The Mistress of Paris E-Book

Catherine Hewitt

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 546

Beschreibung

Valtesse de la Bigne was a celebrated nineteenth-century Parisian courtesan. She was painted by Manet and inspired Emile Zola, who immortalised her in his scandalous novel Nana. Her rumoured affairs with Napoleon III and the future Edward VII kept gossip columns full. But her glamourous existence hid a dark secret: she was no Comtesse. She was born into abject poverty, raised on a squalid Paris backstreet; the lowest of the low. Yet she transformed herself into an enchantress who possessed a small fortune, three mansions, fabulous carriages, and art the envy of connoisseurs across Europe. A consummate show-woman, she ensured that her life – and even her death – remained shrouded in just enough mystery to keep her audience hungry for more. Catherine Hewitt's biography tells, for the first time ever in English, the forgotten story of a remarkable woman who, though her roots were lowly, never stopped aiming high.

Leseprobe

The Mistress of Paris

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Hewitt studied French Literature and Art History at Royal Holloway, University of London and the Courtauld Institute of Art. Her proposal for The Mistress of Paris was awarded the runner-up’s prize in the 2012 Biographers’ Club Tony Lothian Competition for the best proposal by an uncommissioned, first-time biographer. She lives in a village in Surrey.

The Mistress of Paris

The 19th-Century Courtesan Who Built an Empire on a Secret

CATHERINE HEWITT

First published in the UK in 2015 by Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre, 39–41 North Road, London N7 9DP email: [email protected]

Sold in the UK, Europe and Asia by Faber & Faber Ltd, Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3DA or their agents

Distributed in the UK, Europe and Asia by TBS Ltd, TBS Distribution Centre, Colchester Road Frating Green, Colchester CO7 7DW

Distributed in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd, PO Box 8500, 83 Alexander Street, Crows Nest, NSW 2065

Distributed in South Africa by Jonathan Ball, Office B4, The District, 41 Sir Lowry Road, Woodstock 7925

ISBN: 978-184831-926-4 (hardback) 978-178578-003-5 (paperback)

Text copyright © 2015 Catherine Hewitt

The author has asserted her moral rights.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Typeset in Van Dijck by Marie Doherty

Printed and bound in the UK by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Contents

Prologue

1.A Child of the Revolution

2.The Child Becomes a Woman

3.First Love, First Appearances

4.Creation

5.A Courtesan Must Never Cry

6.The Lioness, Her Prey and the Cost

7.Names and Places

8.The Union of Artists

9.Words and Wit

10.Valtesse and Zola’s Nana

11.A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words

12.A Political Affair: Gambetta, Annam and Tonkin

13.The Thickness of Blood

14.Slander, Scandal and Sun Queens

15.The Thrill of the New: the Comtesse in Monte Carlo

16.The Feminine Touch

17.New Beginnings: The Sale of the House

18.The Final Act: Preparing a Legacy

Epilogue: The Legacy

Acknowledgements

Picture acknowledgements

Selected bibliography

Notes

Index

Prologue

One Sunday afternoon in May 1933, journalist Jean Robert found himself in the northern French town of Caen.1 He had been invited to attend a lunch with some old school friends. Having spent several pleasant hours in their company, he hastened along to the town hall. The Annual Exhibition of Lower Normandy Artists was under way, and he was eager to see it before returning home. Once satisfied with his tour of the gallery, he stepped outside into the mid-afternoon sun. Checking his watch, Robert realised that he still had an hour before his bus left. As he pondered how best to use this time, his eyes alighted on a door just ahead of him. It was the entrance to the local museum. It had been left wide open, inviting. Delighted by the prospect of an absent-minded meander around the museum, the journalist hurried inside.

He climbed the stairs and entered the first room. But no sooner had his gaze begun its tour of the exhibition space than something peculiar caught his eye. It was a portrait of a well-to-do gentleman dressed in a blue, 18th-century costume. Robert recognised the name of the painter: Édouard Detaille. He was an artist Robert greatly admired. But Detaille was a painter of military scenes; this was not a soldier. As Robert stepped closer and read the inscription, he was taken aback: Etienne-Michel, Marquis de la Bigne. Then he noticed another painting by the same artist on display close by. This portrait showed an officer in Napoleonic uniform. The subject was identified as Sigismond-Tancrède, Comte de la Bigne. And both works, the journalist learned, had been bequeathed to the museum by a countess: Valtesse de la Bigne.

Robert was startled. He was friends with the current Marquis de la Bigne. Only a few years ago, he had assisted his friend in researching his family’s history. He could not remember whether he had come across the names of these two men in the course of his research, but one thing was certain: he had never heard of this Valtesse.

How was this possible? De la Bigne was a local, noble name. Few people shared it. Those who did were almost certainly of the same family. How could he have missed the existence of a countess, and one who had died so recently? And how was it that these paintings had found their way into the museum in Caen?

As he left the museum, the strange name Valtesse ran through his mind. Who was this woman? He had to find out more.

Robert knew there to be some members of the de la Bigne family living in Paris, and he wasted no time in paying them a visit. Yes, they had heard about this woman. ‘An adventuress’, Robert was told. But the family could not provide him with anything more substantial. The journalist’s curiosity mounted.

Then, on his return home, something rather wonderful happened, quite by chance. Robert received a letter from a reader of the journal he wrote for. It told him about some research that was being done on Valtesse de la Bigne. Feeling it might be of interest, the author of the letter had included an article with his correspondence. Robert could hardly contain his excitement. He began to read. And as he did, an incredible story started to unfold.

This was no ordinary countess or art connoisseur. She had usurped the noble name, invented the men in the paintings, and then bequeathed them to the museum to cement a false association with local nobility. And more: this woman, though born into poverty and destitution, had risen to become one of the most powerful courtesans of 19th-century Paris.

Her tale begins with another young woman and a flight from Normandy to Paris in the tumultuous years of the 1840s.

CHAPTER 1

A Child of the Revolution

It would still have been dark when the young peasant girl, Emilie Delabigne, boarded the diligence or stagecoach which was to carry her from Normandy to Paris early one morning in 1844. Having loaded a small bundle of possessions on to the roof, diligence passengers took their seats among the strangers who would become their travelling companions over the next three days. The coach must set off before sunrise if they were to maximise the daytime travelling hours – diligences were not as costly as the faster mail coaches, but they would not drive through the night. Passengers were obliged to stop at one of the post stations dotted along the route to Paris where they would rest and eat. Eight people, sometimes more, could be packed into a diligence; at 24, Emilie might well have been the youngest woman of the party setting out that morning.1

Country folk travelled to the capital for all sorts of reasons: perhaps some pressing business matter to attend to, or an illness in the family that would demand an extended stay with relatives. But it was too far for a humble peasant to travel simply for leisure. Emilie had a more serious reason for taking the coach to Paris.

Diligences were a notoriously uncomfortable mode of transport, particularly when the roads were rough, as they were in Normandy. Slowly, steadily, the vehicle would pick up pace, creaking as it went, swaying precariously from side to side. Passengers frequently complained of being thrown this way and that.2 Emilie had to steady herself to watch her childhood home gradually disappearing from view through the carriage’s tiny windows. It was a sight charged with poignancy, anticipation and trepidation. For at this moment, only one thing was certain: she was unlikely ever to see her home again.

Emilie was not the only young peasant moving to Paris at this time. Migration from country to city had always occurred, but the momentum increased from the mid-century as industrial and commercial development heightened the demand for labour.3 With improved communication, news of Paris’s wonders and delights began to reach the ears of the countryside’s impressionable young. ‘All over France the peasant displays the same foolish awe for the city of Paris. Everything which comes from Paris seems magnificent to him,’ lamented one female commentator.4 Paris dazzled and entranced, enticing the young with the promise of well-paid jobs, better standards of living, opportunities and adventure. By the middle of the 19th century, the mass departure of the young for the capital had become the bête noire of the regional press.

For many, communication with townsfolk was to be viewed with suspicion. The disappearance of the countryside’s female population caused particular alarm. ‘Just count the losses to our agriculture brought about by our young village girls’ excessive appetite for luxury,’ spat a vicar from Emilie’s region.5 ‘Boarding schools and fashion have turned them into precious little madams, begloved, corseted and crinolined, unable to bend down and reach the ground, incapable of hoeing wheat, of binding sheaves, of feeding the animals.’ Village girls were forgetting their primary responsibility to become virtuous wives and mothers. Worse, they were developing a taste for independence.

The most dangerous influence of all was felt to be the idealised figure of la Parisienne. Elegant, fashionably dressed, turning heads wherever she went, la Parisienne cast a spell over impressionable young peasant girls. Home, family and friends would be forgotten as girls set out eagerly to transform themselves into this revered – and reviled – model of femininity.

But not all youngsters migrated with such fanciful notions. The capital boasted very real practical advantages, too. Jobs were not only more numerous; they were more secure. Agriculture was a notoriously unpredictable business. Many peasant children leaving for Paris had watched incredulously as their parents struggled in vain to maintain paltry little farms. The young were realising that such suffering was futile.

Marriage remained a peasant’s principal means of securing his or her property and future, but in ever-shrinking village populations, opportunities for prosperous partnerships were few and far between. A country girl who could only ever hope to become a farmer’s wife might realistically aspire to marry an artisan or even a bourgeois if she moved to Paris. And many girls whose families were unable to supply the all-important trousseau, so vital to securing a good marriage, found that a temporary job in Paris increased their value on the marriage market when they returned to the countryside as well.6

But Emilie did not set off to Paris that morning with the idea of one day returning. There was no previously arranged marriage to fund. Her departure was to be permanent.

Emilie’s parents were approvingly described as an ‘honest’ family, a term generally understood in 19th-century France to mean ‘of modest income’ but ‘hard-working’.7 Unlike the children of many of the poorest labourers, Emilie had learned to read and write (though she would always struggle with her spelling).8 Her literacy casts her father not as a labourer, but rather a member of the ‘middle’ peasantry, involved in commerce and thus part of a social community.9 Still, Emilie’s departure suggests that M. Delabigne was not affluent enough to support a daughter of working or marrying age, or to secure her an advantageous betrothal to the son of a local farmer. In the absence of secure, well-paid jobs, many parents encouraged their children’s departure for the city.

But even with her parents’ support, once she left Calvados, Emilie would be utterly alone, probably for the first time in her life. She would need to be resourceful and resilient. Fortunately, these were qualities that the young Normandy girl had in abundance.

A female diligence passenger like Emilie would have arrived in Paris exhausted, her skirts crumpled and her limbs aching from three long days on an unforgiving road, broken only by snatched hours of sleep in strange beds. But as the vast city of Paris came into view, even the weariest of travellers would be inclined to forget their fatigue. After the quiet backwaters of the provinces, Paris’s splendour could not fail to dazzle and amaze.

When Emilie arrived in the 1840s, the capital was slowly waking up to industrialisation. New buildings were being constructed to accommodate the growing industries, and Paris had seen its first railway open seven years earlier, turning the capital into a hub of activity and cultural interchange. On the surface, Paris was transforming itself into a lavish metropolis which impressed foreign visitors with France’s prowess. As industry swelled, the promise of jobs saw the city’s population double in size in the first half of the 19th century. Hopeful migrants flocked to the city from all corners of France. In the year Emilie arrived, Paris’s population was nudging 1 million.10

Career opportunities for women were limited for most of the 19th century. There was no state secondary education for girls until the 1880s, meaning that the options were restricted to shop work, dressmaking, laundering or repairing clothes, cleaning, and waitressing or bar tending. There was industrial work, but this was often less well paid than these domestic tasks. A more fortunate young girl might secure a live-in post as a domestic servant. She might be employed as a maid or, if she were educated, a governess. In all cases, the hours were long and the work demanding. A marriage, even if it were loveless, was often a more attractive alternative.

For an unmarried country girl like Emilie, determined or obliged to find work, a move to the city was her best chance of finding employment. Even then, women’s wages were meagre compared to men’s. But this did not deter Emilie. Calvados was a department that relied heavily on the fickle industry of agriculture; any regular paid employment was to be celebrated.11

Emilie was lucky. No sooner had she arrived in Paris than she began work as a lingère or linen maid in a boarding school on the outskirts of the city. To secure such a position so quickly, a young girl would need to have some familiarity with the textile industry and the work of a domestic servant. If she were skilled and had contacts, a country girl like Emilie could even be offered a post before leaving and have her travel expenses paid by her employer.12

A lingère was a position with heavy responsibilities. Emilie was in charge of checking in and distributing the soiled and clean laundry for the whole school. She had to ensure that all the linen was in good repair and stored appropriately. She would make minor repairs and occasionally be expected to make curtains or other soft furnishings for the school. Above all, she had to be cleanly, meticulous and physically strong. The work was laborious and the hours long. She would rise early, work relentlessly and retire late, exhausted, her body aching and her mind numbed. And at the end of each day, she would have barely 1 franc to show for her labours.

It was a punishing existence that left little time for pleasure, and in any case, conduct manuals advised employers to limit the number of social excursions enjoyed by their staff. Still, Emilie’s board and lodgings were paid for, and a school was a social community in itself. As a newcomer to the city where she was yet to make friends, Emilie no doubt welcomed the company of her colleagues. These were people with whom she could share her new experiences and exchange gossip as the day passed.

However, for a girl of Emilie’s age, much of the colour and interest of her job came from the men she was now working closely alongside. And as a new face with a fresh, country complexion and an earthy, natural beauty uncommon in Paris, she soon attracted the attention of one of the male teachers, a Monsieur T.13 By chance, Emilie’s new admirer was also of Normandy extraction. Separated from family and friends, in a city where everything was strange and unfamiliar, Emilie was easily seduced.14 A romance quickly blossomed.

The period that followed marked a parenthesis in Emilie’s life, during which the monotonous routine of the working week was punctuated by romantic interludes and stolen moments of intimacy. But then one day towards the end of 1847, Emilie made a terrifying discovery: she was pregnant.

Some accounts claim that Monsieur T. was already married; others paint him as a bachelor fond of his freedom and his drink. Either way, he never married Emilie. Still in her twenties, Emilie had become the figure that 19th-century society most reviled: the unmarried mother. She knew that both she and her illegitimate child would be social outcasts and she would need to seek alternative lodgings. Her story was only too familiar.

In 19th-century Paris, single mothers were almost always poor and without family, and frequently drawn from the textile and domestic industries. Emilie knew her options to be severely limited. She could hardly return to Calvados, where she would face unemployment as well as contempt. Her wisest move was to see out her pregnancy in Paris. There, she could at least work for most of the term and then make childcare arrangements afterwards. Perhaps the baby’s father would even assist her financially. It was not so much a chance worth taking – it was her only choice.

But by the time Emilie was nearing the end of her pregnancy in the summer of 1848, France had been thrown into uproar. If Paris’s face appeared to glitter and sparkle, beneath the surface the country’s economy had been faltering since the middle of the 1840s. The Orléanist regime watched in horror as its popularity began to crumble. In February 1848, a banquet in Paris escalated into a full-scale political demonstration, leading protesters to take to the streets and form barricades. A dismayed Louis-Philippe I abdicated, a provisional government was hastily put in place and a republic declared. But when discontent with the new administration’s political approach reached a head in June, radicals once more took to the streets. The Parisian landscape was transformed into a maze of barricades and the streets reverberated with the sound of gunfire and shouting. Tens of thousands of Parisians participated; at least 12,000 were arrested and some 1,500 were killed.15

Barely three weeks after the conflict’s bloody climax, with gunfire still echoing through the streets and the smell of smoke lingering in the air, Emilie went into labour. She was far away from her home town with no female family members to support her. Paris had its attention elsewhere. On 13 July 1848, alone and in the sweltering heat, Emilie gave birth to a baby girl.

Emilie adhered to common practice and gave her new baby her own name. But for convenience as much as caprice, the little girl soon came to be known as Louise.

Louise’s birth certificate does not identify her father. The blank space where his name should appear betrays a complicated relationship. Though Louise’s father joined her mother when she moved nearer the centre of Paris, he never officially recognised his lover or her child. He was often absent, and when he did return, his fondness for drink placed a constant strain on the household. Emilie Delabigne had to manage alone with her baby.

She could have given the child up. In 1844, 66 per cent of single mothers abandoning their infants at the children’s home, the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés, were lingères.16 But Normandy women were renowned for their sense of family and duty; Emilie refused to give up her daughter.

As baby Louise grew, she began to develop a curious, striking appearance. She had a flush of golden red hair and pale skin, against which the piercing blue of her large eyes was accentuated. She was not exactly pretty by conventional standards; but there was something disarming, ethereal, even bewitching, about her appearance.

By the time Louise had learned to walk, her mother had moved to a tiny top-floor apartment in the Rue Paradis-Poissonière in Paris’s poverty-stricken 10th arrondissement.17 It was a lively area of the city, populated with shopkeepers, artisans and factory workers, and animated by a scattering of little theatres and café concerts. Workers’ apartments like the one Louise and her mother inhabited were cramped and stuffy with low ceilings.18 The rooms were poorly lit and dingy, and the few possessions the mother and daughter owned would instantly have made it look cluttered. And Louise and her mother were not alone in the apartment; the little girl’s father was unreliable, but his presence was consistent enough for him to father six more children. Mme Delabigne, as she was now known, being over 25 and a mother, showed no resistance. Living as a concubine was common, particularly for girls who had migrated and could not easily acquire the necessary written consent of their parents to wed. Besides, the formalities of marriage presented a great expense.19

Living conditions became more and more uncomfortable as the family grew. Money was hard-won and quickly spent. Finally, Louise’s mother realised that the cost of her lover’s presence outweighed the gain. She severed relations with him for good.

Louise would never truly get to know her father. Her childhood was spent on the Rue Paradis-Poissonière, and she could not have begun her life at a more difficult time, both for her mother and for France. The revolution of 1848 had done little to improve the daily life of the poor. In Paris, the consequences of the wave of migration that brought Emilie to the capital were taking their toll. The golden opportunities so eulogised had proved a limited fund, reserved for the quick and the lucky. For the poor, living conditions were squalid. The putrid air made the stomach turn, while disease and sickness spread uncontrollably through the filthy, overcrowded streets.

The Rue Paradis-Poissonière was a microcosm of the city’s ills. On either side of the dirty, narrow street, tightly packed buildings housed a growing number of workers, shopkeepers and dressmakers. The majority of the street’s working-class inhabitants harboured bitter resentment at their lot. The theatres, café concerts and dance halls may have enlivened the area, but they also led to widespread alcoholism. It was an unsavoury place to grow up. A child had to be permanently on his or her guard. But Louise had little choice. Her mother had to continue working, and when she was away Louise found that the street became both her playground and her school.

Children of all ages would mix in the streets, the older ones teaching the younger what they knew, the young listening wide-eyed as the world was revealed to them. A child had to be perceptive and make quick judgements about characters and their surroundings. By the age of ten, Louise was becoming sure-footed. She was rapidly learning the skills needed to survive on the street, her bright eyes watching, looking, absorbing everything around her. She grew skilled at adapting to her changing surroundings. This facility would serve her well throughout her life.

For Louise, the street was often the preferable place to be. Even when her mother was at home, she was seldom alone. Conscious of her marketable assets, the resourceful Mme Delabigne would frequently return to the tiny apartment with a lover. More often than not, she was paid for her troubles. Prostitution was a common way for poor girls to make ends meet. In 1836, Alexandre Parent-Duchâtelet, the vice-president of the Conseil de Salubrité, declared there to be over 3,500 prostitutes in Paris, and a further 35–40,000 working on a clandestine basis.20 Peasants new to the city were, he felt, particularly at risk of falling into this profession owing to their vulnerability and naivety. The garment trade was notorious for supplying a wealth of young girls eager to earn some extra sous through prostitution.21 As a lingère, Mme Delabigne would often have found herself the butt of caricaturists’ jokes. For such girls, a common trait was a lack of family support to fall back on.22

For Louise, her mother’s sideline business established unconventional reference points from which to judge the world. From an early age, she learned by example that success was measured by a woman’s ability to seduce a man. Years later, the little girl would speak proudly of her mother’s sexual charisma:

‘Mama was so beautiful, my dear, that every time she went out she would seduce at least three men.’23

Still, as a child, Louise learned that her mother’s profession meant there were times when it was wise to be absent.

In this period of political upheaval, social rituals became vitally important. They offered stability and reassurance. Normandy was a region renowned for its piety and superstition, and Mme Delabigne clung to these familiar rituals when she moved to Paris. She made sure that her daughter took part in all the religious and social rites appropriate for her age. So in her tenth year, Louise joined the other girls and boys of the area at the Église Saint-Laurent to prepare for her First Communion. For children like Louise, the preparation and the ceremony were above all a marvellous social occasion. It was also a rare chance to wear a pretty dress and be admired. Everything about the event was a glittering contrast to the monotony of everyday life.

The Église Saint-Laurent was a modest yet elegant building. Louise could see it standing proud at the end of her road, a beacon of tranquillity, every time she stepped outside the family’s apartment. It took barely five minutes to walk there, but when she left home on the day of the ceremony, each one of Louise’s light, bouncing steps was another precious moment to savour the pomp and grandeur of the occasion.

Mme Delabigne washed and arranged her daughter’s long red hair specially. Then, when Louise shed her dreary everyday dress and pinafore, the frothy white Communion dress – even if it were borrowed – seemed to transform her into a princess. A delicate crown of white roses was carefully placed on her head to complete the outfit. The purity of the white lace against her red hair and blue eyes made her unconventional, Pre-Raphaelite appearance even more striking than usual. Curious onlookers turned their heads in admiration as the children filed out of the church after the ceremony.

Louise instantly caught the attention of one of her neighbours. This was the young Jules Claretie, who would go on to become a prolific journalist. The little girl was eight years his junior, but the young man was spellbound by the child as she walked past him, the light catching ‘her beautiful red hair’.24 Already, Louise’s social skills were flourishing. Well aware of the impact she was making, she bounded up to greet the young man clutching her prayer book. Louise had learned that survival depended on how you interacted with others.

Claretie became a firm friend. With his insatiable appetite for culture, he would often amuse himself by staging a makeshift puppet show for his younger neighbours. He was both director and puppeteer of these amateur performances, but the shows never failed to attract a keen audience, of which Louise was the most dedicated member. Seated on the little chair that Claretie had arranged for the purpose, she watched mesmerised as he performed crude interpretations of Victor Hugo’s tragic drama Ruy Blas and the same author’s courtly romance, Hernani. Claretie was always struck by the intensity with which Louise’s big blue eyes fixed on the wooden puppets as she attentively absorbed the dialogue. At the end of each performance, her delicate hands would applaud enthusiastically. Perhaps, Claretie fancied, she was dreaming of conquering the world of theatre as she watched those shows.

However, the friendships Louise was cultivating were not restricted to her peer group. The renowned landscape painter Camille Corot lived close by, and along with the other local children, Louise would go and visit ‘père Corot’. His studio represented a haven of peace in the bustling 10th arrondissement. When Louise stepped inside, closing the door behind her to the sounds of the street, she entered a whole new world. The artist’s studio was not claustrophobic and cluttered with objects as her home was, but spacious and simply furnished.25 The only decorations to be seen were the paintings and sketches that adorned the walls. The studio was cool, and the comforting smell of wood and oil paint filled the air. As Louise gazed upwards towards the high ceilings, she could see a large window that allowed the daylight to pour in.

Corot was a grandfather-like figure. He could often be found sitting at his easel, dressed in a comfortable, flowing blue smock and a soft hat. Once she arrived, Louise would sit and watch the master paint, singing while he worked; for Corot ‘would begin his day singing and end it singing’.26 Louise spent long summer afternoons lost in the painted world of the beautiful town of Ville-d’Avray, which Corot would bring to life through stories. Louise watched as a magical landscape built up in thick, glossy layers before her eyes. She had never travelled beyond Paris; and yet, in that quiet, peaceful space, with the sound of the artist’s voice echoing through the studio, Louise could almost believe she was there, sitting by the lake or strolling in the shade along a meandering pathway.

Louise’s life education had begun, but her childhood was to end abruptly. She had reached the age of thirteen. And it was then that she truly came to encounter the sordid underbelly of Parisian society.

CHAPTER 2

The Child Becomes a Woman

The young girl was beginning to blossom into an attractive teenager, her childlike figure growing curvaceous and womanly. Below the dramatic arch of her eyebrows, her huge blue eyes sparkled as she gazed back at all those she met. Her features were perfectly even, her nose fine and straight, and when she smiled, her dainty mouth recalled the quiet self-assurance of the Mona Lisa. But it was her hair that would turn people’s heads. The thick mane of lustrous red tumbled down her back, glinting like spun gold when the light caught it. It was unusual and people would remark on it.

To Mme Delabigne, her daughter was now a young adult. She would have to get a job.

It was common for daughters of working-class families to be sent out to earn as soon as they became employable. Few parents saw any value in sending children to school. Attendance figures in Paris were erratic even among the youngsters who were enrolled.1 Young adults were considered an asset designed to improve the family economy. This was felt most keenly in single-parent families. The memoirs of Jeanne Bouvier, the daughter of working-class parents living in Paris in the second half of the 19th century, paint a vivid picture of parents’ reliance on their children’s income: ‘I was a good worker at the factory, but I almost never got a raise. My mother, who was always short of money, would get angry to the point of beating me. She thought that I was not working hard enough and she would call me lazy.’2

The consequences of unemployment could be terrible. It was vital that a youngster be found a position at the earliest possible opportunity. Each time she stepped outside her home, Louise’s mother would see wretched women clothed in rags and men huddled in doorways, robbed of both soul and ambition. Unemployment was an ever-present threat and the Delabignes’ neighbourhood provided a daily reminder.

Having been raised in the countryside, Mme Delabigne was used to children starting work as young as seven or eight.3 It would not have struck her as unreasonable for Louise to begin work at the age of thirteen. So it was that in the early 1860s, Louise found herself arriving to begin her first day of paid employment in a dress shop.

It was a fortuitous time for the teenager to be starting her first job in the clothing industry. The market for luxury items was flourishing. After the financial crisis of the late 1840s, France was now enjoying an economic boom as the new Emperor, Napoleon III, set about nurturing the country’s prosperity. Under the Second Empire, industry was thriving, communications and transport were improving, and money was being poured into housing. On the surface, Paris sparkled with affluence and possibility. There reigned a spirit of joie de vivre, and youth and beauty were particularly sought-after commodities.

The tone was firmly set by the Emperor and his entourage. The Imperial Court was renowned for its extravagance, its spectacular balls and parties, its elaborate costumes and gastronomic excess. Its example filtered down the social scale and was imitated by the rest of society. Everyone wanted to copy Napoleon and Eugénie.

‘In general, people believe that luxury is the state most favourable to health,’ complained critic Philarète Chasles in 1863.4 This was the Paris of dances, parties and theatre excursions. Gaiety and frivolity had become the city’s guiding principles.

The bourgeoisie found that they now had money to spare, and the leisure industry was quick to respond. Cafés, balls, operas, ballets and the theatre drew pleasure-seekers from across the capital. Ostentatious department stores began to appear from the middle of the century, and mechanised manufacture made fashion available to the masses. Paris firmly established itself as the world capital of luxury, good taste and pleasure.

At the centre of this lavish fashion show was la Parisienne. ‘The Parisienne is not in fashion,’ declared man of letters Arsène Houssaye, ‘she is fashion.’5 More than ever, a lady’s appearance was of the utmost importance. ‘By simply inspecting the external appearance of a woman,’ explained the Comtesse Dash, the author of etiquette manuals, ‘another woman, if she has intelligence and skill, will know to which class she belongs, what her education has been, the kind of society she has frequented. She will even be able to guess her tastes, her character, if she gives herself the trouble to observe; often the way she wraps her shawl about her, the placement of her hat, the way she puts on her gloves, tells of her life.’6

The burgeoning fashion industry depended on a steady supply of laundresses, seamstresses, milliners and shop assistants. Louise was one of many young girls whose first experience of luxury was preparing it for other women’s consumption. As an impressionable teenager, Louise was swept up in the reigning spirit of extravagance and consumerism. But as a dress shop employee, her life was a stark contrast to that of the customers she was now serving.

A dress shop assistant’s working day was long, lasting up to twelve hours. An 1841 law limiting the hours a youngster could work was rarely adhered to by employers.7 Louise would leave home early, while the great city of Paris was only just stirring. The streets were being swept in preparation for another busy day and as Louise made her way along the pavements and passages, she would pass market sellers, factory workers and shop assistants, all hurrying to take up posts which would bring the city’s bustling industries to life. Louise had to walk briskly. It was important that she arrive punctually. Few employers tolerated lateness, and time would have to be made up at the end of the day. A girl could not risk her parents discovering that her performance had been found wanting.

A young girl’s wages could be pitiful by comparison with those of an adult. Under the Second Empire, the average adult worker earned a daily wage of 2 francs 50, though the more fortunate employee could be paid as much as 5 francs. The 40 sous (approximately 2 francs) Louise took home at the end of the day was a respectable wage for her age and profession.8 Those precious coins brought personal pride and parental affection. But Louise soon discovered that they were hard-won.

Her day was filled with preparing garments for clients, adjusting ribbons and trimmings, adding adornments, and handling all manner of luxurious fabrics. A wealth of new skills had to be acquired and perfected. But Louise had always been an observant child. She responded as she always had to a new environment: she studied the people around her. By closely watching her co-workers and mimicking the work of their delicate fingers, she quickly mastered all the techniques of the trade. Soon, Louise became known in the local area for her intricate lace ribbons and pretty taffeta dresses.

Once the anxiety of the first day had passed, a new girl like Louise would fall into a routine. After an early start, a simple lunch was taken at about midday, usually in the workshop. Louise’s contemporary Jeanne Bouvier also worked in a dressmaking shop and was struck by her colleagues’ frugal eating habits: ‘how they would scrimp and save so they could buy gloves, perfume, and a thousand other accessories. The midday meal was often reduced to its simplest expression.’9 Work then continued into the evening. It was draining, but conversations with fellow workers could make the time pass more quickly.

Dress shop owners typically employed several girls who would work alongside each other. Jeanne Bouvier recalled how the women she worked with were ‘pleasant comrades’ who would sing as they sewed; ‘I had fun with them.’10 In L’Assommoir (1877), Émile Zola’s fictional tale of a working-class Parisian family, the florist’s workshop where the teenager Nana is employed is abuzz with the sound of girls’ voices chatting and gossiping as they work, giggling at each other’s jokes, quietening only when the patronne enters.

For a young girl, the work environment provided a very particular form of education. Older girls could be doubtful teachers. In L’Assommoir, the jokes shared among the girls are frequently crude, and Nana soon becomes well versed in sexual double-entendre. Like Nana, Louise was exposed to the life experience of the girls around her. Zola’s acerbic view of such establishments was shared by many: they provided ‘a fine education’, with girls gathered together ‘one on top of the other’, so that, just like a basket of apples containing a single overripe fruit, ‘they rotted together’.11

Years later, Louise wrote a novel, Isola (1876), based on her childhood experiences, in which she denounced the corrupting influence of the workplace on a young girl. But it was not her colleagues’ tales that shook her confidence. The place was:

one of those workshops where young girls learn, among other things, to defend their honour. Uneasy about what I sensed, not daring to confide in anyone, unaware of good as of evil, I spent three years in this way. When, without respect for my childhood, a man spoke words to me which I suspected to be indecent, I left the workshop, occasionally regretting the company of the woman whose husband had insulted me; and when I was alone, I asked myself what it could possibly be about me that made men harass me in this way.12

But for contemporary social observers, it was the employee’s walk home that gave most cause for concern. The journey to and from work was riddled with danger, not least because it provided an opportunity for men and women to meet. Louise’s contemporary, Suzanne Voilquin, also began work at a young age to help her family. She described her anxiety about walking home late after work: ‘I had a horrible fear of meeting on my return one of those contemptible men who make a game of accosting young women and frightening them with disgraceful remarks.’13

As she walked to and from work, Louise would come face-to-face with the city’s less glamorous side and its full cast of disreputable characters. For all that the capital glittered and dazzled, poverty and corruption simmered below its surface. It was a city tainted by alcohol and prostitution. While the bourgeoisie and the upper classes revelled in their new-found luxury, the poor were growing poorer – and increasingly resentful. The areas inhabited by the lower classes remained squalid. Living where she did, Louise could not escape the capital’s more sinister face.

Looks could be deceiving, too. As the century progressed, it was becoming harder to make judgements based on appearances. ‘Vice is seldom clad in rags in Paris,’ wrote an English visitor to the capital.14 ‘These days, one can no longer tell if one is dealing with honest women dressed as good time girls, or good time girls dressed as honest women,’ warned Maxime du Camp.15 Even age and experience offered no shields against deception. But then Mme Delabigne never queried the company Louise was keeping. When a girl arrived at the Delabigne residence one day introducing herself as Camille and asking if Louise was free to go out, she assured Mme Delabigne that she was a friend from the shop.16 Camille seemed harmless enough. It did not occur to Mme Delabigne that two girls together might get up to more mischief, encourage each other and attract more male attention than one. She allowed Louise to accompany the stranger out into the street.

Years later, in her semi-autobiographical novel, Louise drew on her encounters as a teenager:

The people around me whispered strange words in my ears which made me blush without knowing why. I did not understand, and look at the terrible consequence of my ignorance. I was embarrassed not to understand.

I wanted to see, so I drew nearer to this world which was spinning around me and to which I did not seem to belong.

I was swept up in the terrible chain.

Carried away, dazed, not seeing clearly, I let myself go, mad, stupid, laughing so as to show my teeth and hide my tears. I continued in this way until the day when, coming to my senses again, I realised that I was lost.17

Like Zola’s Nana, Louise caught the eye of an older man. Any man could pass himself off as a gentleman if he knew how to present himself. Louise’s mature admirer gave her her first sexual experience. It was brutal.

Why is he protected by the world, the man who led me to that place, and who knew where he was leading me? Why does society have indulgent treasures to offer the wicked person whose good fortune and gallant adventures people talk about behind their fans?

Yes, in that first journey, I saw what I did not suspect, the illusions, the naive aspirations, the dreams and hopes of my childhood, it was all gone in an instant because a brutal passerby had taken advantage of my gullibility, and society, which owed me assistance and protection, became my cruellest enemy.18

The experience lifted a veil for Louise, revealing the harsh reality of life for a working-class Parisian girl. She had known poverty and hunger. She had also seen luxury, felt the rich textures of expensive fabrics, watched women of fortune as they left the shop with their colourful dresses and chic bonnets tied with ribbons. As a child on the streets and as a teenager in the workplace, she had overheard whispered tales of sordid affairs, and she had passed shady figures coming and going on visits to her mother. But a glimpsed silhouette and a second-hand tale lack the bitter edge of first-hand experience. Now, her innocence had been irreparably shattered.

All at once she could see clearly: happiness came at a price. Tenderness and emotional warmth were conditional, unreliable, untrustworthy. And material pleasure required money. Louise was poor. To taste the luxury those elegant ladies enjoyed, she must have something else to offer, something the keyholders to all that splendour desired. All around her, in her neighbourhood, on her route to work, there were girls just like her whose innocence had been destroyed. Often, as their naivety vanished, girls began to realise that they had the means to escape poverty. To satisfy their material needs, they had only to respond to men’s physical urges. They would give men exactly what they wanted: their bodies.

‘How many young girls I have seen fall,’ lamented Jeanne Bouvier, ‘because they earned such miserable wages. I have seen them go down into the streets. Poverty is an insufferable situation, and those who do not escape into suicide escape into prostitution.’19

In Louise’s case, the shock of losing her virginity coincided with the natural curiosity of an adolescent impatient to grow up and the hunger to taste the pleasures she had watched the rich girls enjoying. Once her purity had been sullied, there was nothing left to lose. Added to which, Louise lived dangerously near Notre-Dame de Lorette, an area known for its flourishing sex trade. Her fall into prostitution was perhaps inevitable. ‘A fact worth noting,’ observed A. Coffignon in his study of corruption in Paris, ‘is that the worker who later submits to prostitution has almost always been deflowered by a man of her class and her immediate entourage.’20 Louise’s example was typical.

Her new career was a well-established profession, and there were always opportunities for new recruits. In 19th-century Paris, the industry was thriving as never before, largely due to the extreme contrast between rich and poor. The capital boasted one of the most highly regulated systems of prostitution in the world. While other countries sought to eradicate it, the French system worked from a simple premise: prostitution was unfortunate but inevitable. Fighting it was futile. It was better to control it.

To this end, Alexandre Parent-Duchâtelet’s Prostitution in the City of Paris (1836) sought to record the state of the industry and assess the scale of the problem. His findings gave rise to countless stereotypes and revealed the rigorous methods of control that officials attempted to put in place.21

As far as the authorities were concerned, girls working in the industry could be grouped into two categories: filles soumises or filles insoumises.22 A fille soumise was a prostitute who had been officially registered. A girl could register herself, or she would be registered by an official. Either way, she would have to adhere to strict rules and regulations. Besides being forbidden to appear in public outside specific hours or to live within a certain distance of a school, she would have to undergo regular health checks. These were universally dreaded. An unsatisfactory report (usually a diagnosis of a venereal disease) could lead to forced admission to the fearful prison-hospital, Saint-Lazare. Girls whispered that you could be locked up and even have your hair cut off if you were detained.

Being registered as a fille soumise brought frustrating restrictions. But the alternative was far worse. An unregistered prostitute or fille insoumise led an even more precarious existence. She was constantly on her guard for fear of being caught by the police. And yet to the irritation of rigorous information-gatherers like Parent-Duchâtelet, clandestine prostitution continued to thrive uncontrollably.

When Louise first turned her hand to the profession, unregistered to begin with, she joined thousands of girls in a complex social hierarchy.23

The lowest status was that of the common prostitute. Such a girl would walk the streets soliciting potential clients, or work in a brothel, and usually lived in a state of abject poverty. If a woman had not sunk to this lowest of stations, she automatically joined a superior category: the demi-monde.

Demi-monde provided a convenient umbrella term for an indefinable, shady ‘half world’ and all those who occupied it. It was a place hovering between destitution and respectability, and within it were further categories and gradations of sex worker.

At the bottom of the hierarchy was the grisette. Young, lighthearted and coquettish, the grisette often worked in the clothing industry or sometimes as a florist, and used prostitution to supplement her meagre income. The synonymy between the garment trade and prostitution became a cliché that aroused knowing smirks, but the stereotype was based on statistical fact. So frequently was it proved accurate that it gave this class of prostitute her name: grisette derived from the inexpensive grey material from which working-class women’s dresses were made. A grisette was still achingly poor and had to live a frustratingly modest existence. But she could hold her head higher than the common prostitute. According to popular perception, when the working week was done, the grisetteloved nothing more than to have fun, to go to dances, cafés and student balls, and she adored the theatre. But more than anything – more than parties, pretty trinkets or a hunger-relieving supper – the ambitious grisette dreamed of becoming a lorette.

Taking her name from the area of Notre-Dame de Lorette where her kind were found in abundance, the lorette was still a relatively new class of prostitute when Louise started working in the industry. Initially identified by Nestor Roqueplan in the 1840s, the lorette was proud to be able to distinguish herself from the grisette. Crucially, she would have secured the protection of a man of considerable income, who would often set her up in her own apartment, turning her into a femme galante or kept woman. And this source of income enabled her to enjoy a more comfortable lifestyle than the grisette could ever hope for. A grisette would make do with a handful of practical shirts, skirts and bonnets; a lorette spent every last sou on the latest dresses made of fine silk and rich velvet, trimmed with delicate lace, and she would purchase sumptuous hats and accessories. A grisette would gratefully accept what she was offered; a lorette would expect the best and always want more. However, the lorette mixed in relatively lowly bohemian circles. She knew she had not yet reached the summit of her profession.

The highest echelon to which a girl working in the sex industry could aspire was the title of courtesan. Known variously as les grandes horizontales, les grandes abandonnées, les grandes cocottes or les lionnes, with the top ten or so leading courtesans referred to as la garde, these were the women who commanded Paris. The courtesan was worlds apart from the common prostitute. The difference came down to two simple factors: the degree of choice a girl had, and her level of earnings. A courtesan had the luxury of cherry-picking her lovers, and the material benefits could be outstanding. Courtesans lived in palatial hôtels particuliers, and would be seen riding like royalty in gilt carriages through Paris’s most fashionable parks and gardens, dressed in furs and velvets, glittering with jewels. But a courtesan had to know how to promote and present herself. She must dress exquisitely, be well-mannered and cultured, have read widely and possess an innate understanding of the appropriate protocol for every occasion, for she would be mixing in elegant society. A courtesan commanded prestige. She was a celebrity.

Thousands of girls dreamed of becoming courtesans, but only a few would ever scale such heights.

When Louise began her career, she could not even consider herself a fully fledged lorette. She still lived with her mother and had no wealthy protector. She entered at the bottom of the demi-monde’s hierarchy. But circumstances had set her firmly on a path that could lead her to the top.

The teenager was soon living the lifestyle of a typical grisette. She considered her appearance carefully – grisettes were experts at dressing to please on a limited budget – and experimented with a little make-up. The goal of every grisette was to attract the attention of a suitor who would, in exchange for the pleasure he derived from her body, treat her to a good dinner, a trip to the theatre, a pretty trinket or some other present. To do this, the grisette had to go where men with spare sous would be likely to see her. Louise would follow her friends to cafés, brasseries and dances around the Latin Quarter and the area of Notre-Dame de Lorette.

Notre-Dame de Lorette was notorious: ‘Whenever people talk of pleasures, of clandestine love, of ephemeral liaisons, ruined elder sons […] one’s imagination turns, irresistibly, towards Notre-Dame de Lorette […] As soon as you mention the name in the provinces, young girls avert their eyes, mothers cross themselves, and eligible young ladies look at you with displeasure.’24

With its thronging student population and exhilarating night-life, the Latin Quarter was a magnet for grisettes seeking male attention and fun.25 Many of the students were new to the capital and had come in search of pleasure as much as an education. They often came from good families, and were bursting with newly acquired knowledge and youthful enthusiasm. And they arrived with an allowance. It was small and intended to last the month; but Paris’s wonders and attractions beckoned. The allowance rarely lasted long.

Between lectures, these young men spilled out onto the terraces of budget-friendly cafés, filling the air with laughter, cigarette smoke and the sound of cheerful banter and chinking glasses. In the evenings, they would swarm towards the Latin Quarter’s brasseries to take a modestly priced meal. The quality of the food could be doubtful, the drinks mediocre; but since most students lived in tiny attic rooms starved of both pleasure and company, the jovial atmosphere and the pretty women more than compensated.

A grisette was pleased to win the heart of a student. Besides the usual treats she greedily received, a student could also teach her something of the world. These lessons might prove useful if she were ever to progress to the status of a lorette, when she would need to mix in more cultivated society.

Louise threw herself into the bohemian lifestyle of the Latin Quarter’s cafés and brasseries. She drank, smoked, laughed loudly and began using coarse language.

But a wise grisette like Louise knew that the café and the brasserie were not the only settings in which she could catch a man’s wandering eye. In the evenings, students and other men flocked to Paris’s numerous bals publiques. This was where a grisette stood the best chance of ensnaring that wealthy suitor who would finally make her a lorette.

‘The true Parisian does not sleep,’ boasted one observer, ‘or at least, very little.’26 It was on this premise that the bal publique or public ball was founded. When the Revolution ended the government’s strict regulation regarding the frequency and location of balspubliques, a veritable dancing frenzy rippled out across Paris.27 The public ball swept away the cobwebs of tradition and became a defiant symbol of uninhibited pleasure. Students, foreigners, grisettes and lorettes, society girls and wealthy gentlemen all congregated at Paris’s bals publiques in the evenings. Men would go to admire the prettiest members of the opposite sex – and perhaps find a partner for the night; grisettes and lorettes set out with the explicit intention of attracting a rich benefactor. And both sexes arrived determined to have a good time. It was an explosive combination.

But the choice of ball would depend on social status and this would determine the kind of person one might meet. Louise had to consider this carefully. The Bal Mabille, with its enchanting garden twinkling with soft gas lights, had become one of the most fashionable balls in Paris by the mid-19th century. It was here that many great courtesans launched their careers. But when she was starting out, Louise would have found the ball at the Closerie des Lilas more to her taste. The entrance fee was cheap and the venue was brimming with students. As one English visitor remarked, this was where grisettes could be seen ‘in full feather’.28

The Closerie des Lilas was run by a M. Bullier, an enterprising tycoon in the entertainment industry, who had modelled his establishment on the Alhambra, the Moorish palace in Granada.29 A superb garden, generously planted with the lilac bushes that gave the venue its name, provided young lovers with leafy corners and shaded groves behind which to conduct their affairs. A swing aroused squeals of delight from giggling girls, while sly members of the opposite sex could sneak a look at the ankle of whichever girl was enjoying the ride. At the end of the garden was a billiard room, and just beyond it, a covered dance space; not even bad weather could stop the frenzied dancing at the Closerie des Lilas. Between the dances, patrons could take a moment to catch their breath and enjoy a refreshment at one of the round green tables, just big enough for two. It was one of the most lively, raucous evening haunts in the area. Every corner of the garden was overflowing with young people chatting, drinking and laughing.

The venue had seen some great stars in its time, including the sensational dancer Clara Fontaine. Dances were held every night of the week, and when Louise started frequenting the Closerie des Lilas the venue was beginning to attract the more ambitious grisette, with aspirations of grandeur and a hat to match; a cheap bonnet would be met with disdainful looks.30 Any self-respecting girl at the Closerie des Lilas would proudly appear in a bibi, the feathered hat favoured by lorettes.

The ability to dance well was essential. Dancing was how a girl attracted attention. This served two purposes. Firstly, it enabled her to secure a client, and for a grisette maybe even to progress to the status of lorette. But for a lorette it was also a potential audition. It was a chance to be spotted by a theatrical producer and offered a part on stage. In the lorette’s eyes, nothing could rival the thrill and glamour of being an actress.

By attending such dances, Louise was now rubbing shoulders with actresses, lorettes and men of all ages and classes. Students were all very well, but she found she had a particular weakness for military men. She sought out the prime spots they frequented, such as the Champ de Mars and the popular ball at the Salon de Mars. She loved the smart uniforms, the carefully waxed moustaches, the gleaming buckles and medals. There was something about the discipline, the rigour and the air of tradition that impressed her.

Poverty fuelled both Louise’s need for basic necessities and her yearning for luxuries. And then there was alcohol, that potion that made a person forget their worries. Louise began to rely on it more and more. But all these things had to be paid for; an unmarried girl simply could not survive in Paris, let alone console herself with a little luxury from time to time, without some spare sous. A sexual favour here and there seemed a small price to pay for a hot meal, a swig of gin or a pretty hat.

Sometimes, if Louise had offered her services to a student, a cramped attic room might be available. But occasionally she would be obliged to take a lover home. Mme Delabigne was accommodating. She knew the flavour of poverty and the ache of hunger. She had found her own body to be a renewable source of income. And Louise was disarmingly attractive. It was a simple calculation.

Louise later confided to an acquaintance how her mother complied willingly when she brought a man home, and had helped manage her career by ensuring that she always looked her best. Referring to Mme Delabigne, the confidant explained:

In the morning, when the lover had gone, she would come into her daughter’s bedroom. Finding the young girl, without stopping to worry whether or not she was tired, she covered the shivering pink body with a damp sheet. It was heroic of her, because she could have killed the youngster. That was too bad. Under the icy sensation, her breasts filled out, her skin grew firm again. The mother could feel that she had done her duty and she would say to herself: ‘You will see. The little one will be marvellous. She will be fabulous.’31

But men could be cruel. The profession forced Louise to develop a tough exterior. She had to feign pleasure when a fat and sweaty man pressed his naked body close to hers. Then she might be ordered to carry out peculiar sexual acts. And the richer the man, the more exotic his requests could be. Some men were violent; on a bad night, she might be spat at, slapped and kicked. But Louise persevered, using her charms and her body to survive. She took the blows, drawing strength from her naturally ambitious streak. Working in a dress shop had left her with a taste for finery and the power and security it brought. She would never have been satisfied as a simple grisette. From the very first, she had a loftier target in her sights.

A grisette