Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards by Kit Brennan

out of my sight!” The fellow turned on his heel and dashed from the room at breakneck speed.
    â€œJuan,” I said, tugging at his arm, “was that—?”
    â€œA mistake,” he told me, not very comfortingly, then loudly to the gentlemen who were clustered around, “One of you, and you know who you are, has been murderously careless. I shall be reporting this incident to the gallery’s manager.”
    The men retorted: “You cannot believe . . . We would never . . . ! Only at the targets!”
    â€œAnd she was your target!” Grimaldi roared. My stomach lurched. Merde !
    Juan chaperoned me away as the men were reaching for me, declaring their innocence. We clattered down the stairs, their voices following, Juan’s grip on my arm very hard. The fiacre—how did his driver know?—galloped up from somewhere and drew in to the curb in reckless haste. My patron yanked at the door, bundled me inside, lookedup and down the street with suspicious, harried eyes, hauled himself aboard, and clashed the door shut. We were soon galloping headlong.
    â€œSeñor Grimaldi,” I said sternly, rocking to and fro with the motion of the vehicle, “I need you to explain to me exactly what is going on. Are you going to tell me that I am already in danger?”
    â€œNo no, certainly not. That was my confederate. He watches out for us at all times. An accident; those Parisian fools, their aim is notoriously flamboyant.”
    My hungry, traumatized belly did an acidic flip-flop, and I sat back in my seat. How appalling, I thought: He’s not telling me everything that the other gabbled to him. I’ve been shot at; I know it!
    Looking forwards to the safety of my hotel room, I was surprised when I began to recognize landmarks we had passed on our way to the gallery, and even more surprised when the fiacre turned and headed up the laneway towards Grimaldi’s mansion. “I have taken the liberty of relocating you for the remainder of your stay in Paris,” Juan said coolly. “You will find all of your gewgaws arranged to your satisfaction.”
    Welcomed inside by an officious manservant, I was led to the bedchamber that was to be mine. My trunks and hatboxes had been unpacked and the contents sat or hung in well-ordered ranks. The room was opulently appointed in cream and blue fabrics, very French. I bobbed around, staring and becoming indignant. Who had handled my possessions—including my underthings? Had my removal from the hotel been decided from the beginning? A second chill note of apprehension seized me as I remembered the extreme chaos of my belongings, flung about the hotel room during my frantic search for a matching outfit early that morning. Since then, I’d been almost murdered (had I, really?) and everything I possessed had been handled and scrutinized, by one or several unknown persons. I sat upon the bed and stared at nothing.
    After some minutes (and a good deal of disbelief), a knock at the door brought me the news that I was expected downstairs in the drawing room for drinks. Very well, I thought. I would need to maintain all the poise and sangfroid I could muster until I learned just who and what to fear and how to avoid same. I told myself that I could work these things out. I wanted so much to believe in my adventure, my new chances,and (recklessly, perhaps) I’d decided that my visit to Spain would be the making of me; the silky sibilance of the language matched the persona I was beginning to imagine for myself, and also the fiery temperament. In short, I vowed that if the Grimaldis were planning to use me, well, I would use them too.
    Ensconced in the drawing room with a fine sherry, I turned to Juan, my chin held high. “May I ask—who am I to be in your play?”
    I saw Concepción’s nostrils flare before she took a small sip from her glass. Her husband answered, “A very important—no,