She was, indeed, Betty James, and London would not accept her as Lola Montez.  She left England and appeared upon the Continent as a beautiful virago, making a sensation—­as the French would say, a succes de scandale—­by boxing the ears of people who offended her, and even on one occasion horsewhipping a policeman who was in attendance on the King of Prussia.  In Paris she tried once more to be a dancer, but Paris would not have her.  She betook herself to Dresden and Warsaw, where she sought to attract attention by her eccentricities, making mouths at the spectators, flinging her garters in their faces, and one time removing her skirts and still more necessary garments, whereupon her manager broke off his engagement with her.

An English writer who heard a great deal of her and who saw her often about this time writes that there was nothing wonderful about her except “her beauty and her impudence.”  She had no talent nor any of the graces which make women attractive; yet many men of talent raved about her.  The clever young journalist, Dujarrier, who assisted Emile Girardin, was her lover in Paris.  He was killed in a duel and left Lola twenty thousand francs and some securities, so that she no longer had to sing in the streets as she did in Warsaw.

She now betook herself to Munich, the capital of Bavaria.  That country was then governed by Ludwig I., a king as eccentric as Lola herself.  He was a curious compound of kindliness, ideality, and peculiar ways.  For instance, he would never use a carriage even on state occasions.  He prowled around the streets, knocking off the hats of those whom he chanced to meet.  Like his unfortunate descendant, Ludwig II., he wrote poetry, and he had a picture-gallery devoted to portraits of the beautiful women whom he had met.

He dressed like an English fox-hunter, with a most extraordinary hat, and what was odd and peculiar in others pleased him because he was odd and peculiar himself.  Therefore when Lola made her first appearance at the Court Theater he was enchanted with her.  He summoned her at once to the palace, and within five days he presented her to the court, saying as he did so: 

“Meine Herren, I present you to my best friend.”

In less than a month this curious monarch had given Lola the title of Countess of Landsfeld.  A handsome house was built for her, and a pension of twenty thousand florins was granted her.  This was in 1847.  With the people of Munich she was unpopular.  They did not mind the eccentricities of the king, since these amused them and did the country no perceptible harm; but they were enraged by this beautiful woman, who had no softness such as a woman ought to have.  Her swearing, her readiness to box the ears of every one whom she disliked, the huge bulldog which accompanied her everywhere—­all these things were beyond endurance.

She was discourteous to the queen, besides meddling with the politics of the kingdom.  Either of these things would have been sufficient to make her hated.  Together, they were more than the city of Munich could endure.  Finally the countess tried to establish a new corps in the university.  This was the last touch of all.  A student who ventured to wear her colors was beaten and arrested.  Lola came to his aid with all her wonted boldness; but the city was in commotion.