: death by hanging. It would be unusual for a court to go so far, but this was an unusual case. The
cabrón—
the
hijo de puta
!—was still hiding out in Spain, and the public’s uproar was such that the courts were debating whether or not they dared hold the trial in Paris—whenever it finally took place—because they feared crowds and riots. Perhaps they would place it in some smaller town a day’s ride away, so the papers reported.

In any case, that day in May, there was a knock at the door, and I opened it to Arthur Bertrand, the other of Henri’s seconds during the duel. This was surprising—what could he want with me?—but I asked him in.

He sat at my table and told me the whole story, or as much of it as he knew. It was a sad, scurrilous tangle of knavery from first to last, the kind of story one would think that only the novelists would write, but no. This tale was true and had murdered my love.

Henri and his seconds, along with Dr. Koreff, had arrived at the stated time, and waited in the field of the Favourite. Henri drank some cognac from a flask to try to feel warm. Time passed as they paced and shivered; Bertrand told me that Henri had not looked at all well—shivering as if from some ague or worse, and with a green tinge to his cheeks. Snow fell, the temperature dropped. An hour and a half after the stated time, Beauvallon and d’Ecqueville galloped up, cool as could be. Henri’s other second, de Boigne, called that they were much too late and therefore the duel was off. Beauvallon dismounted, scoffing, “I haven’t come here for nothing.”

The day before, dice had been thrown to decide which set of duelling pistols would be used—the ones Henri had from Dumas, or the two in Beauvallon’s possession. Beauvallon’s had won the toss. On the morning of the duel, Bertrand told me, when these pistols were brought out of their case and examined, he’d noticed that they were warm and had recently been fired, and he called the other on it. D’Ecqueville swore then that he, d’Ecqueville, had simply aired the pistols, thus soiling them slightly—
flambage
, he said, a bit of powder flashed off—and nothing else. Again de Boigne had tried to dissuade the combatants from duelling, but both shrugged him off.

Henri and Beauvallon stood back to back, then took thirty paces each, pistols raised in the air. As counselled, when the signal was given, Henri turned and fired immediately, the shot going wide.

“But then,” Arthur Bertrand said, looking down at his hands and interlocking the fingers, “with his life now quite free of danger, and in legal command of his opponent’s life, Beauvallon took careful aim… Not only that.” Bertrand looked up at me. “He stood in that posture a good forty seconds, as Henri faced him bravely… We thought that he must be simply taunting Henri, and would then fire into the air. Finally de Boigne shouted, ‘Fire, man—fire if you’re going to!’ And Beauvallon did so—deliberately—directly into Dujarier’s face. It was appalling.”

“Oh, God…”

“Somehow, Mademoiselle Montez—and I know I should not be speaking to you, but I could not help myself—somehow, as I say, in the trial itself we must ensure that the man’s flagrant lying and ungentlemanly conduct is properly punished.”

“Yes, indeed.”

We both sat there, blinking, eyes wet and brows furrowed.

“I believe it was part of a cool conspiracy,” he added quietly. “That there’s more to the pistols Beauvallon brought with him than meets the eye. I came to ask you—for I’ve heard that you’d been shooting at Lepage’s gallery, sometimes when Beauvallon was there—is there anything that you know about those pistols, that could perhaps shed further light upon what happened and why?”

“Those pistols? No. The ones that Henri proposed to use belong to Alexandre Dumas—but you say that he lost the toss, the day before…” I thought, then asked, “Where did that happen?”

“In Dujarier’s office. Late afternoon.”

“Who made the toss, and checked the coin? Was it d’Ecqueville? Did anyone else see, to verify?”

Bertrand looked thoughtful. “I did not. And yes, it was d’Ecqueville. I must check with de Boigne, see if he remembers. At the time, it all seemed very gentlemanly and civil. Though Henri did not look well or happy. Just determined.”

We were silent again. Then, remembering, I asked, “And who was in the black cabriolet that was also in the field that morning?”

Bertrand nodded. “We wondered that, too. It drove up a few minutes after the others had arrived. At first we thought it might be police, having caught wind of the duel and come to arrest us… But no. Dr. Koreff mentioned to de Boigne that it was Beauvallon’s other second, who was incapacitated that morning and couldn’t stand, but was there as witness—and then everything else began to tumble ahead and it was forgotten. I’m sorry that I don’t know anything else about it.”

“It’s quite all right,” I said, but wasn’t so sure.

“Thank you for your help, Mademoiselle Montez.”

I wished I could have done more. I thanked him for coming and we shook hands. We would see each other in court.

Bertrand’s visit underscored my irreparable loss… I felt so alone, had no idea what to do with myself. All the lonely women in mourning—there’s a tribe of them, always, and I had now, once again, become one. Always in waiting, never to see the one for whom one waits. Which reminded me, then, of a lonely
amie
, one I’d forgotten since the tragedy: Merci. She might be able to offer some small comfort, and hopefully, I could do the same for her.

*

I was appalled by what I saw. She came to the door, wrapped only in a flimsy negligée, although it was two in the afternoon. But it wasn’t the negligée that was appalling—it was the state of her. Her arms and legs were stick-thin, the knobs of her joints being the thickest part of them. Her face and head looked like a skull, the hair hanging lank and unwashed.

She ushered me in and offered me champagne. I turned it down and tried to school my face not to show the astonishment I felt.

“My dear, I’m so sorry I haven’t come sooner,” I said.

“
Pas de tout
, you’ve had such a terrible loss, Lola. I am so sorry for you, and for sweet, sweet Henri… A man among millions…”

Her sparkling eyes had become so lacklustre.

“Merci, what’s been happening with you? I know you’ve been unwell for months, but—”

“Not unwell,” she lied. “Simply living too hard and too fast!”

She reclined against the back of her settee, and then, little by little, slipped down until she was lying flat. The champagne in her hand sloshed, then settled in its glass on an acute angle, about to spill, and Merci noticed nothing.

“You’ll have a bit of a laugh at this, Lola,” she said, eyes closed as if half asleep. “You know that Franz Liszt is back from his tour of Spain and so on? He got back in April. Well, he’s a kind man as well as a marvel—but you know this—so I said to him one night last week, and it was only the first time we’d met… I’d taken a fancy to him, and now that he’s on his own, what could it hurt… Anyway, I said, ‘I like you. I won’t cause you any bother. I sleep all day, you can send me to a show in the evening and then do whatever you wish with me all night.’”

She opened one eye a slit, at this, to look over at me. I gave an encouraging smile, imagining to myself Franz’s pity for this damaged creature; I could see his wrinkled face and its deep knowledge of woe.

“Yes, it was bold of me, but I’ve nothing to lose, have I?”

“And what was his answer?” I asked.

“Mm…” she sighed. “He didn’t give me one—or not the one I’d hoped. I realize I’ve fallen off a tiny bit as far as my looks are concerned…” She took a languid gulp of the liquid that was surely her only sustenance. “Since Alexandre
fils
became so obsessed with that awful man… And then dumped me. Ah well.”

I was about to question her—which man?—but suddenly her limbs began to twitch and jerk, and the glass of champagne crashed to the floor. Before I could leap up to help her, Merci followed the glass and fell beside its broken shards, her legs and arms jerking—and then, suddenly, as she flopped onto her back, her torso went quite rigid and the entire body began shaking spasmodically, head arched back, throat uppermost. What to do! It was too reminiscent of the little sister’s death in the water closet—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! By the time I’d located a pillow to try to place under her banging head, though, the spasms had ceased, and she lay like a rock, insensible.

I was rubbing her cold hands when she began to come to. There were small cuts on her stick-thin arms from the broken glass.

“Why am I on the floor?” she asked finally, with a little laugh.

“Merci, you’re so ill—let me help you to bed.” I was shaking with fear for her. Should I call Dr. Koreff?

“Oh, I’m so tired…”

“You had some sort of convulsion.”

“Really?
Mon Dieu
. I hope it wasn’t ugly—you never know what you look like, in such situations. Was I ugly?”

“Never mind,
chérie
—of course you weren’t ugly.”

By this time, I was helping her to get under the covers and searching for something to use to wrap around her arms. On the bedside table were many small bottles, sachets and packets. All were pills and powders. I remembered my own distrust of the terrible strength of the medicine, whatever it was, that I’d so recently thrown away.