Yes. I almost stumbled over her lifesize body reclining on the floor of the Musee d’Osay. Absolutely beautiful right down to the tiny cellulite dimples at her magnificent gluteal fold. She is still there, writhing forever in an orgasmic trance. She lay there in the middle of the museum floor, unprotected even by a velvet rope.
Her life was spent facilitating her salon where the finest authors, poets, artists, composers, singers and actors of her generation would gather around her charismatic beauty like moths to a flame hoping for just a moment of her affections. An opera was written about her, a plethora of paintings depict her as goddesses and milkmaids, they sand of her in bars, bawdy houses and in the palace. Poets obsessed over her.
Gustave Courbet painted her adoringly standing over him in the nude like a loving muse as he works on a landscape. In the same painting she is also found off to the side fully clothed, in middle age, her then-lover’s face partially hidden behind her. Immediately behind them is the poet Charles Beaudelaire, an unrequited lover, with his face buried in a book.
Thomas Couture and included her in his Les Romains de la Décadence . That’s her off to the left, rising above the Roman orgy in the throes of ecstasy.
Edouard Manet painted her over and over again as if attempting to purge himself of obsession. His friend, the poet Charles Beaudelaire attempted suicide after she rejected his repeated advances, then poured his grief onto the pages of his greatest work, the tortured Les Fleurs du Mal:
So I would like, one night,
when the sounds of pleasure heure,
Towards the treasures of your person,
like a coward, crawling noiselessly
To punish your joyous flesh,
to bruise your breast forgiven,
And to thy astonished flank
A large wound and hollow
And, vertiginous sweetness!
Through those new lips,
more vibrant and more beautiful,
To infuse my venom, my sister!
She took what she wanted and when she wanted from life’s cornicopeia with such generous charm no one would dare to stand in her way. She was more intelligent than most those around her, and they knew it. They called her “La Présidente” and she was subtly dominant, hypnotic, penetratingly sexually aggressive, and both sexes supplicated themselves at her feet, drugged with desire. She chose her lovers as carefully as a queen chooses her jewels, as if acutely aware that we are only given one chance here and she wouldn’t waste a minute of it.
The sculptor Auguste Clésinger captured her piercing, imperious gaze in marble. Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier did the same, again with lowered eyelids like an empress in a private moment peering down upon her subjects.
Her name was Apolonie Sabatier and this is how I found her and a life-long thirst to know everything about her began. Clésinger called his magnum opus, Woman bitten by a Snake.
Yes, Monsieur Clésinger, you never fooled anybody. We know what kind of snake has bitten this woman.