 Alfred Delvau, Columnist “Les Plaisirs de Paris” 1867 Cora Pearl quit her mansion on the Rue Chaillot in Paris, striding towards the direction of the stables where a po-faced English groom brought round one of her eight favorite horses. The specially imported servant helped her to mount the steed and then she set off, dressed in amazone equipage hailing from the House of Worth, for an appointment to be held in the Bois de Boulogne. Men such as Delvau might sing her praises now, Cora mused whilst posting against a sidesaddle to her Barb’s sprightly trot, yet would they speak the same of her following that afternoon’s arranged escapade? Would her influence over the great men of Second Empire France weigh in her favor when the day was done, or perhaps, against? She had never raised her long riding crop to strike a woman, but honor now demanded that she, the most famed courtesan of the century, show her true skill in a test of mettle. The contest would prove a difficult and bitter one, to be sure, for her adversary in the agreed-upon-duel was to be none other than the Russian grande horizontale, La Païva - and that famous beauty had not risen from the slums of Moscow to the salons of Paris without possessing a thorough understanding of the rules of warfare. Despite fleeting cowardice, Cora knew herself to be made of stronger stuff than any rival, and she also agreed that the former suitor whom the hawk-eyed Muscovite had enticed away did not warrant a single glance backwards in the direction of retreat. She encouraged her clients to boast, “The Maîtresse Anglaise, oui, she has plenty of the system!” and the bold one herself often bragged, “I treat my horses better than my men, and anyone who claims otherwise will feel the sting of my rejection!” Losing a foolish man from the human menagerie did not irk Cora, although according another woman of the profession a loftier status than her own was something that a Covent Garden girl would never do. Nearing the environs of the immense riding park known simply as the Bois, the attraction-getting equestrienne of the very smart figure remembered her first ride there with poor, now-dead Charles Auguste, Duke de Morny. She may have indeed introduced hair dyeing of various hues, and eyelash tinting, and the bustle to a worldly capital rarely taken aback by any new fashion, but Morny had gifted Cora the first riding crop, habit, boots and spurs of a young, much-celebrated life. And for those things, not to mention the whip lessons he insisted on from the House of Madame La Ferrière, distinguished seamstress, the lionne was grateful; the knowledge of dominance was a far better boon, in her eyes, than even coveted diamonds from the Rue de la Paix. Then came Doré, her handsome Gallois. The latter gentleman was the real cause of Cora’s present consternation, for no finer admirer existed in all the world save her sensitive Gustave. That one possessed of such an enormous artistic talent and bright, ready wit would consider another - christened Emma Crouch - his goddess, his muse, near made the cruel cocotte laugh aloud. Until she saw the pain languishing in Doré’s eyes, that is - no, then she became quite seriously inclined and was all-over grateful to Morny for his influence and insistence that she experience a world more outré than mere lorette might design. Should the Queen of Outrage lose her battle in the Bois to La Païva, however, what would Gustave think? For only a great amazone mistress would satisfy Doré’s romantic soul; a strong, fierce, dominating wraith - a couture-clad, jewel-encrusted Cora Pearl, the treasure to whom Morny had dedicated the lines: Et la riche Angleterre, Plus une fois dans l’eau jeta ses filets, Avant y retrouver une Perle aussi chère.* Cora dismounted with a graceful jettison from polished, leather seat, landing on the toes of black, high buttoned chaussures. She glared at the group of silly women hovering about their brunette champion; the English redhead tossed her silk-topped head and marched forward, determined to meet the foe without a second or attendants to hinder her progress. “La Païva!” she saluted, stick in the air. “Prepare to meet your better.” The enterprising daughter of Russe stood beside a gilded phaeton, hand at her throat, fumbling with stones as large as any glass stopper in decanter - les bouchons de carafe were her signature accessory - and stepped backwards, amazed by Cora’s audacity. Her eyelids were painted shockingly dark, and alongside the courtesan glowered the Prussian spymaster, Prince Donnersmark, sporting a dueling pistol cradled inside the belt of his Silesian regimental uniform. The flail pointed at Bismark’s envoy. “My quarrel is not with you, sir,” Cora commented dryly. “I demand satisfaction from her.” Known for a harsh temper of an improper bent, aimed at those less fortunate then herself, La Païva turned to her personal maid. “Go fight the amazone,” the Russian commanded. “Or else be dismissed.” “No,” Cora insisted, “come to the field alone, La Païva.” The maid, La Fôret, stepped forward, head bowed. “Should Herr Donnersmark lend me a crop…” Touched by the frail-looking lady’s spirit, Cora approached and said quietly, “Go to my horse and await your new mistress. You work with me now.” Grateful gaze met her own, and the girl raced over to four-legged opportunity. Considering the theft justified, the wronged party descended on La Païva’s shocked entourage, swinging her whip, driving the entire ensemble into a crowded carriage with shrieks of terror, causing the Prussian to draw his pistol in fear. “Shoot me,” Cora taunted, “and the Emperor’s cousin, my devoted Plon-Plon, will see you hanging in the Place de la Grève.” Needless to say, Donnersmark did not require further persuading. So, Cora Pearl, the Queen of Outrage, won the day, as well as another devoted friend who was soon to learn the way of the whip from her mistress’ superior tutelage. And perhaps, that would be a fine ending to this Second Empire fairy tale, should not a finer one in fact exist. The artist, Gustave Doré, had planned a victory celebration in advance, not doubting for a moment his divine Cora’s expertise. A mouth-watering buffet was assembled, distinguished guest invited, pug dogs pranced about the artists’ studio, fencers wielded epées, pugilists staged mock boxing matches and acrobats sprang nimbly through the air. All were enjoying the festivities when England’s Pearl arrived - a hush, then cheers proclaimed the Amazone’s rule. While the bohemians and politicians, fellow demimondaines and princes all regaled their beloved Anglaise, the blond head of Doré pushed through the happy throng, clearing a path to the woman whom he worshipped and adored. When her Gallois knelt down, Cora heard nothing in the room; she saw nothing but the cast, golden goblet that the devoted craftsman thrust into her lovely hands. For she knew Morny had commissioned the piece from Doré ‘ere the Duke’s death, yet what she had not known was that while the clasped fingers on the cup were taken from her very own, the precious sculpture included one other, interesting feature - the addition of an equestrienne’s whip. And while the others wept at the love-token, Cora smiled, bemused, for she recognized that some lessons, it seemed, really did transcend Death.  
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