Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards by Kit Brennan Page A

smiling hard. During that afternoon’s visit, I think I had begun to fall under her spell as much as any man.
    The room was spinning again. I needed air, so I asked leave to take a turn round the garden. “Excellent timing,” Cristina said. “Señor Grimaldi and I have a number of details we must sort out in confidence.”
    I bowed and exited, trying to find my way back through the labyrinthine hallways. Of course, I didn’t mention to either of them one of my character weaknesses: that is, of getting myself hopelessly lost. I’ve always done it; I’d get into terrible trouble when young by opening doors in places where I was never expected: barrack dormitories (naked soldiers), water closets (go away, girlie!), my parents’ bedroom (once, very young, I ran screaming for my ayah, convinced that my stepfather was killing my mother). I was lost on the Sylhet frontier with my pony for hours one day and a search party was sent out. The only reason I didn’tsuccumb to heat and thirst was that I finally let the pony have his head and he immediately turned around and galloped home. When I go into a building and then come out again, anyone who knows me well knows that, should I turn to go left upon exiting, we should inevitably turn right instead and by so doing, find our true path. So it is not surprising that I found myself wandering—at first happily, then with increasing vexation—around the entire ground floor of the rue de Courcelles mansion. I could look out the windows and see the garden, but could not for the life of me find a doorway by which to enter it.
    Just as I was about to try to retrace my steps (also usually a mistake), I heard a catlike mewing coming from a room off to my left. I stopped and listened for a moment: more mewing. I ventured closer, thinking that perhaps a kitten had become trapped inside, but that wasn’t it, for the door was ajar. Then I heard Concepción’s unmistakable whisper.
    â€œNo, Fernando. No, I tell you.”
    A rumble from the guardsman: “Please, it’s been too long.”
    My jaw popped open like a marionette’s. Could it be? I mustn’t let them find me listening but I just couldn’t help myself. I inched my way closer, trying to peer through the crack of the door and trying not to breathe.
    His deep growl: “She is too uncomfortable, won’t let me near her.”
    â€œWell, of course. You must be patient; she has other things on her mind.”
    â€œI am in agony.”
    A few more catlike mews from her, and then, “I daren’t. There are other ways.”
    â€œI will be in your debt.”
    I could see shapes, and those shapes were fastened together. Muñoz was kissing her throat like a man about to take a voracious bite. He had rucked up her skirts and one hand was thrust inside, moving rhythmically; Concepción flung her head back and emitted a hot groan, which made him engulf her chin with his open mouth. She would have whisker burn from that one, if I knew anything! Meanwhile, her hand at his waistband was moving purposefully lower, inside his trousers, and she was murmuring encouragingly. He grunted and moaned, mouth stillclamped to her chin. His legs became wobbly, he leaned heavily against her, and then—almost before I could believe it—he groaned a mighty groan and she placed her other hand over his mouth. “ Silencio, ” she whispered urgently. Then: “Did you hear something?”
    Merde! I backed away swiftly and, I hoped, silently. Turning the corner, I sprinted for the stairs, galloping up them at full speed. I could hear Concepción in the hallway, but if she’d seen me I know she would have cried out and called me back, brazened it out. The ability to barefacedly throw an accusation back at your accuser seems a necessary skill for the Spanish of either sex. If you’re good enough at it, you can make the other forget what the initial