In Memory of Cora Pearl (La Grande Horizontale)

Emma Crouch (aka Cora Pearl) 
(1836 - 1886)

The story goes that, ignoring her grandmother's warnings about taking up with strange men, the young Cora (then known by her birth name of Emma Crouch) one day accepted the advances of an older gentleman who approached her on the street and persuaded her to go with him to a gin palace, where he proceeded to get her drunk and then take her virginity.

She was around nineteen at the time and later confessed that this encounter left her with an instinctive horror of all men. However, it also left her with five pounds in her pocket - which was a significant sum in 1856 - so she decided not to return home, but rent a room for herself in Covent Garden and embark on a career in the sex trade.

Emma soon made the acquaintance of Robert Bignell, proprieter of a notorious West End music hall, The Argyll Rooms, that was a known haunt of prostitutes (it even provided private rooms for those punters who weren't interested in the legitimate entertainment provided).

A keen observer of the world around her, Emma quickly realised that the life of a common prostitute was a hard and often tragic one - certainly not something she desired for herself. Thus, she determined that she would only provide her services to a select group of protectors with the financial means to keep her in a life of splendour. 

Her involvement with Bignell ended after they took a trip to Paris together. Emma immediately fell for the City of Light and after he returned to London she decided to stay on in the French capital. It was at this time that she adopted the fanciful pseudonym Cora Pearl and set about refining and broadening her skills as a courtesan (under the watchful eye of a pimp, Monsieur Roubisse, who set her up in suitable quarters and taught her the rules of the game).  

By the early 1860s, Cora was one of the most celebrated prostitutes in Paris. Her first lover of real distinction was Victor Masséna, Duke of Rivoli and Prince of Essling. The same age as Cora, he was besotted by the English beauty and happily supplied her with money, jewels, servants and even a private chef. He also bought her a horse (to whom, it was said, she was kinder than to him) and Cora soon became an accomplished rider.

Whilst she accepted the duke's devotion and generosity for five years, she was also sharing her favours with other notable figures, including the heir to the throne of the Netherlands (William, Prince of Orange) and the half-brother of Emperor Napoleon III (Charles, Duc de Morny).  

What, one might ask, was the secret of her charm?

Obviously, she had sex appeal. But she also understood the importance of style; Cora always dressed in a manner designed either to shock, seduce, or scandalise and liked to dye her hair in a bright range of colours. Her make-up too was bold and striking and her face powder was tinted with silver or pearl in order to give her skin a shimmering transluscence.

I'm tempted to describe her as a proto-punk; the sort of woman who would cause a sensation at a masquerade party attended by the elite of Parisian society by turning up naked and saying she was the new Eve; or surprise her dinner guests by having herself served as the main course on a huge silver platter, garnished with parsley, and inviting those assembled to tuck in.  
 
Always happy to display her physical charms to an appreciative audience and known for her outrageous theatricality, it's not surprising to discover that in 1867 she accepted the role of Cupid in Offenbach's operetta Orpheus in the Underworld. Again, many members of the French nobility were present for the opportunity to see Cora performing semi-naked on stage.

She was, during the years 1865-1870, at the very peak of her success: she had several beautiful homes; her clothes were made for her by the English fashion designer Charles Frederick Worth (the father of haute couture); and she had a jewellery collection said to be worth over a million francs. Gifts from her suitors became increasingly extravagant and she cleverly pitted one against the other in a game of potlatch.

It was said that to spend just one night with her would cost 10,000 francs and there was even a popular drink inspired by her legend, called des larmes de Cora Pearl. She was literally the toast of Paris. But of course, nothing - least of all such glittering success - lasts forever and in 1872, now aged thirty-seven, Cora's luck ran out thanks to l'affaire Duval ...      

Alexandre Duval was an exteremly wealthy young man who became obsessed with her, squandering his entire fortune on sustaining their illicit relationship. Alas, when the money ran out, she lost all interest in him. Unable to accept what had happened with good grace, he went to her home carrying a loaded pistol and intent on killing her. The plan - and the pistol - backfired, however, and Duval was seriously wounded. The subsequent scandal obliged the authorities to take action and Pearl was (temporarily) expelled from Paris.

Essentially, the times had changed in France. Defeat in the Franco-Prussian War saw the old order collapse and the establishment of the Third Republic; aristocratic privilege declined and bourgeois values were in the ascendant. Cora was forced to liquidate her fortune and whilst not exactly destitute, by the early 1880s her financial situation was serious enough that she was obliged to return to common prositution (taking a small apartment on the Champs-Elysées).

Any money she made was soon gambled away and Cora died in the summer of 1886, shortly after publication of her memoirs, the central motif of which had been je ne regrette rien. Touchingly, one of her former lovers agreed to (anonymously) pay for her funeral costs. And, if it were up to me, I'd put her picture on the new £50 note ...


Note: those interested in the lives of famous 19thC prostitutes might like to read a sister post on Laura Bell: click here. See also 'Love Blinds: The Shocking Case of Jeanne Brécourt': click here.