Chapter XXXIV: Last Scene of All 227 (3)

"Dumas," he wrote, "had no more need to husband his strength and his
vitality than a river has to economise with its waters, and it seemed,
in fact, that he held in his strong hands inexhaustible urns, whence
flowed a stream always clear and limpid. In what formidable metal had
he been cast? Once he took it into his head to take his son,
Alexandre, to the masked ball of Grados, at the Barriere Montparnasse,
and, attired as a postilion, the great man danced all night without
resting for a moment, and held women with his outstretched arm, like a
Hercules. When he returned home in the morning, he found that his
postilion's breeches had, through the swelling of the muscles, become
impossible to remove; so Alexandre was obliged to cut them into strips
with a penknife. After that what did the historian of the
Mousquetaires do? Do you think he chose his good clean sheets or a
warm bath? He chose work! And having taken some _bouillon_, set
himself down before his writing paper, which he continued to fill with
adventures till the evening, with as much 'go' and spirit as if he had
come from calm repose.

"Nature has given up making that kind of man; by way of a change, she
turns out poets, who, having composed a single sonnet, pass the rest
of their lives contemplating themselves and--their sonnets."

Prodigious! It is gratifying to think that this indefatigable worker had always two sincere admirers--himself and his son. The latter, it is true, would have his joke at the former's expense. "My father," remarked the son, "is so vain that he would be ready to hang on to the back of his own carriage, to make people believe he kept a black servant." Notwithstanding, the two loved each other tenderly. Innumerable anecdotes bear witness to the paternal fondness of the one, the filial devotion of the other. Yet their relation was more that of two sworn friends, as is so touchingly expressed in these lines from the "Pere Prodigue":--

"... I have sought your affection, more than your obedience and
respect.... To have all in common, heart as well as purse, to give and
to tell each other everything, such has been our device. We have lost,
it seems, several hundred thousands of francs; but this we have
gained--the power of counting always on one another, thou on me, I on
thee, and of being ready always to die for each other. That is the
most important thing between father and son."

These are the words of Frenchmen. An Englishman would have put such language into the mouths of husband and wife.

Enjoying the friendship of Dumas _pere_, Lola no doubt had the privilege of meeting Alexandre junior. The young man was then in his twenty-first year, and had piled up debts to the respectable total of fifty thousand francs. It was just about this time, as has been said, that he turned his attention to literature. He found "copy" for his most celebrated work in the pale, flower-like courtesan, Alphonsine Plessis, who shared with Lola the devotion of the erotic Boulevard. The two were women of very different stamp. The Irish woman confronted the world with head erect and flashing eyes; the Lady of the Camellias, with a blush and trembling lips. They were typical of two great classes of women: those who rule men, and those whom men rule. The loved of the God of Love died young. After Alphonsine's early death, the fair Parisiennes flocked to her apartments, as to the shrine of some patron saint, and touched, as though they were precious relics, her jewellery and trinkets, her _lingerie_, and her slippers.

X

MERY

Another most delightful friend had Lola--he whom she refers to in her autobiography as "the celebrated poet, Mery." To describe this charming and impossible personage as a poet, is to indicate only one department of his genius: as a dramatist he was not far inferior to his great contemporaries, as a novelist he revealed an amazing power of paradox, and a bewildering fertility of imagination. He wrote descriptions of countries he had never seen (though he had travelled far), which, by their accuracy and colour, deceived and delighted the very natives. He was not merely rich in rhymes, said Dumas, he was a millionaire. He could write, too, in more serious vein, and was a profound and ardent classicist.

In 1845 Mery was approaching his half-century. Thirty years before he had come to Paris from Marseilles in hot pursuit of a pamphleteer who had dared to attack him. He found time to cross swords with somebody else, and got the worst of the encounter. As a result he took a voyage to Italy for the benefit of his health. His adventures remind us alternatively of those of Brantome and Benvenuto Cellini. At a later period he was associated with Barthelemy in an intrigue for the restoration of the Bonapartes; and went to pay his respects to Queen Hortense, while his colleague vainly endeavoured to talk with the Eaglet through the gilded bars of his cage.

Mery could, in short, do everything, and everything very well. He possessed the faculty of turning base metal into gold. Geese in his eyes became swans, and in every lump of literary coke he saw a diamond of the purest ray. It was, above all, in his dramatic criticism, remarks De Banville, that this faculty produced the most surprising results.

"One day, reading in Mery's review the pretended recital of a comedy
of which I was the author, I could not but admire its gaiety, grace,
unexpected turns, and happy confusion, and I said to myself: 'Ah, if
only this comedy were really the one I wrote!'"

On another occasion, says the poet, at the theatre,

"he said to me: 'What a superb drama!'--and he was perfectly right.
The play, as he described it to me, was, in fact, superb, only
unfortunately it had been entirely reconstructed by Mery on the absurd
foundation imagined by Mr. * * *. The _denouement_ he invented--for
though the third act was not finished, he spoke of the fifth as an old
acquaintance--was of such tragic power and daring originality, that
after hearing him expound it, I had no desire to witness Mr. * * *'s."

Reviewers and dramatic critics of this kind are now, unhappily, rare.

These few anecdotes sufficiently justify De Banville's claim that Mery was something altogether unheard of and fabulously original. He should have been (and probably was) the happiest of men, and his peculiar powers must have lightened his critical labours as much as they benefited those he criticised. He was as incapable of envy as Dumas was of rancour. Certainly no more lovable and agreeable creature ever haunted the slopes of Parnassus.

I doubt if such men would be appreciated in our society. Ours is the reign of the glum Boeotian. We know not how to converse, and wits are as dead as kings' jesters. There is no scholarship in our senate, and the standard of oratory there would not have satisfied an Early Victorian debating society. If we talk less, assuredly we do not think the more. Every social, political, and religious idea that occupies our dull brains had entered into the consciousness of the men of the 'forties. They thought quickly and talked brilliantly. Their young men were youths--full of fire, enthusiasm, love, and fun. They did not talk about the advantages of devotion to business in early life. They were not born tired. Wonderful, too, as it may seem, people in those days used to like to meet each other in social converse, and were not ashamed to admit it. It was not then fashionable to affect a disinclination for society--the handiest excuse for an inability to talk and to think. Lola Montez learned in Paris what was meant by the _joie de vivre_. In '45 wit was at the prow and pleasure at the helm.

XI

DUJARIER

As an _artiste_, Lola was naturally anxious to conciliate the Press, which had not spoken too kindly of her first performance on the Paris stage. Gautier's unflattering notice had appeared in one of the most influential newspapers--_La Presse_. This journal was under the direction of the famous De Girardin, the Harmsworth of his generation. Till 1st July 1836 the lowest annual subscription to any newspaper in Paris was eighty francs; on that day De Girardin issued the first number of _La Presse_ at a subscription of forty francs a year. This startling reduction in the price of news excited, of course, no little animosity, but its successful results were immediately manifest. The daring journalist's next innovation was the creation of the _feuilleton_. The new paper prospered exceedingly, though it represented the views of the editor rather than those of any large section of the public. In 1840 De Girardin acquired a half of the property, the other being held by Monsieur Dujarier, who assumed the functions of literary editor.

In 1845 Dujarier was a young man of twenty-nine, a writer of no mean ability, and a smart journalist. He was well known to all the Olympians of the Boulevard, and entered with zest into the gay life of Paris. Lola became acquainted with him soon after her arrival in the capital, probably in an effort to win the paper over to her side. He spent, she tells us, almost every hour he could spare from his editorial duties with her, and in his society she rapidly ripened in a knowledge of politics. But before her political education had proceeded far, the woman's beauty and the man's wit had produced the effect that might have been looked for. "They read no more that day"--Lola and Dujarier loved each other.

"This," continues our heroine, "was in autumn [the autumn of '44], and the following spring the marriage was to take place." I fancy the word "marriage" is introduced here out of respect for the susceptibilities of the American public. The Old Guard of the Boulevard, in Louis Philippe's golden reign, _se fianca mais ne se maria pas_. Besides, Lola was still legally the wife of that remote and forgotten officer, Captain James. "It was arranged that Alexandre Dumas and the celebrated poet, Mery, should accompany them on their marriage tour through Spain." Dumas, Mery, and Lola, to say nothing of Dujarier, travelling together through Andalusia--here would have been a gallant company indeed, with which one would have gladly made a voyage even to Tartarus and back! The narrative, too, of the journey would have permanently enriched literature. But the scheme has gone, these sixty years, to the cloudy nether-world of glorious dreams unrealized.

The success of De Girardin's newspaper had intensely embittered his competitors, who made it the object of venomous attack. The founder dipped his pen in gall and acid, and his sword in the blood of his enemies. He fought four duels, and having killed Armand Carrel, sheathed his rapier. But he did not lay aside his pen, which was even more dreaded. Dujarier proved an apt pupil, and by his command of irony and sarcasm at last attracted to himself as much hatred and jealousy as his senior. The special rival of his paper was the _Globe_, edited by Monsieur Granier de Cassagnac, a journalist of the type we now denominate yellow. He had at one time been on the staff of _La Presse_, to which he remained financially indebted. Dujarier came across the debit notes signed by him, and obtained a judgment against him. The exasperation of the _Globe_ knew no bounds. The editor may be conceived addressing to his satellites the reproaches used by Henry II.: "Of those that eat my bread, is there none that will rid me of this pestilent journalist?" The appeal was responded to by his wife's brother, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Rosemond de Beauvallon, a Creole from Guadeloupe, then in his twenty-fifth year. He was dramatic critic to the _Globe_, and in this capacity his acquaintance was sought by Lola. Dujarier naturally objected to this, and his interference was not forgiven by his journalist rival. The two men seemed doomed to cross each other's path. There was a certain Madame Albert, with whom Dujarier had been on terms of intimacy for some years. In December 1844 he ceased to visit her, probably for no other reason than that he had transferred his affections to Lola. As it happened, however, De Beauvallon made the lady's acquaintance at this moment, and she spitefully suggested that Dujarier had discontinued relations with her in order not to meet him. The Creole's score against the literary editor of _La Presse_ was now a high one, and he embraced his brother-in-law's quarrel with enthusiasm.

XII

THE SUPPER AT THE FRERES PROVENCAUX

At the beginning of March (1845), Lola, despite her failure at the Opera, obtained an engagement at the Porte-St.-Martin Theatre for the musical comedy _La Biche au Bois_. While she was rehearsing, she and her lover received an invitation to supper at the Freres Provencaux, a fashionable restaurant in the Palais Royal. The party was to be composed of some of the liveliest men and women in Paris, and none of those invited were over thirty-five years of age. Lola was keen to accept, but Dujarier would not hear of her being seen in such a company. In spite of her protests he decided, however, to go himself. It was the evening of 11th March.

He found himself the only guest, for all the others paid their shares in the cost of the entertainment. The nominal hostess was Mademoiselle Lievenne: "a splendid person, with abundant black hair, black eyes like a Moorish woman or Arlesienne, dazzling skin, and opulent figure." There were also at the table Mademoiselle Atila Beauchene, Mademoiselle Alice Ozy, Mademoiselle Virginie Capon, and other charming ladies, all styling themselves actresses, and spending a thousand francs a week out of a salary of twenty-five. In attendance on this bevy of beauty were some of the jolliest fellows in Paris. The oldest and most distinguished was Roger de Beauvoir, whose curly black hair, wonderful waistcoats, and pearl-grey pantaloons made him the delight of the fair sex, and the envy of his fellow-boulevardiers. De Beauvallon was also present, but he and Dujarier were not openly on bad terms, and nothing seemed likely to cloud the general gaiety.

The fun waxed fast and furious. Champagne corks popped in all directions, toasts were drunk to everybody and everything. Dujarier proposed "Monsieur de Beauvoir's waistcoat," followed by "Monsieur de Beauvoir's raven locks." The jovial Roger responded with the toast "Friend Dujarier's bald head," and evoked roars of laughter by drinking to the Memoirs of Count Montholon, with which _La Presse_ had promised to entertain its readers for the last five years. Dujarier laughed as loudly as the others; the champagne had risen to his head. He began to fondle the girls, and became a little too bold even for their taste. "Anais," he murmured in an audible whisper to Mademoiselle Lievenne, "je coucherai avec toi en six mois." The next moment he realised he had gone too far. Recollecting himself, he apologised, was forgiven, and the incident seemed to be forgotten by all.

The remains of the supper were removed, curtains drawn back, and one side of the room left free for dancing, while a card-table occupied the other. More people dropped in. De Beauvoir, finding the literary editor in such a good humour, thought the moment opportune to remind him of one of his romances which _La Presse_ had accepted but seemed in no hurry to publish. To worry an editor about such a matter at such a moment is to court a rebuff. Dujarier replied sharply that Dumas's novel would be running for some time, adding that it was likely to prove more profitable to the paper than De Beauvoir's serial would be. Roger, the best-humoured of men, was nettled at this reply, and said so. "Good! do you seek an affair with me?" retorted the editor. "No, I don't look for affairs, but I sometimes find them," answered the author.

It is clear that Dujarier, like his mistress, seldom had his temper under perfect control. He took a hand at _lansquenet_, and complained of the low limit imposed by the banker, Monsieur de St. Aignan. He and De Beauvallon offered to share the bank's risks and winnings. This being agreed to, Dujarier threw down twenty-five louis, De Beauvallon five and a half. The bank won twice, and Dujarier was entitled to a hundred louis. But St. Aignan had made the mistake of understating the amount in the bank before the cards were dealt, and now, therefore, found that the winnings were not sufficient to satisfy him and his partners. He was about to make good the deficit at his own expense, when De Beauvallon generously suggested to Dujarier that they should share the loss in proportion to their stakes. The literary editor preferred to stand upon his rights, and seems to have been backed up by the bystanders. De Beauvallon said nothing more at the time, but as the candles were flickering low and the party was preparing to break up, he reminded his rival that he owed him (on some other score) eighty-four louis. Dujarier replied tartly, but handed him the seventy-five louis he had won, borrowed the odd nine louis from Collot, the restaurant-keeper, and thus discharged the debt. He had lost on the whole evening two thousand five hundred francs. In the grey March dawn his head became clearer. He vaguely realised he had given deep offence to two, at least, of his fellow revellers. He returned, anxious and haggard to his lodgings in the Rue Laffitte, where Lola was eagerly awaiting him. She guessed at once that something was amiss, and endeavoured in vain to extract from him the cause of his evident agitation. Returning evasive answers, the journalist hurried off to the office of _La Presse_.

XIII

THE CHALLENGE

Whether or not Dujarier had used offensive expressions to De Beauvallon on this particular occasion, the opportunity for bringing to a head the long-standing feud between the two newspapers was too good to be missed.

That afternoon the literary editor was waited upon at his office by two gentlemen--the Vicomte d'Ecquevillez, a French officer in the Spanish service, and the Comte de Flers. They informed him that they came upon behalf of Monsieur de Beauvallon, who considered himself insulted by the tone of his remarks the previous evening, and required an apology or satisfaction. Dujarier affected contempt for his rival, making a point of mispronouncing his name. He had no apology to offer, and referred his visitors to Monsieur Arthur Berrand, and Monsieur de Boigne. As the seconds withdrew D'Ecquevillez mentioned that Monsieur de Beauvoir also considered himself entitled to satisfaction.

The rest of that day Lola could not but remark the intense pre-occupation of her lover--that concentration of mind that all men experience at the near menace of death. On the battle-field it may last for a minute or an hour; in other circumstances it may last for days together. Dujarier felt himself already a dead man. He had hardly handled a pistol in his life. He envied his mistress, who had often given him an exhibition of her powers as a shot. De Beauvallon, on the other hand, was known to be skilled in all the arts of attack and defence. Nor could Dujarier doubt that he wished to see him dead. In the evening Bertrand and De Boigne arrived. Lola was with difficulty persuaded to leave them to attend her rehearsal. Dujarier, pale and nervous, discussed the matter with his friends. "C'est une querelle de boutique!" he exclaimed bitterly, but expressed his determination to proceed with the affair if it cost him his life. Bertrand, fully alive to the gravity of the situation, sought De Beauvallon's seconds, and argued that nothing said by his principal could be considered ground for an encounter. His efforts at a reconciliation were useless. De Boigne tried to give precedence to De Beauvoir, who was accounted an indifferent shot; but that easily placable author had just lost his mother, and displayed no anxiety to defraud De Beauvallon of his vengeance. Seeing the encounter was inevitable, Bertrand and De Boigne exacted from the other side this written statement:--

"We, the undersigned, declare that in consequence of a disagreement,
Monsieur Dujarier has been challenged by Monsieur de Beauvallon in
terms which render it impossible for him to decline the encounter. We
have done everything possible to conciliate these gentlemen, and it is
only upon Monsieur de Beauvallon insisting that we have consented to
assist them."

This statement was signed by all four seconds. It left Dujarier, as the injured party, the choice of arms. He chose the pistol, thinking, it is to be presumed, that as his adversary was equally experienced in the use of the rapier and firearms, chance might possibly favour him with the latter.

Lola, while these negotiations were proceeding, was a prey to the most painful apprehensions. Pressed by her, Dujarier admitted that he was about to engage in an affair of honour, but gave her to understand that his opponent would be Roger de Beauvoir. Her alarm at once subsided. No one feared Roger. "You know I am a woman of courage," she said; "if the duel is just, I will not prevent it."

"Oh, what after all is a duel!" said her lover lightly, but she noticed that his smile was forced.

She drove to the Porte-St.-Martin; Dujarier, at three in the afternoon, paid a visit to Alexandre Dumas. He picked up a sword that stood in a corner of the room, and made a few passes. "You don't know how to wield the sword, I can see," observed the novelist. "Can you use any other weapon?"

"Well, I _must_ use the pistol," replied the journalist significantly.

"You mean you are going to fight?"

"Yes, to-morrow, with De Beauvallon."

Dumas looked grave. "Your adversary is a very good swordsman," he said. "You had better choose swords. When De Beauvallon sees how you handle the weapon, the duel will be at an end."

He told Dujarier that Alexandre, junior, practised at the same fencing-class as De Beauvallon, and he strongly urged him to reconsider the choice of weapons. But the journalist was obstinate. He had no confidence in his opponent's clemency, and he feared his skill with the rapier. With the pistol there was always a chance; with cold steel he was bound to be killed. In vain Dumas argued that the sword could spare, while the pistol could slay, even if the trigger were pulled by the least experienced hand. Dujarier dined with father and son. The friends parted at nine in the evening. The journalist, in company with Bertrand, went to a shooting gallery, where he tried his hand at the pistol. He hit a figure as large as a man only twice in twenty shots! Dumas strolled into the Varietes. He was ill at ease. Finally he took a cab and drove to the Rue Laffitte. He found Dujarier seated at his bureau, writing his will, as it afterwards proved.

Dumas returned to the question of weapons. Dujarier showed a disposition to avoid the whole subject. "You are only losing your time," he said, "and that is valuable. I don't want you to arrange this affair, mind. It is my first duel. It is astonishing that I have not had one before. It's a sort of baptism that I must undergo."

His friend questioned him as to the cause of the proposed encounter. "Lord knows!" was the reply, "I can recollect no particular reason. I don't know what I am fighting about. It's a duel between the _Globe_ and _La Presse_," he added, "not between Monsieur Dujarier and Monsieur de Beauvallon."

Seeing him determined both to fight and to choose fire-arms, Dumas recommended him at least not to use the hair-trigger pistol. To the novelist's astonishment, Dujarier admitted he did not know the difference between one kind of pistol and another. Alexandre said he would show him, and drove off to his house for the purpose. As he descended the stairs, he passed Lola, who noticed his agitation. Dujarier was again writing when she entered his room. He was very pale. Dissimulating his preoccupation, he invited his mistress to read a flattering notice on her performance from the pen of Monsieur de Boigne. But Lola was not to be thus diverted from her purpose. She implored her lover to tell her more about the proposed encounter, to reveal the cause of his evident anxiety. He merely replied that he was extremely busy, that there was nothing to worry about. He insisted on her returning to her own apartments. "I'll come and see you to-morrow," he promised, "and, Lola!--if--if I should leave Paris for any reason, I don't want you to lose sight of my friends. Promise that. They are good sorts."

He almost forced Lola out of the house, only to admit Dumas a few minutes later. The novelist had brought a brand-new pair of pistols. "Use these," he said; "I'll give you a written statement that they have not been used before. That ought to satisfy the seconds." Dujarier shook his head. "Look here," said Dumas solemnly, "your luck has endured a long time. Take care that it does not fail you now."

His friend's well-meant pertinacity irritated the journalist. He replied brusquely: "What would you? Do you want me to pass for a coward? If I don't accept this challenge, I shall have others. De Beauvallon is determined to fasten a quarrel on me. One of his seconds told me so. He said my face displeased him. However, this affair over, I shall be left in peace."

It was one o'clock in the morning. Dumas, having exhausted all the resources of argument and persuasion, rose to depart. "At least," he counselled his friend, "don't fight till two in the afternoon. It is no use getting up early for so unpleasant an affair. Besides, I know you. You are always at your worst--nervous and fidgety--between ten and eleven."

"You know that," said Dujarier eagerly, "you won't think it fear? And, Dumas," ... he went to his desk, and wrote a cheque on Laffitte's for a thousand crowns. "I owe you this. Now this is drawn on my private account, and as the duel takes place at eleven, go there before eleven, for you don't know what may happen. Go there _before eleven_, for after that my credit may be dead. I beg of you, go before eleven."

The two friends wrung each other's hand, and Dumas, heavy at heart, went downstairs. Dujarier was left to his thoughts. The reflections of a man who is practically sure that he will be dead next day are quite peculiar. The sensation is not fear in the ordinary acceptation of the term. It is an effort to realise what no man ever can properly realise--that the world around you, which in one (and a very true) sense has no existence except as it is perceived by you, will, notwithstanding, be existing to-morrow evening, while you will not exist. Intellectually you know this, but you cannot realise it.

At such moments men turn with relief to the pen. With ink and paper you can project yourself beyond your own grave. Dujarier signed his will, which began with these words:--

"On the eve of fighting for the most absurd reasons, on the most
frivolous of pretexts, and without its being possible for my friends,
Arthur Bertrand and Charles de Boigne, to avoid an encounter, which
was provoked in terms that forced me on my honour to accept, I set
forth hereafter my last wishes...."

Then he wrote to his mother.

"MY GOOD MOTHER,--If this letter reaches you, it will be because I am
dead or dangerously wounded. I shall exchange shots to-morrow with
pistols. It is a necessity of my position, and I accept it as a man of
courage. If anything could have induced me to decline the challenge,
it would have been the grief which the blow would cause you, were I
struck. But the law of honour is imperative, and if you must weep,
dear mother, I would rather it be for a son worthy of you than for a
coward. Let this thought assuage your grief: my last thought will have
been of you. I shall go to the encounter to-morrow calm and sure of
myself. Right is on my side. I embrace you, dear mother, with all the
warmth of my heart.

"DUJARIER."

There was nothing more to be done or to be said. Only a few hours of the night remained. The experienced duellist would have steadied his nerves by as long a sleep as possible. But Dujarier regarded himself as doomed. He mentally contrasted his miserable performances at the shooting gallery with the wonderful things De Beauvallon was reported to have done with the pistol in Cuba. The stories might be inventions. He tried to snatch a few hours' sleep.[9]

XIV

THE DUEL

The morning of the 11th March dawned. The ground was white with snow. Dujarier was taking his light French breakfast when Lola's maid brought him a message. She wished to see him. He promised to come at once, and the servant took her leave. Dujarier hastily scribbled these lines:--

"MY DEAR LOLA,--I am going out to fight a duel with pistols. This will
explain why I wished to pass the night alone, and why I have not gone
to see you this morning. I need all the composure at my command and
you would have excited in me too much emotion. I will be with you at
two o'clock, unless----Good-bye, my dear little Lola, the dear little
girl I love.

D."

It was seven o'clock. He told his servant to deliver the letter about nine. He then rose and walked to De Boigne's house in the Rue Pinon. There he found the four seconds in consultation. He saluted them, and thanked De Boigne for his notice of Lola. The conditions of the encounter were then signed and read. The combatants were to be placed at thirty paces distance, and could make five forward before firing, but each was to step after the other had fired. One was to fire immediately after the other. A coin was spun to determine who should provide the pistols; but it was understood that the weapons were not to have been used before by the combatants. The coin decided in favour of De Beauvallon. D'Ecquevillez then produced a pair of pistols, which he gave the other seconds to understand were his personal property. He and De Flers then went in search of their principal. Dujarier and his friends returned to the Rue Laffitte, where they picked up the doctor, Monsieur de Guise, and drove off, all four, to the Bois de Boulogne.

The rendezvous was a secluded spot near the Restaurant de Madrid. There is, and probably was then, a _tir aux pigeons_ close by. The morning was intensely cold, and no one was about. A few snowflakes were falling as the party arrived. There was no sign of De Beauvallon and his seconds, though it was now ten o'clock. The four men impatiently paced up and down, Bertrand and De Boigne conversing in low tones as to the probable result of the encounter, while Dujarier talked with the doctor on matters in general. De Guise, however, could not refrain from questioning him as to the cause of the affair. The journalist related the episodes at the Freres Provencaux, from his own point of view, and said that D'Ecquevillez had told him that De Beauvallon intended to fight him "because he did not like him." "I naturally replied," continued Dujarier, "that many people might not like me, and I could not be supposed on that account to fight them. D'Ecquevillez retorted that his principal would force me to fight by a blow and an insult. This threat was in itself an insult. I accepted the challenge."

The doctor observed the journalist closely. He was shivering with the cold, and the nervous excitement, which Dumas had remarked in him always at this hour, was manifesting itself. The seconds drew near, and De Guise gave it as his professional opinion that Dujarier was not in a condition to fight. Bertrand and De Boigne joined their entreaties to his, and argued that having waited an hour for the other party, they could in all honour retire from the field. Dujarier refused to do any such thing. Before all things, like most nervous men, he dreaded the imputation of cowardice. The cold and the excitement made him tremble. His friends would suspect him of fear; therefore, at all hazards, he must give them proof of his courage.

Finding his persuasions futile, De Guise resigned himself to listen to a long and minute account of the quarrel with De Beauvoir. The recital was finished when the sound of carriage wheels was heard. Dujarier's heart must have given a big leap! A shabby cab drove up and out of it jumped De Beauvallon and his seconds. De Boigne accosted the Creole with some asperity. He remarked that it was confoundedly cold, and that he and his principal had been kept waiting for an hour and a half. D'Ecquevillez, who seems to have done most of the talking throughout the whole affair, turned to Bertrand, and explained that they had been delayed by the necessity of purchasing ammunition and by the slowness of the cab horse.

De Boigne now addressed himself to De Beauvallon, and made a final effort to arrange the dispute. "I speak to you," he said, "as one who has had experience of these affairs. There is nothing to fight about. Your friends have put it into your head that an insult was intended."

"Sir," replied De Beauvallon coldly, "you say there is no motive for this duel. I think differently, since I am here with my seconds. You don't suggest any other course. The position is the same as yesterday, when it was settled that we should fight. Besides, an affair of this sort is not to be arranged on the field."

De Boigne shrugged his shoulders. He had done his utmost for his friend. He and De Flers selected the ground, and with the consent of the other, he measured forty-three paces, diminishing the distance originally agreed to. D'Ecquevillez, meanwhile, had produced his pistols, recognisable by their blue barrels. Bertrand was about to charge one, when he introduced his finger into the muzzle, and withdrew it, black to the depth of the finger-nail. He looked at the other. "These pistols have been tried," he said.

"On my honour," declared D'Ecquevillez, "we have only tried them with powder. Monsieur de Beauvallon has never handled them before."

With this positive assurance Bertrand had to be content. The pistols were again tried with caps. With grave misgivings, he and De Boigne placed their man. De Beauvallon also took up position. Dujarier took his pistol from his second so clumsily that he moved the trigger and nearly blew De Boigne's head off.

The signal was given. Dujarier fired instantly. His ball flew wide of the mark. He let drop his pistol, and faced his adversary.

De Beauvallon very deliberately raised his arms and covered his opponent. The spectators held their breath. "Fire, damn you! fire!" cried De Boigne, exasperated by his slowness. The Creole pulled the trigger. For an instant Dujarier stood erect. The next, he fell, huddled up on to the ground. The doctor rushed towards him. His practised eye told him that the wound was mortal. The bullet had entered near the bridge of the nose, and broken the occipital bone, so as to produce a concussion of the spine. De Guise assured Dujarier the wound was not serious and told him to spit. He tried in vain to do so. Bertrand summoned the carriage to approach. De Boigne leant over his friend, and asked him if he suffered much pain. Dujarier, already inarticulate, nodded; his eyelids dropped, and he fell back in the physician's arms. He was dead.

D'Ecquevillez, seeing Dujarier fall, offered Bertrand his assistance. He was rebuffed, told to gather up his pistols, and to go. He hurried off with the other second and his principal, who murmured: "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" as he passed his late adversary. "How have I conducted myself?" he asked his second.

"I hope I shall always act in similar circumstances as you did," was the reassuring reply.

Meanwhile, Dumas had gone, full of anxiety, to the Rue Laffitte, to find that his friend had left the house, with what object he guessed. He noticed as a sinister omen that there was blood on the banister. He went away, sad at heart, to await the result of the combat.

Lola, on the receipt of her lover's note, hurried at once to his house. She burst into his bedroom and saw two pistols--Alexandre's, no doubt--lying upon the quilt. Gabriel, Dujarier's servant, who had followed her, shook his head sadly, and said, "My master knows very well he will not return." In an instant Lola was again outside the house, driving to her good friend, Dumas's. The novelist told her that it was with De Beauvallon, not with De Beauvoir, that their friend had gone to exchange shots. "My God!" she cried, "then he is a dead man!"

She rushed back to the Rue Laffitte. She spent half an hour in agony of mind, when the sound of a carriage stopping fell upon her ears. She flew into the street, and opened the carriage door. A heavy body lurched against her bosom. It was her dead lover.

XV

THE RECKONING

It was not in fair fight that Dujarier had fallen. Before even he had been carried to his grave, with Balzac, Mery, Dumas, and De Girardin as his pall-bearers, the suspicions of all his friends had been aroused. At Dr. Verons, the morning of his death, Bertrand showed Dumas his finger-tip still blackened by the barrel of De Beauvallon's pistol. Would a pistol which had not been charged with ball leave such a stain? Experts present said no. The suspicion that De Beauvallon had made doubly sure of killing his adversary by trying his weapon beforehand ripened in the minds of many into conviction. How, too, had the Creole spent the early part of the morning? Why did he not come with his seconds to the Rue Pinon. What was he doing while Dujarier was awaiting him in the Bois? The affair began to wear a very sinister complexion. Representations were made to the police. Enquiries were set on foot, and De Beauvallon and D'Ecquevillez promptly retired across the Spanish frontier.

Lola had sustained a staggering blow. She was sincerely attached to Dujarier, who had been more to her than any other man had been. The memory of her husband was hateful. Liszt had flashed suddenly across her path, to disappear a few weeks later. Besides, he had given her up of his own accord. But this man had shared her life for months, had loved her to the last, had cared for her both as a lover and a husband. In his will he left her eighteen shares in the Palais Royal Theatre, representing twenty thousand francs. She referred, years after, and no doubt sincerely, to his death as a loss that could never be made up to her.

The luxury of grief is allowed in scant measure to those who minister to the public's amusement. They must dry their tears quickly. Three weeks after the fatal duel, Lola made her appearance at the Porte-St.-Martin Theatre, in _La Biche au Bois_. The audience was no less critical than at the Opera. She was hissed, and with her usual audacity, she exasperated the public still more by expressing her contempt for them upon the stage. So ended her career as a _danseuse_ in the French capital.

She lingered on in Paris, notwithstanding, frequenting the society of her dead lover's friends in accordance with his last wishes. The legacy had relieved her for the moment of the necessity of earning her living. She longed to see retribution overtake the man who had robbed her of all that life held dear. Justice seemed for a time to pursue the slayer with leaden feet. In July the Royal Court of Paris practically exonerated the seconds, and De Beauvallon thought it safe to surrender voluntarily. The explanations he gave as to his movements on the 10th and 11th March did not, as he had hoped they would, satisfy the authorities. The Court of Cassation quashed the decision of the lower court, and sent the accused for trial, on the charge of murder, before the Assize Court of Rouen.

The case is one of the most celebrated in the annals of French justice. It all turned on the article in the code of honour that forbids a duellist to make use of arms which he has already tried, and with which he is proficient. All the witnesses--among whom were professed experts--agreed that this rule was absolute. The case, which raised many other nice points of law, was heard before the President of the Tribunal, Monsieur Letendre de Tourville. The prosecution was conducted by the King's Procurator (General Salveton), the Advocate-General, and two very able counsel, Maitres Leon Duval and Romiguiere. But the defence had a tower of strength in the great advocate Berryer, the defender of Ney, Lamennais, Chateaubriand, and Louis Napoleon--the greatest pleader and, after Mirabeau, the greatest orator his country has produced.

A trial whereat Alexandre Dumas and Lola Montez, to say nothing of the lesser lights of the literary and theatrical world, appeared as witnesses, excited immense interest. Dumas produced a sensation which must have rejoiced his heart on entering the witness-box. He was asked his name and profession. "Alexandre Dumas, Marquis Davy de la Pailleterie," he replied with evident complacency; "and I should call myself a dramatist if I were not in the country of Corneille."

"There are degrees in everything," replied the learned President.

Claudin, who heard these oft-quoted words, gives it as his opinion that Dumas expressed himself thus from a genuine sense of modesty, and that the judge did not succeed in being funny.

The great Alexandre was in very good form throughout the whole trial, which lasted from the 26th to the 30th March 1846, inclusive. He expounded the laws and principles of the duel, with copious commentaries. He quoted an authoritative work on the subject, drawn up by a body of noblemen and gentlemen--a work which the judge dryly observed he did not intend to add to his library. At the conclusion of the first part of his evidence (the gist of which we know) he solicited leave to return to Paris, to assist at the representation of one of his dramas in five acts. Dumas never lost an opportunity of advertising himself. He managed also to drag his son into the box, though the latter had really nothing to say.

The frail, fair ladies of the supper-party also had to run the gauntlet of examination and cross-examination. The virtuous ladies of Rouen, anxious to hear the most scandalous details of the case, filled the space reserved for the public, and having feasted their eyes on the _demi-mondaines_, obstinately refused to let these find seats among them. Mademoiselle Lievenne appeared in a charming toilette of blue velvet, with a red Cashmere shawl, and a pearl-grey satin hood. Lola, as befitted the melancholy occasion, wore the garb of mourning, and never, perhaps, showed to more advantage than in her close-fitting black satin costume and flowing shawl. She was the cynosure of all eyes. Though a year had passed since the event now being discussed, her utterance was choked with sobs, and the reading of Dujarier's last note caused her to shed floods of tears. She declared that had she known it was De Beauvallon with whom her lover intended to fight, she would have communicated with the police and prevented the duel. "I would have gone to the rendezvous myself," she cried with characteristic spirit. In her Memoirs, she adds that she would have fought De Beauvallon herself, and her life-story testifies that this was no empty gasconade.

That Dujarier's death had been premeditated by his antagonist was abundantly proved at the trial. The pistols which the dead man's seconds had been led to believe belonged to D'Ecquevillez were now admitted to be the property of the accused's brother-in-law, Monsieur Granier de Cassagnac. They had been in the possession of De Beauvallon since the eve of the encounter. Circumstantial evidence went to show that he was familiar with the weapons, and had practised with them on the fatal morning. But the testimony of the witnesses, the facts themselves, the skilful pleading of Duval, prevailed not against the eloquence of Berryer. His magical powers of oratory brought the jury round to his point of view, and De Beauvallon was acquitted of the charge of murder, though cast in damages of twenty thousand francs towards the mother and the sister of his victim.

The affair did not end there. The friends of Dujarier refused to be diverted from the trail of vengeance. Fresh and conclusive evidence came to light, and De Beauvallon and D'Ecquevillez were placed on their trial for perjury during the first hearing. As regarded D'Ecquevillez, it was established that he was no viscount, but a _bourgeois_ of doubtful antecedents named Vincent, that his rank in the Spanish service was merely that of a militia captain, and that his evidence, in general, was worthless. It was proved that De Beauvallon had tried the pistols the very morning of the duel in a garden at Chaillot, taking aim with them not once, but a dozen times. Dujarier had been the victim of a deliberate conspiracy. Both the accused were found guilty and condemned (9th October 1847) to eight years' imprisonment. Both escaped from prison during the Revolution of the following year. The principal criminal returned to his native isle, where his liberation was judicially sanctioned. His subsequent appeal to obtain a reversal of his sentence was rejected by the Court of Cassation in 1855.

Lola had left France long before the assassin of her lover was finally brought to justice.

"In another six months," writes "the Englishman in Paris," "her name
was almost forgotten by all of us, except by Alexandre Dumas, who now
and then alluded to her. Though far from superstitious, Dumas, who had
been as much smitten with her as most of her admirers, avowed that he
was glad that she had disappeared. 'She has the evil eye,' he said,
'and is sure to bring bad luck to any one who closely links his
destiny with hers, for however short a time. You see what has occurred
to Dujarier? If ever she is heard of again, it will be in connection
with some terrible calamity that has befallen a lover of hers.' We all
laughed at him, except Dr. Veron, who could have given odds to Solomon
Eagle himself at prophesying. For once in a way, however, Alexandre
Dumas proved correct. When we did hear again of Lola Montes, it was in
connection with the disturbances at Munich, and the abdication of her
Royal lover, Louis I. of Bavaria."

XVI

IN QUEST OF A PRINCE

"The moment I get a nice, round, lump sum of money, I am going to try to hook a prince." In these words Lola is said to have announced her ambition to "the Englishman in Paris." That gossipy exile, whoever he was in this particular instance, was no friend of hers, and took care, no doubt, to render her expressions as brutally as possible. I do not doubt that he has interpreted her meaning truthfully enough. It is clear that Lola was an inordinately ambitious woman, eager to play a leading part in great affairs. Her association with Dujarier and other active politicians, the glimpses she had so often obtained of courts and thrones, stimulated this longing for power. She felt within her the capacity to rule men, and the ability to surmount great obstacles. A personal courage was hers, such as would have earned its possessor, if a man, the cross of honour. She feared not the bright face of danger, dreading only that circumstance might put the things she coveted beyond her reach. Valour alone, she knew, is seldom rewarded in a woman. It is considered by the women, and more particularly the men, who do not possess it, unwomanly. Intellect, again, she had; but its development had been checked, its faculties neglected, under the Early Victorian system of women's education. Besides, the most superficial observer could not have failed to see, that while learning in a man was accounted a qualification for responsibilities and honours, in a woman it was regarded as a not altogether enviable peculiarity--like an aquiline nose, or the gift of sword-swallowing. In the five years Lola had passed in the various capitals of Europe, it had become very plain to her that what men supremely prize in women is physical beauty. The governing sex attached no rewards (or, at any rate, the meagrest) to courage and wisdom. They asked woman only to be beautiful. Some insisted that she should also be virtuous, by which they meant she should bestow herself upon one of them exclusively. In other words, they allowed women to influence them only through the senses; and by the means they had themselves selected, the ambitious woman had no choice but to attack them.

Over the grave of Dujarier Lola may well have exclaimed, "Farewell, love!" Every one of her attachments had ended unhappily--the first ingloriously, the last tragically. Under such blows, her nature hardened. Ambition revived as sentiment waned. There was something worth living for still. At Rouen she heard the murderer of her lover acquitted. Bitter and disillusioned, she turned her steps towards Germany. Thanks to Dujarier, she had now "the round, lump sum of money" necessary to the execution of her project; and in Germany, with its thirty-six sovereigns, she could hardly fail to encounter a prince. She travelled about from watering-place to watering-place, from Wiesbaden to Homburg, from Homburg to Baden-Baden, "punting in a small way, not settling down anywhere, and almost deliberately avoiding both Frenchmen and Englishmen." At Baden it was rumoured that the Prince of Orange (probably an old friend of her Simla days) was among her admirers. There also she met that puissant prince, Henry LXXII. of Reuss, who straightway fell in love with her. He invited her to pay a visit to his exiguous dominions, and she went, probably feeling that she was playing the part of sparrow-hawk. At the Court of Reuss she suffered agonies of boredom. The etiquette was as strict as in the palace of the Most Catholic King, and the deference exacted by Henry LXXII. as profound as though he had been Czar of all the Russias. True, in his territory, only half as large again as the county of Middlesex, he wielded a power as absolute as that autocrat's. Of this pettiness the beautiful stranger soon showed her impatience. Her infirmity of temper betrayed itself. She infringed His Highness's prerogative by chastising his subjects--still, this could be overlooked by an indulgent prince. But when Henry one morning beheld Lola walking straight across his flower-beds, he felt that it was time to vindicate the outraged majesty of the throne. With his own august hands he wrote and signed an order, expelling Mademoiselle Montez from the principality. To this decree effect was only given when His Highness had satisfied to the last pfennig a tremendously long bill for expenses, presented to him by the audacious offender.

As it is hardly possible to take a long walk without overstepping the limits of the principality, not many hours elapsed before Lola was beyond the reach of Henry's wrath. She had the choice of various retreats. The neighbouring duchy of Saxe-Altenburg she, no doubt, contemptuously dismissed. To the north lay Prussia; but she could expect no welcome there. Frederick William, after her memorable adventure at the review, had given her to understand that his police could be better employed than in teaching her manners. She avoided Weimar, where her old lover, Liszt, had established himself in company with the Princess Zu Sayn-Wittgenstein. She may have lingered awhile in these pretty, petty Thuringian states, with their charming capitals set in the forest glades; and perhaps have made a pilgrimage to the Venusberg, near Eisenach, where her prototype ensnared Tannhaeuser. The spirit of that old _minnesaenger_ was not altogether dead. Something of it glowed in the heart of the grey-haired man who reigned over Bavaria. Deliberately or aimlessly, Lola Montez, the Venus of her generation, journeyed south towards Munich.

XVII

THE KING OF BAVARIA