"We, who knew of her gay career among the royalty and nabobs, were astonished that she should have gone to the camp. She frequently had letters from titled gentlemen in Europe, begging her to come back and live on their rich bounty. It was simply because she was weary of splendour and fast living that the Countess turned with such fondness to life in a mining camp."
To Patrick Hull, however, the attractions of the district were not so obvious. Ink was in his blood. He wanted to get back to his editorial desk, preferring the throbbing of printing presses to the rattle of spades and picks and the clanking of drills. Nor did "love in a cottage" appeal to him. When Lola refused to give up Grass Valley, he developed a fit of sulks and turned to the whisky bottle for consolation.
Under the circumstances, matrimonial bliss was impossible. Such a life was a cat and dog one. Its end arrived very soon.
"Lola Montez and her new husband," says the knowledgeable Mrs. Knapp, "had not lived together more than a few months before trouble began. When two such spirits came together, there was bound to be a clash. The upshot was that one day Lola pushed Patrick down the stairs, heaved his grip out of the window and ordered him to quit."
Mr. Hull, who could take a hint as well as any man, did "quit." He did more. He took to his bed and expired. "In his native state," says a tearful obituary, "he was respected and loved by a large circle. The family of Manuel Guillen (in whose house he lay), inspired by a sentiment of genuine benevolence, bestowed upon him all the tender watchfulness due to a beloved son and brother; and nothing was omitted that promised cure or promoted comfort."
But this was not until some time after he had received his abrupt congé from Lola Montez.
Once more, Lola had drawn a blank in the matrimonial market.
IV
With Adrienne Lecouvreur, Lola Montez must often have asked herself, Que faire au monde sans aimer? "Living without loving" had no appeal for her. Hence, she was soon credited (or discredited) with a fresh liaison. This time her choice fell on a German baron, named Kirke, who also happened to be a doctor. There was a special bond between them, for he had come from Munich, and could thus awaken memories and tell her of Ludwig, of Fritz Peissner and the other good comrades of the Alemannia, and of the house in the Barerstrasse where she had once queened it.
"This fourth adventure in matrimony was," says a chronicler, "copiously consummated." An odd choice of words. But, successful or not, it was short-lived. One fine day the baron took his gun with him into the forest. He did not return. "Killed in a shooting accident" (a fairly common occurrence in the Wild West at that period) was the coroner's verdict. As a result, Lola was once more without a masculine protector.