Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (49 page)

I shall not mention the beds, which were worse than filthy. I spread my cloak on mine, placed my satchel under my head, and slept with my clothes on.

We had traveled forty miles that day. Our horses were worn out, and in addition, my horse’s back was peeling.

I would like to see the face of an intrepid French gendarme if he were here in the bush; deceived by appearances, he would probably want to arrest everyone.

I think we were mistaken for police officers because of our mustaches; how else can I explain the more worried than angry looks we were getting.

After a most terrible night, we left at ten in the morning.

The stagecoach from Sydney to Bathurst had come through at nine.

The roads are so muddy that a light carriage with four horses can barely make more than two miles an hour; the carriages sink up to their boards.

The rain and the bad weather continue.

There is no way to leave Bathurst.

We are stopped by a torrent called the Macquarie that has become im-



A Miner’s Diary

passable, even if we were to swim; we are told that it will be a week before we can cross it.

At twelve thirty I make up my mind; I crossed the Macquarie in a little boat.

I attached a long rope to my horse and dragged him to the other side.

He had difficulty swimming because the current is so swift. Finally, after much effort, he crossed.

Once across the Macquarie, we reached the road to Sofala, the min-ing headquarters for the Turon River; it is no more than an assortment of tents and sheds.

Just on that site, there must be between fifteen hundred and two thousand miners and merchants of all types.

It looks exactly like a fairground.

The Turon is a wide, swift torrent full of broad and consecutive bends.

Each spot is occupied by ‘‘diggers’’ who have their ‘‘claims.’ 2 These spots are more or less close to each other but usually not more than a mile apart.

Therefore it is very difficult to find sites, or they must be paid for, and they are very expensive.

It is, in fact, very strange to see all these people rinsing their clumps of dirt on the shores of the Turon, dirt that they dig up far away and bring back either in wheelbarrows or buckets. The wells are up to fifty feet deep.

I can no longer go on without doing something. My money is dwindling and my horse costs twelve francs a day to feed and shelter.

Oh! Céleste! Céleste! Céleste, what have you driven me to?

     ,

  

The mine population is the strangest one imaginable. You can see the dregs of the world, vile people, prison escapees, next to well-mannered men who have lived in elegance and luxury and who like me have squandered everything.

Even under his red wool shirt and his bad straw hat, you can recognize a gentleman.

I had found nothing. I was coming back sad and discouraged when I ran into a nice looking young man.

He addresses me in very good French and tells me that he has three claims on the shores of the Turon he wants to sell. He wants twenty-five pounds sterling each.

In spite of my fatigue and stifling heat, I went back with him to visit them.

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A Miner’s Diary

All these property rights to claims are very arbitrary. Legally I could take up any spot abandoned for more than twenty-four hours by paying thirty shillings a month for a license. Some sort of commerce has been tolerated. The first one to come upon a spot marks it and plants a stick.

Only a show of strength and some violence could put an end to this kind of abuse.

On the shores of the Turon there are people who work ten, fifteen, twenty claims even.

I would like to have the three claims I am being offered, but I do not have the money to buy them.

Now I know who this young man is who wants to sell them. His name is M. Black. He is a former captain in the queen’s army who lost his fortune gambling.

I decide to deal with him for the three claims by paying twenty-five pounds at five pounds a month.

We bought the materials and the clothes necessary for our work as diggers.

Except for the meat, everything here is exorbitantly expensive. Bread is a shilling a pound; butter and tea cost a fortune; tobacco is eight shillings a pound. Everything is fifty percent more than in Sydney, and in Sydney one hundred percent more than in London. A sturdy pair of cleat shoes costs a pound in Sofala.

During our shopping trip in Sofala to buy our equipment we met two women, natives from the interior.

They are misshapen and ugly, built like monkeys, especially their legs.

Their only garment is a wool blanket that they wrap themselves in.

The way they carry their suckling children is odd. The child is coiled like a snake around their lower back, its head under the mother’s arm. In fact, exactly the way monkeys carry their little ones.

The natives in the known provinces of Australia are sweet but lazy. They eat everything they can find: dogs, roots, and even large white worms that live in tree bark. They are quite indifferent to gold.

The famous hundred-and-six-pound nugget was found near Bathurst by a native who showed it to his master; the latter gave him a splendid herd.

The master made more than one hundred thousand francs, and the native ate and sold his sheep. Today he is no richer than before, and he begs for a little tobacco or meat.

They are intelligent, and they can be given errands some five or six hundred miles away into the forest; it is certain they will always make it.

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A Miner’s Diary

I hope that tomorrow we shall be able to sleep in the middle of the forest in our calico tent.

Captain Black defrauded us most disgracefully. He sold us what we had a right to take for nothing.

Oh! Céleste, Céleste, what have you driven me to? And yet, all I think about is you!

I am kissing your portrait.

      

       

I have just finished my first day of work and I am exhausted.

Today I rinsed some twenty buckets of dirt and collected no more than twenty sous’ worth of gold. Gold is not where we are looking for it; it is at the bottom of the Turon, but it will be months before we can work it because of the current.

I am going to dig a well in the mountain and keep going until I reach rock.

I do not know how long I can continue this work. My arms are worn out.

All day long I carry dirt by the buckets to the river to rinse it; it yields very little gold.

M. Malfilâtre does not do anything and lets me do the hard work. I hope he will become disgusted with this life, otherwise I shall be the victim of this association.

We are on our last twenty shillings and no letters from France.

No letters from France! Everyone has abandoned me.

We are penniless; I cannot work because of the water. M. Malfilâtre really wants to leave.

I sell my horse in Sofala for ten pounds sterling and I give him seven so he will leave tomorrow.

M. Malfilâtre leaves at nine in the morning. Once he has left I sell my saddle and bridle for four pounds fifteen shillings, and I go into my tent, alone this time.

I organize all my tools and things and go to the middle of the river to rinse a few buckets of dirt that I took from the river bed. They yield a few grains of gold.

I go to bed very tired, but a storm arrives dropping torrential rain that penetrates the tent on all sides.

At noon the weather improves a little. I sit on a bucket and write a long letter to Céleste enclosing the summary of this diary.

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A Miner’s Diary

I send her the little bit of gold I collected along with some heather I picked for her in the forest during the trip from Sydney to Bathurst.

My memory of her and her face never leave me, even in sleep.

God, have pity on me! Let me forget or give me the courage to commit suicide. No! I am a coward; I hope to see her again.

Lionel de C

.



39

o LetMyDestinyBeDone!

Couture’s Portrait by Mogador (and Vice Versa)—

Victorine Has Not Changed—His Hands Full of Wounds and Gifts—The Joy of Depriving Herself for Him—Genuine Reconciliation—The Memoirs’ First Readers

  , I just received such a sad letter from you that right now I feel so downhearted, so guilty, it is impossible to find the words to express my sorrow, my pain, my remorse.

You repeatedly accuse me of being ungrateful, and yet I live only for you and through my memories of you!

You may be far away, but my soul belongs to you; my thoughts and my love embrace you.

Believe me I have suffered much, but I shall not seek comfort or consolation anymore; I shall live through my tears as a punishment for doubt-ing you.

I feel that my soul will be lost until it is reunited with yours.

I have told you, I believe in you and I have hope in God; only He could have given you the strength to endure this misery.

I am sending you some heather from France.

I love you with the purest part of my heart; reserve another tear, another kiss for me.

Two things stirred my heart: my memories of Lionel and thoughts of my little girl—her tenderness, her games, her chatter, which allowed me to forget. I would catch myself playing with her as if I were her age.

I was given a part in a play titled The Daughter of Mme Grégoire. It kept me busy. The nights were so long for me that I spent them working.



’    (  ) Three months had gone by since I received Lionel’s letter.

One night in the greenroom at the Variétés I saw a short gentleman wearing an odd, shapeless cardigan. He was very short and rather stout.

He was chatting and laughing with a group of people.

I asked one of my friends his name.

‘ That is Couture, the painter, the one who did the Romans of the Decadence.’’ 1

I drew nearer so I could hear better.

‘‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying, ‘ a few days ago I was standing on the doorstep of my studio in casual dress, smoking a cigarette, when a carriage stopped a few feet away. Getting out of it was a very pretty lady loaded down with packages and cartons, who yelled, ‘Hey! There!’ and motioned for me to come over.

‘ ‘Here,’ she said, ‘take all that upstairs to my apartment, sixth floor on the left.’

‘‘I looked at her, a little startled; but I took the boxes and I followed her. Once upstairs, I was out of breath. She had me put the packages inside, looked in her pocketbook, and gave me ten sous.

‘ She had mistaken me for a servant.

‘ The next day I sent her my card and her fifty centimes telling her that I had been only too happy to be of help and that, if she liked art, she could pay me back by visiting my studio.’

Then turning toward me, he said to me, ‘‘If you have any errands that need to be done, I am at your service.’

‘At the same rate, of course?’’ I asked him.

‘ Oh! I take whatever I am offered!’’

‘‘Well! I am offering you a cup of tea.’

He promised he would come and was true to his word. He offered to do a drawing of me, similar to the one he had done of Mme George Sand and of Béranger.2 Because it is signed by a great artist, this drawing is probably the only thing of me that will endure!

A few days later I won a proceeding that, although of little significance, was going to be important for the profits of others.

To make sure no one would overlook this victory over my adversaries, I gave a party. My portrait was a great success and Couture received many compliments.

Of the people who were at my home that evening, the one I remember most is Alexandre Dumas fils. He was distant and had a skeptical, discerning mind that could sometimes be mean, but if he paid you a compliment, you could believe it because he never gave them readily.



Let My Destiny Be Done!

He had been in attendance for the premiere of The  Revue, and had told several people in reference to me, ‘ She sang, played, and recited divinely; if she is willing to really work, she will have a true talent.’

I would have loved to move amidst such superior minds, but of course I had no right to so signal an honor. It is only in passing that I had the opportunity to appreciate Dumas père, Méry, Augier, Murger, Théophile Gautier, Camille Doucet, M. de Girardin, and Nestor Roque-plan.3

   

On Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin one day I saw some darling little bonnets in a store display, and I went in to buy one for my godchild.

When I saw the saleswoman, I let out an ‘ Oh!’’ of surprise. In the lovely person who was showing me some lingerie I had just recognized the little beggar who had been my companion at the house of correction.

I waited for her to recognize me, but she barely looked at me; my stare seemed to make her uncomfortable.

I took her hand and pressed it. She looked at me in astonishment. I stopped short; a voice inside was saying, ‘‘Why remind this poor girl of an encounter as sad for her as for you?’’

I bought everything she was showing me. Once I had left, I wanted to cry as I remembered her offering me half her bread.

I went home. A carriage was stopped at my door; Victorine had been waiting for me for an hour.

‘‘What is this?’’ she said pointing to my adopted daughter. ‘‘How could an imaginative woman like you imitate her friends?’’

‘‘What are you trying to tell me?’’

‘‘What! You are in the theater with her and you do not know the story of the little boy? Your friend does nothing for glory and all for self-promotion: she reads in a newspaper that a woman has just died leaving a little orphan. She does not go to the magistrate in person offering herself as mother to the child; instead she writes to a newspaper, which publishes her letter. The child is given to her; she has to show him off to everyone; she dresses him up in Scottish clothes. She has him memorize a scene from a tragedy. When people are around she asks him, ‘How was your mother murdered?’ The child makes stabbing motions?’’