Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (13 page)

I was helped back to the house by the wet gendarme; Concepción took the children into her bedchamber without a word to me, her features shattered.

Clotilde's body was found in the morning on the other bank, covered in mud. Lungs full of brackish water, lips and eyelids and cheeks blue, dark ringlets lank. Everything else, dead white. Except the dress—pink now smirched with mud and oil and weed.

The funeral preparations were feverish and full of a kind of delirium. It was August; speed was a necessity, along with flowers of the highest scent. They cascaded everywhere, from the casket to the pews that were filled to capacity.
Tout le monde de théâtre de Paris
was assembled in the cathedral, as well as the entire Spanish contingent now in exile in the capital. Every face was tearful, every body was embraced, every voice listened to with compassion. Horrified speculation was rife about the killer, but no clues had been found. I felt completely numb throughout. My head and ribs ached from the pounding I'd taken, though I barely noticed; I couldn't believe what had happened, the swiftness of the tragedy. In my mind, all I could see was that hooded head swimming savagely away, dragging its prey. The Grimaldis wouldn't look at me or speak to me, not even the littlest, Josep, who turned his face and buried it in his nurse's black-draped shoulder.

Between the morning his daughter was found dead and the funeral, Juan had rushed everywhere, questioned everyone. He'd slammed about, berating me, as I'd sobbed and cried that I knew nothing, how could I?
I pitied the man's torment, it was so deep. He blamed himself for being enmeshed in politics. Was it an act of vengeance against his family?

“Could someone have been after
me?
” I asked, hesitantly.

“No, that's not possible,” he replied tersely. “Why would anyone target you in particular? Or,” he mused unhappily, “my daughter, in particular?”

By the day of the funeral he had exhausted the theory of a political motive and had come to believe it was a random act, foully perpetrated. All that the Grimaldis wanted now was for this to be over; the only other thing they wanted was for me to be out of their lives and gone. I was bad luck, and a reminder of all they had lost. As for me, I didn't know what to believe.

As the service went on, the smell of incense grew stronger and the emotions as well. I caught sight of crowlike Father Miguel de la Vega seated behind the gorgeously attired grieving family; I was supposed to travel with this stranger? I should get away from them, I remember thinking: go back to England, call it all off. The thoughts tumbled and jangled inside my brain. I tried to think, to plan—as soon as we leave the church, as soon as night falls, as soon as . . . All a muddle.

Dumas
père
and Ida Ferrier were in attendance several rows back. Dumas seemed in foul humour and had begun muttering despite his wife's embarrassed entreaties. The Grimaldi family also became aware of the dark energy from Dumas's pew, and I could tell that Concepción and Juan were equally offended. As we all rose to follow the casket from the cathedral, I saw Dumas push Ida away with a muted roar, then heard her apologetically telling others, “There is a new young collaborator who has not met a deadline. It maddens him.”

I was in a strange, altered mood, dangerously stimulated by horror and the gravity of ritualized grief. And sometimes, truth is, I have no idea what comes over me. There are times when it feels as though I'm suddenly inhabited by a gust of wind, then a storm full of thunder and lightning or an earthquake rises up from my guts, and I cannot stop the momentum any more than one can stop the cataclysmic ferocity of the elements: I am inside the eye of the hurricane—no, I
become
the eye of the hurricane—and the explosion erupts with a swiftness that surprises everyone around me as much as it astonishes myself.

People were moving slowly into the aisles. Dumas and his wife were passing, the writer's small eyes looking me up and down. “You again,” he said. “Weren't you the one—?”

“At the Café de Paris. Was, and still am.”

He grunted dismissively.

“Shame on you for your bad mood, monsieur,” I said. “This day is not about you.”

“Brainless slut,” he declaimed, and then moved away down the aisle.

My brain, my circulatory system, simply imploded—I saw explosions and flashes of red before my eyes, sizzling through me in a hot, fiery gush.

I leapt into the aisle and shouted after him, “Alexandre Dumas, I challenge you! Tomorrow morning at six, in the Bois de Boulogne! Pistols!” My fingers were clenching and unclenching as if already gripping my weapon and happily directing its contents into his head. There were cries of dismay from all around. He staggered with surprise and turned to look, but suddenly I was being dragged backwards and away, bundled along down a different aisle away from the crowd, then slung over a shoulder and carried at a run.

Outside in bright sunshine, several men were clustered and gusts of Spanish filled the air. I was set on my feet, then something dark went over my head. Who are these men, I wondered in terrible alarm. Why hasn't someone stopped them? A hand was startlingly at my throat—that strong, sinewy hand! Oh dear God, I thought, Clotilde's murderer? How can this be? I bucked and twisted, but my mouth was clamped shut, forcing me to swallow my screams.

“
¡Cállate!
” I heard, and other oaths. I recognized the threatening rumble of the piratical bodyguard with the wandering glass eye who'd lifted me in Cristina's palace—it must be he! I could hear shouting and the footsteps of other men too, as I was hustled along some cobbles, stumbling and almost falling. Where were they taking me? I could hardly breathe, for by then the man's stinking paw was covering my nose as well as my mouth. The stench and taste of some potent tobacco filled my senses. Before the reek had time to make me physically ill, I bared my teeth and clamped down upon a noxious finger. I heard a human roar, felt a sudden explosion of pain—and then a fall down a long, dark tunnel.

I
AWAKE WITH A
start, having slipped off the settee and hit my head on the floor.
Merde!
I remember where I am: the empty room near the theatre. The last candle is burning now and it too is nearly spent, beginning to gutter. The place feels slippery with blackness, with the possibility of movement in the corners, at the edges of my panic.

Also, I am aghast to discover, there is the sound of footsteps. I scramble up and put myself behind one of the tapestries, press myself against the paneling. A key clanks in the lock. The door opens slowly, and light spills into the room. The Cockney enters carrying a candelabra with three tapers in one hand and in the other a glass carafe and a covered dish.

When he doesn't immediately see me, he puts everything down with an oath, spilling wax all over the dish, and comes at the tapestries with both arms flailing.
¡Jesu!
He will flatten me or knock me senseless. I step out; what else can I do?

“I'm here.”

I must have something to drink before I expire.

His shadow billows above me and onto the ceiling as he comes to a sudden halt. “Christ, woman. Scared me shitless.”

I point at the carafe, trying for imperiousness. “Is that for me?”

“Thirsty? Tho't you'd be. Not just yet though, not allowed.”

Dog.

And the big man laughs at me. “Won't let us get ya, eh? But you will, you'll come round. You'll 'ave to.” He yanks one of the wooden chairs to the centre of the room, places the candelabra upon it, then pulls over the other chair and sits himself down, arms crossed, legs spread. I smell a delicious aroma coming from the covered dish and wonder what it can be. Something with meat, and sauce . . . or gravy . . .

I move away to the edge of the room, use my haughtiest Spanish inflections. “Where is your friend, or should I say, associate? Your employer? What is he?”

He sits there, following my movements with his eyes. I don't like this, not one bit.

“I want to know who you are,” I say. Where has it come from, this defiance? I need water; I need to get out of here! But even more than that, it seems, I need to know that they are not with
him
—the fiend. Oh god in heaven, that is the terrifying thought that has been slipping around in the shadows.

“The Society of the Exterminating Angel!” I say the name loudly, eyes glued to his face, watching for something, a flicker, a withdrawal, a sense of pride, anything.

He opens his eyes wider, but I can't read them. Nothing in them of past or future, just of the moment, and the pleasure of his power.

“Please,” I ask, “let me drink something.”

“Come over 'ere,” he says, “and I'll think abou' it.”

This disgusts me. “No.”

I see swift anger mount his cheeks, swell into his brow. He glances over at the door, then back at me. He has just remembered, and so have I. He hasn't locked it! I race over, grab the handle, twist and yank—and I'm in a corridor. Which way to turn? Then I go down with a mountain of man on top of me, crushing the air from my ribs. He gets to his knees, breathing heavily, gives my forehead a thump on the floor, lifts me under the arms, and returns me to the paneled room. He presses me up against the door, which he has closed and locked behind us.

“I know an' you know,” he says against my hair, “that I could do anythin' I want wi' you an' no one will 'ear it. An' I'd like to do a lot.” I can feel his erection against my back. “My friend, as you call 'im, is
makin' final enquiries. All the bits an' pieces comin' together. We'll soon 'ave ya. There's nowhere for you to go, or 'ide. You'll be found out, an' take yer punishment for all yer crimes. That I promise you. Snooty jade.”

He releases me and steps away.

“I'll wait 'til you're broken. And you will be, after 'e finishes. Then I'll look like your 'ero, an' a Spanish widow loves her 'ero, isn't that what you said? And I'll 'ave ya.”

He picks up the tray with the carafe and the dish, unlocks the door. “Get yer facts in order, missy.”

And he's gone. The candelabra remains, one of the tapers broken and cold but two still burning. It's a good thing—the only good thing—because the last guttering candle from their first visit now expires. I am almost beyond fear. What in God's name are they after?

I must recollect everything, have it all at the ready. And land on my feet.

W
HEN
I
CAME TO
, it was dark and I could feel a rocking motion all around, as well as a soft, rhythmic jangling. I lay still, trying to remember what had happened and form a conjecture as to where I was. I could feel roughness, the warmth of blankets. When I heard the snap of a whip and a driver's cry, I realized I was lying across the seat of a stage coach, travelling through the night. I reached over and felt a curtain, which I opened enough to show me that it was almost dawn, the paleness growing and mist billowing in the hollows as the coach sped past. Then I heard a voice.