Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (44 page)

‘ What about mine?’’ I asked. ‘ What am going to do with it?’’ (To be closer to him, I had rented a little cottage on Rue Joubert.)

‘‘Well,’ he said, ‘‘you can rent it.’

Two days later the lease was put in my name. I handed my valuables over to my mother with strict orders not to give them back to me for any reason. They were my little adopted daughter’s fortune.

It was with a heavy heart that I sold my beautiful tapestries that reminded me of my stay in Berry. Mlle Amanda wanted to buy my furniture. Lionel strongly urged me to accept; it had all come from Richard and that bothered him. I sold my little cottage for twenty thousand francs. It was charmingly furnished, had beautiful clocks, carpets in every room, oak and rosewood furniture, a piano, an organ, and drapes.

It was to be paid off in three years.

Lionel left. He was leaving me to get married. Perhaps I would never see him again.



Death Throes of a Fortune

One of my new acquaintances, whom I had brought to my house, saw my godchild.

‘ Oh, look!’’ she said. ‘‘How pretty she is; she will be a dancer.’

‘‘No,’ I said, ‘ she will be rich, but if I had to give her a situation, it would not be that one.’

I went to Place de la Madeleine and went up to see Mlle Page. She was unhappy in every way. Her little girl was dying of a wasting disease.

Page’s own health was delicate.

To spend more time near her, I asked her to get me hired on at the Variétés.

She introduced me to M. C

, the manager. He promised to hire

me. I wrote to him. He had me come back to his office and gave me a contract to sign that stated I would get twelve hundred francs in salary, with a twenty thousand franc penalty clause.

These demoiselles fussed a lot about my being hired.

I was given two roles in the The  Revue; I was rehearsing when Lionel arrived from Lyon.

He told me, ‘‘Well, I shall never be able to get married; I was bluntly turned down because of you. I am going to sell my horses, my hounds, get rid of three quarters of my staff, and we shall stay together.’

‘‘But my dear friend, thinking you were never coming back, I got work on the stage and there is a penalty clause; I am now in rehearsal.

Sell the barouche, the big surrey, and the little carriage.’

He seemed quite annoyed about my engagement, but he sold his horses, his carriages, and stayed in Paris only briefly. Amanda asked me if I wanted to sell some of my jewelry.

I consulted Lionel who replied, ‘ That is your business; it seems to me it would be a good idea.’ I was twenty-five years old and I wanted my little girl to be rich. I agreed. I sold for a little less than what it cost.

I gave three years credit without interest. Page approved my decision.

   

  

One night Lionel told me, ‘‘I ran into a young man I know. He is distressed because they are going to arrest him. I might be able to prevent that since it is my jeweler pursuing him.’

‘‘Be careful,’ I told him. ‘‘Do not get mixed up in a troublesome affair.

You know what I think of your jeweler.’

Alas! A few days later, it was all done. Lionel was answerable for twenty thousand francs for a man who was broke.



Death Throes of a Fortune

He left and went to the country. I asked him to check on my little house. I wanted to build a cottage next to the rented property. Because of the location so near the forest, he advised me to build a hunting lodge, which I could rent out until the day I would live in it. I told him to take care of that for me.

He left and I debuted. I still could not act. I was as frightened as at the Folies. Page encouraged me. The newspapers jeered me! If you do not subscribe, they tear you apart. Poor actors do not make enough money to buy a subscription to three or four bad newspapers that all say the same thing. The newspaper Le Corsaire, the savage dog of literature, was sucking my blood.

I was going to be in another play, Paris Asleep. M. C

told me,

‘‘You absolutely have to go see M. J

; he is not happy with you.’

That day I went to see Amanda, who knew him. Alas! I forgot that she was in my debt, and from that day, she began to hate me.

My heart unhinged from climbing the five flights of stairs, I met with M. J

. He received me while talking to his parrot.

‘‘Monsieur, I know that my past damns me in your opinion; yet I would really like to do serious work on the stage. I have come to beg you not to speak ill of me.’

‘ Oh,’ he replied, ‘‘I am sorry, but my article is finished, and anyway I cannot pass up that line in your part: ‘You must have style to pinch them.’ ’

‘‘But monsieur, I am not the one who wrote the play.’

He probably thought I was ridiculous, but he did make some changes to his article.

Victorine came to see me the next day.

‘ Oh! My dear,’ she said, ‘‘you have set foot in hell. Once you begin keeping company with journalists, authors, actors, you might as well camp at Combat’s tollgate, billeted in the doghouse. You would not get as chewed up or as mangled.’

Since my return to the stage, Lionel had come to Paris several times.

Each time he came to take me back with him, but in vain.

Seeing that I did not want to go back with him, he lost interest in his lands and put them up for sale. He wrote me letters that were at times tender and kind, other times mean and harsh.

I am no longer rich, you do not want to see me anymore. Fine! You will not hear from me again.

Six hours later I would get another letter.



’     ’ 

M. Philoxène, an actor, sent me an invitation to a ball he was giving on Christmas eve. I put on a low-cut dress and the jewelry I had left.

When I walked into the living room, there was only one place for me to sit, and on this same sofa was a lady wearing a red dress. I did not look at her face, and I sat next to her, but she got up, jumping as if I had burned her. I recognized Mlle Judith! 2

All the gentlemen rushed toward me to avenge me of this offense.

That provided me with the pleasant opportunity to meet M. Henri Murger.3

Toward the end of the evening, M. Murger wrote an extemporaneous poem on each of the guests still present. He set his verses to a melody by Quidant:

To that poor actress’s chagrin

Whose jewelry is fake,

Céleste, who her name did take

From distant Morocco, can be seen

Behind a garden bright with flowers, Proudly strolling like a queen.

At the house of Philoxene

We were eighty merry rhymesters.

Her shoulders did Golkonda array 4

With sparkling diamonds, and Visapour Spangled her hands with lights so pure, She glistens like the Milky Way.

When she sees such starlit splendors, Judith will reject Holophernes.

At the house of Philoxene

We were eighty merry rhymesters.

I was about to start in a new play when I received this letter from Lionel:

Céleste, I cannot live this way. I relied too much on my strength; I cannot live without you. Do you know what it is like to love as I love you? It is madness! I am insane: I am offering you my fortune, I am offering you my life, my name, my honor. I am going to liquidate what I own. In a few days I am selling my lands; we can be happy far from here. Do not refuse me; answer me.



Death Throes of a Fortune

I could not believe my eyes. I read this letter twenty times. My pride was shouting: ‘Accept!’’ My heart dictated the following letter: My dear Lionel, I am returning this letter, of which I am not worthy and which cannot be addressed to a woman like me. Your crown of nobility would be my crown of thorns. I would not be able to look at these poor outcasts I have lived with, and I would never have the right to look at an honest woman. There are two paths: yours and mine. Let me be Mogador, you continue being Lionel de C

. Get out of this frame of mind. I shall always be your friend.



34

o

To the Antipodes

Only Page’s Misfortune Is without Remedy—Ruin, Separation, Exile—London,  May —Southampton,  May —Wednesday,

 May —Friday,  May —Saturday,  May —Sunday Evening,

 May —Sunday,  June —Sunday,  June —Sunday,  June

—Friday,  June —On Board the Chusan,  July —

Tuesday,  July —Thursday,  July  at Ten ..—

Sydney, Monday,  September .

   I received another letter from Lionel. It gave me a shock from which I did not recover for a long time: Your prediction will come true: we will not be square until my last sou. I just learned I am ruined. . . . A businessman to whom I had given blank power to sell an estate during my absence, abusing my trust, just sold my land for half of its value. All I have left is a life of poverty and isolation, which I shall escape. My brain will be splattered on your stage dress and your pleasure bed. When I sold my possessions, I had my papers and my family portraits sent to your house. I am going away leaving everything there, even my personal things. Sell them, because any reminder of me would cause you remorse. I shall not go to Paris; on the th I am leaving for Africa.

The way I feel for you is an enigma to everyone, even to me. To love, there must be respect, and I despise you. This child you are rearing will despise you also. Do not write me anymore!

 ’    

I shall never be able to express the amount of pain reading this letter caused me. I had to make a great effort to reply: Two days ago your letters were sad, but good. Today you heap abuse on me for no reason. The first day I met you, I told you how I was. I find your



To the Antipodes

accusations so exaggerated that I feel somewhat exonerated in thinking that I never lied to you. I went on the stage because I did not want people to rejoice at our separation. If I had my little fortune, I would leave this comfort that conceals so much sorrow. I have loved you; I still love you.

You have been and you will always be my only, my last love.

Believe me, although my body is degraded, there is a chaste part of it where I shall keep the offer you made me. . . . All I have is yours; take it when you wish. It is impossible that you could take such a desperate measure. . . . Oh! Answer me. . . . I love you.

I was looking for a refuge from my despair. I went to see Page, and we cried together because she had just lost her little Marie. I reluctantly went home. To help me become more resigned, this is what Lionel wrote me:

Everything you have said has been lies. Your heart, like your boudoir, was offered to the highest bidder. You had only one thing to offer me in exchange for my love, and that was your body. You sold it, to some for money, to others for pleasure. But I was giving you my life and you soiled it.

I shall no longer be in the running for a love I cannot afford anymore.

On the th I am leaving for Algiers; your money will be returned to you.

The lie must stop here.

We were even, and, in turn, I was thinking more about vengeance than justification:

I am now rebelling, and I am tired of getting this undeserved bad treatment. I am returning your letter, which nauseates me. I cannot bear a correspondence that drives me to despair. I am tired of crying.

, , 

I would have killed myself if it had not been for the letter I received from the people taking care of my adoptive daughter. The woman had just fallen ill, and I was told that they could no longer keep her. It was barely dawn when I left. The poor little angel was beginning to talk. She called me mother. I took her home.

Two days later three men came to my house to seize the some of forty-six thousand francs that Lionel owed his jeweler.

I wanted to write to Lionel, but I threw my pen down furiously.

‘‘No,’ I said, ‘‘I shall be more generous than he.’

I put on a veil and went to the theater. I danced and sang with a heavy heart, but I was used to this ritual.



To the Antipodes

I had finished my play (The Queens of the Ball ) at nine o’clock. On my way out I saw a man in the alleyway. Like a shadow he was slinking along the walls.

It was Lionel, pale and disheveled. His eyes, usually so ardent, were veiled with sadness, but his scornful lips had not lost their irony.

‘ Oh, no,’ I told him, ‘‘you will not avoid me; you owe me an explanation.’

Tears choked my voice. He told me to get in the carriage and he took me home

‘‘I was afraid of what is happening,’ he said, ‘ and that is what brought me back to Paris. My possessions have been sold for half their value. I am not only ruined, but I am also in debt.’

‘‘Yes, well, I am being pursued because supposedly what I have belongs to you.’

‘ Show up their lies, Céleste, defend yourself with all your energy and intelligence! There are judges. I would carry too many regrets with me if I knew you were miserable. I wanted to join the army, but I am too old. I am thirty-three. I am leaving for Australia.’

He stayed at my house. We paid for our bygone joys with long, tearful nights.

A letter from Berry pulled us out of our despondency. My house and my furniture had just been seized. The mortgage he had given me in payment was going to be challenged.

‘‘Well,’ I told him, ‘‘you had nothing but insults and disdain for me; you wished misery, hospitalization, or prison for me. You can leave satisfied. Now we are even. Go away, leave me to my despair.’

He left slowly, accepting my words like an order of exile.

I went to see a solicitor who gave me the address of a lawyer, and I did what I needed to do to face the storm. A hundred times beaten down, I got up again with uncommon efforts. I was dragged through courthouses.

I left my apartment on Rue Joubert for the duration of this trial, because, in case the judges were misled by false appearances, I did not want to be thrown out of my own home. On Avenue Saint-Cloud, I rented a little house with a yard for my daughter, who needed some fresh air.