The Magician's Wife Page 3

  ‘So are ordinary people doing their evening shopping in the streets of Rouen.’

  ‘Ah! You are a revolutionary, I see.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, blushing, surprised that she had been so frank with him. ‘As I told you, I’m just an ordinary person. That’s why I said it.’

  ‘Well, we won’t argue. Although now that I’ve met you I can’t believe that you are anything of the sort. But, as it’s partly my fault that you are here tonight, I hope I’ll be able to show you that a week in Compiègne can be very pleasant. There are beautiful walks in the grounds and in the forest. If you wish to go for a drive, or visit the town, there are all sorts of carriages to take you. If you care to ride, there are one hundred and fifty horses waiting in the imperial stables. Do you enjoy card games or charades? The Empress is fond of them. And of course, ladies can attend the shooting parties, or watch the hunt. It’s quite a splendid sight.’

  ‘Watching men shoot birds, or hounds chasing a stag and killing it,’ Emmeline said. ‘No. I am too fond of animals. As for cards I am without skill. And charades with the Empress! I’d be terrified. Now, do you see why I wish I were at home?’

  He laughed. ‘Indeed I do. I feel ashamed to have imposed this visit on you. Still, I’ll try my best to amuse you. If you will let me?’

  As he said this he smiled and, as though ending the conversation, turned to speak to the lady on his left. What did he mean? Was he just trying to flatter her, to make her part of whatever it was they wanted Henri to do, or was he the sort of rake who might, here in Compiègne, ignore the fact that she was Henri’s wife? He looks at me in that way. Is it this dress that makes me into someone I’m not? And that old woman had a way with my hair tonight, far better than I could manage myself. Imagine if I were part of this, dressing every evening in grand clothes, dukes and counts bowing to me, the Colonel leading me in on his arm?

  At that, as though he had heard her, the elderly gentleman on her left introduced himself as the Count de Burgos, and at once began to talk about hunting dogs. ‘I am particularly looking forward to the hunt, Madame – it’s the day after tomorrow, you know. The Emperor has a wonderful pack. English dogs. He has an excellent trainer who treats the dogs with kindness and lets them follow their natural bent. It’s a mistake to beat them, you know. They lose their initiative, if you do. I’m told it’s quite a sight to see this pack in full cry. A hundred hounds. Imagine. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you, dear lady? You’ll be there, hah?’

  She nodded in a way which she hoped could mean either yes or no. And again felt panic. Aristocrats, hunting dogs, things she knew nothing about. How was she going to get through this conversation, this evening, this week? But then she looked again to her right. The Colonel, talking to his neighbour, caught her eye and gave her a complicit smile. Reassured, she picked up the menu. There were six courses, soup, foie gras, fish, roasts, lobsters, desserts. How could they possibly eat all of this in an hour? But as the band continued to play and the dishes were put in front of her it was, at least, a reprieve from having to talk to the Count de Burgos, who, once he saw food, abandoned all attempts at speech. Coffee and liqueurs were served at the table and precisely at eight-thirty the Emperor and Empress rose. At once, lackeys came forward and drew chairs from under the guests, forcing everyone to stand up.

  Emmeline, unsure, looked to the Colonel who, offering his arm, escorted her in procession back down the long corridor where the cent gardes stood immobile as before and into the grande salle des fêtes where he excused himself and went off to another part of the room. Far away, down the enormous salon, a gentleman sat down at an upright piano and began to play a tune.

  Emmeline, alone, ignored by those around her, walked aimlessly among the groups of chatting guests. A few people had begun to dance, urged on by the chamberlains who circulated like anxious nursemaids, shepherding them towards the piano music which sounded faint and false in this enormous place. And now she saw the Colonel moving among the crowd, looking for someone. With him was Henri, they must be looking for her. She hurried to them, waving to attract their attention.

  ‘At last!’ her husband said when she came up. ‘How are you, my darling? Are you enjoying yourself? The Colonel tells me you were his dinner companion.’

  ‘And how fortunate for me,’ the Colonel said and again gave her that special smile. ‘Well, now that I’ve reunited you two . . .’ He turned to Lambert. ‘By the way, I’ve been told it will definitely not be this evening.’

  Bowing to her, he moved off and was at once accosted by two gentlemen with whom he began a conversation. She stood abandoned, with Henri, Henri who had not looked after her, Henri who was so honoured to be here among these people that he did not see the obvious: he and Emmeline were at the lowest rung of this social ladder, ignored, shut off in cold attic quarters under the roof.

  ‘What will definitely not be this evening?’ she asked. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Our audience with the Emperor. I’m not surprised. I imagine it will take place in private. It’s too important to discuss in front of other people.’

  ‘If it’s so important and you’re so important, why are we stuck up in that cold attic?’

  ‘Darling, at dinner tonight Gounod, the composer, said that his room is damp and cold and looks out on the stables and that other people are complaining of the same thing. Apparently it happens all the time at these séries. Compiègne is part of French history but that doesn’t make it comfortable.’

  ‘And what about Colonel Deniau? I’m sure he’s not in some damp room.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. Why are you being so disagreeable? I’ve spent a lot of money to bring you here. You might as well try to enjoy it.’

  She did not answer for at that moment a chamberlain approached and asked if they would like to dance. ‘If we can get the dancing properly started,’ the chamberlain said, ‘then the Empress may join in.’

  At once, as though he were a servant not a guest, her husband took her arm and led her on to the floor.

  ‘Why are we dancing?’ she said. ‘You don’t like dancing. Why do something we don’t want to do?’

  ‘It’s just good manners. Besides, I think it’s better to dance than to stand around among a crowd of people whom I don’t yet know. By this time tomorrow we will have met several interesting men and women and you’ll feel more at home.’

  ‘Will I?’

  Turning her in a wide waltz step, he looked up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘I’ll never understand you. Do you know that tonight you look more beautiful than ever? That dress is wonderful, simply wonderful. And your hair and those jewels. I’m so proud of you, my darling.’

  What was there to say? Whatever it was he wanted to achieve by coming to Compiègne, he would, as always, be ruthless in pursuit of it. If that meant spending a fortune on dresses for her, then so be it. If it meant a cold damp attic room, then so be it. If it meant that in the next days she would be ignored or snubbed, then so be it. He was not Henri Lambert for nothing, he was the man who had sat alone in a room for hundreds and hundreds of hours, his fingers manipulating cards and coins until he had learned and could perfectly reproduce every form of prestidigitation found in books of magic lore: he was the inventor of mechanical marionettes that made pastries and potions, opened gates and balanced on tightropes, an electrical wizard who used the new secrets of science to instil in his more gullible audiences the belief that he might be in league with the powers of darkness. Yes, he was kind and, yes, she believed that he loved her. But his love was not that of an ordinary man. It was, like everything he had achieved, like everything he sought to do, bound up in some way with his life of illusion.

  Shortly after nine the Colonel rejoined them, introducing them to an elderly banker who had seen Lambert perform at St Petersburg before the Empress of Russia. ‘An astonishing evening, sir. I remember that the Empress was most impressed. I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you’re to be with us this
week. It’s going to be a much more interesting série than the last one I attended. I assume we will have the honour of a performance?’

  ‘I am not here to perform,’ Lambert said stiffly. ‘But if I am asked, I may take part in some entertainment.’

  ‘The old banker smiled. ‘Wonderful. I look forward to it, sir.’

  ‘And the série you attended last time?’ Colonel Deniau asked. ‘Who were the guests?’

  ‘Prince Metternich, that crowd. And a few titled foreigners. The Duke of Hamilton came for the shooting and there was a Russian grand duke. That’s known as the elegant série. Actually, very boring.’

  She saw that Henri was not pleased by this. ‘So there are several different séries then?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. The Emperor gives four different séries each season. And people worry about which one they’ve been asked to attend. Everyone wants to be invited, of course, but to which one? It’s a matter of status. There’s a story – ’ The old banker broke into an alarmingly loud laugh. ‘They say one lady asked another, “Are you in the elegant série?” “No, indeed,” was the reply. “I’m in yours.” ’

  ‘And which série is this?’ Lambert asked.

  ‘The political, I’d say. There are some engineers concerned with the Suez canal project, and bankers like myself – because these great works have to be financed, and, of course, Baron Haussmann is here with further plans for the Paris boulevards. And there are quite a few political figures. Like yourself, Colonel. You’re part of the Emperor’s African adventure, no?’

  The Colonel smiled. ‘I serve in Africa, yes. But I’m here as a friend of Monsieur Lambert. The Emperor is fascinated by his skills.’

  ‘Well, I hope we shall all have a chance to enjoy them,’ the old banker said. ‘Ah! They’re going in now.’

  Emmeline, looking in the direction he indicated, saw the Emperor and Empress enter the small private salon, accompanied by a dozen guests. ‘Now, the dancing should pick up,’ the old banker said.

  ‘Madame, may I have the honour?’ Colonel Deniau asked her. And in a moment he had swept her off to the strain of waltz music echoing faintly from the far end of the enormous room. They danced. He smiled at her but did not speak. She felt the intimate touch of his hand in the small of her back as he guided her through steps and swirls. And when the dance ended she realized that he had manoeuvred her to a part of the room, far away from her husband. ‘You dance beautifully,’ he said. ‘Shall we continue?’

  And so, between dances, making innocent conversation, but with far from innocent glances, he managed to monopolize her until the Emperor and his suite emerged from the private salon. Tea and cakes were served and a few minutes later Their Majesties bowed to their guests and walked to the doors, turned on reaching them and with a last sweeping inclination of their heads, disappeared from sight. At once Lambert, as though he had been dismissed, hurried across the room and took hold of Emmeline’s arm. ‘Let’s go up, now, darling. You must be tired.’ He turned to Deniau. ‘Till tomorrow, then, Colonel.’

  The Colonel looked at her. ‘Till tomorrow, Madame.’

  Chapter 2

  She woke – where? Dark wooden ceiling, blear winter light from a window, damp linen sheet against her neck, woke as she had in the night, cold, confused, from a dream of the cent gardes, a smiling Empress, chars à bancs, a dark handsome face, but this was morning, her husband in his dressing gown in the adjoining room, watching as a bewigged and powdered footman put down a tray with silver jugs of café au lait, then withdrew.

  ‘What time is it?’ she called.

  ‘Nine o’clock. Everything here runs like clockwork. They’ve left a timetable of events.’

  She watched him pick up a sheet of paper from the coffee tray. He read: ‘Programme for the day. Morning coffee, 9 a.m. Lunch, 11 a.m. Shooting party, 2 p.m. Musical concert, 9 p.m.’

  He poured a bowl of coffee and brought it to her in the bedroom. ‘I’m going to go over some work notes,’ he said. ‘What will you do? We’ve got a couple of hours before luncheon.’

  ‘Is it raining?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll go for a walk.’

  He nodded and went back to the desk in the sitting room. It was no different from home. It was up to her to amuse herself. She looked at the trunks, half-unpacked in the clutter and discomfort of this small dark bedroom. What would she wear? Which, among these morning costumes, was most suitable for a walk in the grounds? Madame Cournet had said that at the end of the morning she must change for lunch. She decided not to call Françoise, the supercilious old lady’s maid, not just yet. I’ll dress and go out and then when I change for lunch I’ll ask her to do my hair.

  She chose the plainest of the morning costumes, a brown cloth suit, trimmed with bands of sealskin, with coat, hat and muff to match. Lambert did not even look up when she went, dressed, into the living room.

  ‘How will I know where to walk?’

  ‘There are footmen outside,’ he said.

  A lackey in green livery led her down through the labyrinth of the château’s stairways and corridors to a door which gave on a series of formal gardens. ‘It might rain, Madame, so I would advise the trellis walk. You will be sheltered there.’

  The trellis walk, one thousand metres long, dark, with the umbrella foliage above her head. She the only walker for the first thirty minutes was joined by a cleric in purple robes who, reading his breviary as in a monastery cloister, acknowledged her presence with a nod as she passed by. In her sealskin-trimmed coat and hat, her hands snug in a sealskin muff, she imagined herself as one of those elegant society ladies she used to see taking their morning stroll under the arcades of the Place des Vosges. Wearing Monsieur West’s clothes, invited to Compiègne, curtsying to the Empress, seated at the same table as Louis Napoleon, a handsome colonel smiling at me, a lady’s maid to dress me and do my hair, and yet this time next week I’ll be back in Tours in the Manoir des Chênes, my husband shut away in his workroom, his mechanical marionette opening our gates to local tradesmen who think us in league with the devil, the carillon warning him of every movement in the house and, day and night, forty-two clocks ticking out the seconds, the hours, the years. Compiègne, the cent gardes, the chars à bancs, the royal train, the Emperor and Empress, will be something that happened once, long ago. My new wardrobe will fill my dressing room, crinolines packed away for ever, for whom would I wear them – even on a visit to Paris there wouldn’t be any occasion. The afternoon dresses I can wear in Tours, but we have no friends there, no one to admire them. The coats and hats and morning clothes I’ll wear, yes, over and over again until they’re out of fashion and put away as relics beside my wedding dress and my first-communion frock.

  She heard the spatter of rain, but the walk ahead remained dry, protected by the thick foliage above her. Imagine this huge château filled with servants, furniture, paintings, tapestries, yet used only for a few weeks of each year. If Maman were still alive, I could tell her about the dresses, the dancing, the cent gardes and my curtsy to the Empress, but Papa won’t believe we were invited because the Emperor wants Henri to perform some service. What could that possibly be, he’ll say, your husband isn’t a soldier or a diplomat, what can they want of him, what use could they make of him and his tricks?

  At the end of the trellis walk, she saw hedges, paths, formal gardens, deserted, curtained by rain. What time is it? She looked back. The cleric had gone in. Suddenly worried she ran back down the dark, now interminable trellis walk to the doorway where her lackey sat on a high stool, waiting. He told her the time. Luncheon at eleven, less than thirty minutes to change. He led her back to her rooms and went off to summon the old maid. Frantic, Emmeline sat, her shoulders bare, while the old maid, mouth full of pins, began to put up her hair.

  In the adjoining sitting room, Lambert closed his notebook and said crossly, ‘Why did you leave it so late? We’re late already. It’s five minutes to eleven. How can you do this?’


  ‘Go then, if you want to. You can make my apologies.’

  ‘Maybe I will. One of us should be on time.’ He shut the book with a snap and went out of the room.

  ‘Perhaps I won’t go down,’ she said, half to herself, half to the old maid. ‘I won’t be missed.’

  ‘No, Madame. It would be noticed. Which dress, Madame?’

  She chose the dark-blue poplin, trimmed with dark-blue plush, and struggled into it as the old maid fussed to lock the clasp of her bracelet.

  ‘You are ready now, Madame. Bon appétit.’

  A lackey waited by the door. She followed him down the stairs, through interminable corridors, into the great hall where, a bad sign, the cent gardes stood at ease, stiffening to attention as she rushed past. The dining-room doors were shut. A footman hurriedly opened for her, as her lackey led her in.

  Luncheon had begun. Head bent, blushing, she followed the lackey down the long table. Where was Henri? Where should she sit? Did the Emperor look up as she hurried past him? The First Chamberlain did.

  ‘There is no formal seating for luncheon,’ the lackey whispered. ‘Madame might sit here?’

  A chair was drawn back and she sat at last. The lady sitting opposite welcomed her with a smile then turned to whisper something to her neighbour, an aristocratic young gentleman who put his hand over his mouth as if to stifle a laugh. What are they saying? Making fun of me? And then at the far end of the table she saw Henri leaning forward to catch her attention, giving her an angry look. She tried to stare him down but he, as if to rebuke her, turned his head and spoke gaily to a lady on his left. Where is the Colonel? But the table was so long, the number of guests almost a hundred, he could be anywhere in this crowd. She turned to the gentleman on her right.