The Magician's Wife Page 7
‘I don’t to want to go,’ she said. ‘And why didn’t they ask you?’
‘It’s a carriage for the ladies,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be looked after.’
‘I still don’t want to go. Remember, I was ill after the shooting party. You promised you’d make my excuses.’
‘But don’t you see, when they’ve made these special arrangements for you it will seem very rude if you refuse. Besides, darling, it won’t be as bad as the shooting party. I very much doubt that you’ll be close enough to see the kill. And they say it’s a truly wonderful spectacle – the hunters’ costumes, the hounds, the pageantry. And remember, this evening we’ll be the guests of the Emperor. If they sent you that note, it must mean that he’s behind this invitation. You know that he’s fond of your company. Please, Emmeline. This is our last day here. Let’s not spoil things.’
And of course he was right. The Emperor must have spoken to Vicomte Walsh. She could not refuse. And so, a few hours later, a chamberlain presented her to Madame de Fernan Nunez, the wife of a Spanish banker, and soon she was seated beside Madame Nunez and two other ladies in a stately Berlin carriage, en route to the Carrefour l’Étoile, the rendezvous point in the royal forest where other carriages were drawn up at the side of the road awaiting the arrival of the Emperor’s retinue. Already, the imperial équipage de chasse and the gentlemen of the hunt were assembled at the crossroads and Madame Nunez who, Emmeline realized, had been chosen as her chaperone because she was expert in hunting matters, began to point out the various members of the Emperor’s équipe. There were ten in the team, huntsmen, whippers-in and valets on horseback, managing the pack of one hundred English hounds. The sight of the gentlemen riders in red coats and top boots, reining in their prancing horses as they waited for the Emperor’s arrival, reminded Emmeline of a scene in a painting. Unlike the guns and the brutal preparations for the shooting party, this was a pageant, and now the Emperor’s special group rode up to the crossroads, an astonishing sight in green velvet frock coats trimmed in crimson and gold braid, white kid breeches and tricorne hats. The waiting hunters fell in behind this official cortège, the pack of English hounds mingling among the riders in a great tail-wagging cluster, their movements kept in check by the professional huntsmen of the équipe. And then, to a sudden mournful peal of hunting horns, horses, men and hounds galloped off into the forest in a cloud of dust and flying leaves, the ground shaking under the drumming of hooves.
In a confusion of cracking whips and shouting coachmen the guests’ carriages set off down the broad allée in an effort to follow the progress of the hunt. At last, at a crossroads, they came upon a lone rider who told them that the stag, far ahead, had just taken to water, swimming desperately, pursued by the pack of hounds. Madame Nunez, upbraiding her coachman, tried to move ahead of the other carriages to witness the kill but to Emmeline’s relief this was impossible and within minutes someone called out that the stag had been cornered, whereupon Madame Nunez reluctantly decided that, as their way was blocked, they might as well return to the château.
Two hours later Emmeline sat in an iron tub, warm and relaxed as old Françoise sluiced jugs of hot water down her naked back. Tonight she would dress for this last evening in an elegant Worth crinoline, her hair arranged as she could not do it herself, wearing the bracelets and earrings which must be returned next week to the Paris jeweller from whom she had rented them. After the pre-dinner reception in the grande salle des fêtes she would walk for the last time down the great corridor past the silver helmets of the cent gardes, to take part in a final gala dinner after which she and Henri would join the Emperor and Empress on the balcony of the central courtyard to witness a final torchlit ritual. Tomorrow, after Sunday Mass and an early luncheon, the imperial train would bring them back to Paris. By Monday evening she would be home in Tours, where she lived amid chiming clocks and ringing bells, her companions four servants, dozens of mechanical marionettes and a husband hidden away like a monk in his workroom. This week in Compiègne, with its embarrassments, its luxuries, its seductions and snubs, would it be a once-in-a-lifetime memory, the grand gowns packed unused in tissue paper, the daily programmes yellowing in her escritoire? Or was it possible that this was the beginning of a new life in which Henri on his arrival in Algeria would be treated as an ambassador, where, if he succeeded in what he was being asked to do, he and she might, on their return to France, be invited by the Emperor to attend yet another of these imperial séries?
As her maid sluiced a last jug of warm water over her breasts, Emmeline stood up in the tub, wet and glistening. In the long pier mirror opposite she saw her naked body, young and slender; no one could guess that twice I have carried a dead child in my womb. I look like a virgin. It’s Henri who is old, not I. And in these clothes, in this world – Compiègne has changed me.
Monsieur de l’Aigle, an elderly gentleman whose patent leather evening shoes made a scuffling sound on the waxed floorboards of the long corridor, escorted Emmeline from that evening’s pre-dinner reception to the dining room for the final banquet. At once she saw that the table decorations and service were even more elaborate than usual. When she admired them Monsieur de l’Aigle informed her that this was the biscuit de Sèvres service de chasse, traditional on the night of the curée. ‘This is a very special evening, Madame.’
And indeed she noticed that the guests’ conversation was more animated than usual, the lackeys especially anxious to refill the gentlemen’s glasses, the long table loud with laughter and anecdotes about the incidents of the day’s hunt. Even the Emperor seemed roused from his usual sleepy watchfulness and in a departure from custom ordered that coffee and liqueurs be served not at the dinner table, but later, at the post-prandial reception, a reception at which chamberlains circulated among the ladies warning that as the night was cold they would be well advised to provide themselves with shawls and wraps for the curée.
At nine o’clock precisely Vicomte de Laferrière, the First Chamberlain, approached His Majesty to announce that all was ready. Amid a hubbub of anticipation, the Emperor and Empress led the way into the long gallery which overlooked the cour d’honneur, the vast central courtyard of the château. The Empress, accepting a sable cloak from her lady-in-waiting, followed the Emperor on to the balcony as chamberlains, circulating among the guests, discreetly advised certain favoured ladies, including Emmeline, to follow the imperial couple out into the night. Most of the remaining guests positioned themselves at the twenty windows of the long gallery, while some of the gentlemen, including Lambert, sat on an exterior flight of steps which led down to the cour d’honneur.
Emmeline, bracing herself against the night chill, pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she walked outside. The Emperor, catching sight of her, beckoned her to join himself and the Empress at the front of the balcony. Beneath, in the courtyard, the château’s lackeys, valets, grooms and maids stood in a wide circle, keeping back the crowd of Compiègne townsfolk who had come to watch the curée. A rank smell of tar came from a ring of flaming torches, held aloft by liveried footmen, giving off a light which cast a raw, savage redness on the scene. At the far end of the courtyard, positioned directly opposite Their Majesties, the chief huntsman held up the head and antlers of the stag slain that afternoon. Attached to it was the skin of the animal, folded into a sack which contained bones and entrails. Directly beneath the imperial balcony, under the steps on which some of the gentlemen guests were seated, eight hunt servants held back a pack of yelping, struggling hounds. As Emmeline watched in horror, the chief huntsman bowed to His Majesty then waved the skin aloft and with a sudden blaring fanfare of hunting horns, the dogs were released to rush towards their meal. But within seconds the chief huntsman cracked his whip and, obedient, the pack of hounds stopped short of their prey as if fearing to be flayed. Again, a fanfare of trumpets released them and again, within feet of the sack of entrails and bones, they were stopped by a crackling whip command. Now, the lackey
s lifted their torches high in the air as the hounds cowered down in silence. In the darkness of the outer circle, the local populace loosed a great cheer. Emmeline felt herself tremble. At that moment a hand touched her back, pushing askew the hoop of her crinoline and sliding down to fondle her buttocks. She turned to face the Emperor’s sly concern. ‘Are you cold, Madame? Do you need another wrap?’
Emmeline shook her head and was about to speak when, with a blast of hunting horns, the hounds were released to devour their reward. Emmeline, staring ahead, saw the hounds tear apart the sack of skin, heard yelps and growls and the horrid noise of crunching bones as the pack fought over the bloody entrails. Unable to watch she turned to her companions, seeing the ladies’ faces, masked in tight smiles, the gentlemen openly laughing. The Emperor’s hand no longer caressed her. Instead, he stepped forward magisterially to the railing of the balcony and raised his arms in a gesture of triumph. The hunting horns sounded in a new and deafening fanfare, the whips cracked, the hounds, having devoured all but the head and antlers, were quickly brought to heel and leashed. The Emperor turned to her, smiling. ‘We can go in now,’ he said. ‘I hope you did not catch cold?’
She shook her head. Her trembling had nothing to do with the cold. At any moment she felt she would vomit. She tried to smile, for at that moment the Empress came up and nodded to her, whereupon the Emperor gallantly claimed his wife’s arm.
‘At least it was short,’ he said to Emmeline. ‘Would that our banquets took so little time.’
Next morning in the shuttered darkness of their bedroom, she woke to a sound of knocking. She heard her husband get up from his couch in the living room and go to answer. It was not as she expected the valet with their coffee, but Françoise, her maid, coming into the bedroom, drawing the shutters and laying a black lace veil on her bed.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Madame, but Madame must wear this to Mass this morning. It is de rigueur. Ladies must wear mantillas in the Spanish style as Her Majesty is Spanish and prefers it this way. And if Madame will permit me, I must begin to pack Madame’s toilette.’
And so, that last Sunday morning began with Emmeline wearing a black veil as if in mourning and Lambert sending Jules to borrow missals for they had forgotten to include prayer books in their luggage. Then, after their morning coffee, they followed a lackey through endless corridors to arrive at the château’s private chapel where Mass was to be said. There, as Emmeline’s maid had predicted, the ladies attending the série appeared in headdresses of black lace, draped in the Spanish fashion. The Empress, who wore her mantilla with the ease of long custom, entered and knelt alone above the other worshippers in a private alcove overlooking the altar. The Emperor was not present. As soon as the Empress entered the alcove a priest and two acolytes appeared on the altar. The Mass began.
Emmeline knelt at her pew and put her head down as if in prayer. But she did not pray. After a few moments she looked at the congregation and saw that, as so often at Mass, she was not alone in this absence of prayer. The ladies in their lace veils were covertly studying their neighbours. The gentlemen perused their missals like inattentive students and everyone from time to time looked up at the alcove where the Empress knelt, her hands entwined in a rosary, her eyes fixed on the altar. Emmeline glanced sideways at her husband and saw that, as always in church, he read his missal carefully, from time to time studying the movements of the priest on the altar as though by paying close attention he might one day solve the mystery of changing bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. What did he think of miracles; did he, who had said that all such things were illusions, include in his condemnation the mystery and miracle of the Mass? She had never thought to ask him but this morning, her mind filled with the brutal tableaux of last night’s curée and her memory of the Emperor’s hand on her thigh, she felt herself now, more than ever, her father’s daughter for it was often rumoured that Dr Mercier was a freemason. Of course no one knew if this was true, for it was certain that if he proclaimed these beliefs his medical practice would suffer. Freemasons, like Jews, were frequently cited as the enemies of religion and although Napoleon III was known to be more liberal than his predecessors the Church had lost none of its power to punish transgressors.
And yet in her early years Emmeline had emulated her mother’s piety. She was a child who did not fidget at Mass but often lost herself in a dream of one day becoming a nun, young and pure in a white veil, kneeling before an altar filled with candles, flowers and incense, a nun who tended to the sick, following in her doctor father’s footsteps, but, unlike him, toiling only for the greater glory of God, a nun who might one day be beatified like the nun-martyr-saints the Sisters spoke of at school, a nun who, when she died, would go straight to heaven to sit at the side of God the Father, no longer Emmeline Mercier, but Blessed Sister Anne Marie, of the Order of the Sacred Heart.
All of that was long ago. In her last year at school she had begun to see nuns as jailers, reproving distant figures, not women as her mother and aunts were women, but childless, shut away from life, obedient handmaidens in a male church. One could heal the sick as a nurse, or teach poor children how to read and write without submitting to the harsh rule of a religious order. And, of course, one could marry.
‘What do you want to do?’ her father had asked. ‘You said once that you would like to work in my clinic. Do you still want to do that?’
This made her mother angry. ‘Working in a clinic will not prepare her to be a wife. There are certain things a young lady must learn. She should stay with the nuns for a year or two more. By then, she will be of an age to decide what course her life might take.’
In the end, Emmeline defied her mother. For two years before her marriage she had worked three mornings a week as a nurse in Dr Mercier’s clinic. And in that time her father’s view prevailed. She was Catholic but no longer devout. She no longer said her nightly prayers, she attended Mass and took communion regularly but without thought: she rarely remembered her old dream of sainthood or her adolescent fears of damnation. Religious observance became an obligation, not an act of worship. In large measure, she had lost her faith.
This morning the Mass was not, as might have been expected in these surroundings, a High Mass, sung, with a choir. Instead it was a Low Mass as it might be celebrated in any provincial chapel, the priest seeming to hurry through it, as though, as with most events in the série, Their Majesties would permit no dawdling. And so, within fifteen minutes, the moment came for the elevation of the Host. The little Sanctus bell tinkled in the silence, warning the congregation to look up in devotion as the priest raised aloft the wafer of unleavened bread and the chalice of wine transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ. But in that moment, Emmeline, raising her head as she had been taught to do since childhood, saw the chalice and thought, not of the blood of Christ, but of the bloody spectacle of last night, the red, tarry torches flaming in the darkness, the growling hounds, their jaws flecked with blood, the crunch of bones. Above her, the Empress knelt in a tableau of devotion, hands joined in prayer, her eyes on the upraised chalice, the same Empress who last night had smiled in pleasure as she presided over the satanic celebration of the kill. The Sanctus bell rang again, signalling the end of the elevation. The congregation shuffled and coughed, relaxing as the Mass moved towards its end. Soon they would all file out of the chapel, this ceremony completed, a ceremony which, to Emmeline this morning, seemed only that: a ritual of society, a service which, in the court of Napoleon III, had no more meaning than a military parade.
When she and Henri handed their prayer books to a valet at the chapel’s exit and moved into the salon where the guests were assembling for a final procession down the great corridor past the statue-like rows of cent gardes to attend the last luncheon of the série, she saw the Emperor in the centre of the room, acknowledging the bows and greetings of guests who clustered around him. As she stood watching this scene, the Emperor turned towards her, came over, took her hand a
nd kissed it, smiling his sleepy smile.
‘This is always a sad time, is it not, my dear? Parting. Yes, I find that on these occasions, when I make some charming new acquaintance like yourself – and your husband – then, almost before we have time to get to know each other, the train leaves for Paris and we must part.’
What should she say? When she hesitated, her husband rushed in. ‘It has been a pleasure and a great honour for both of us, your Majesty. I’m sure we’ll never forget your hospitality and kindness to us in this past week.’
But the Emperor did not even look at Lambert. Reluctantly, he released Emmeline’s hand, saying. ‘However, when you come back from Africa, I shall invite you to Fontainebleau. Fontainebleau, dear Madame, has some pretty sights which I would take pleasure in showing you. We have canoes, punts, all sorts of boats which we float on a very pretty lake. We have even a Venetian gondola. I can see you in a gondola, my dear. Well, perhaps I will see you in a gondola. I hope so.’
When the Emperor said this he bowed to her and signalled to the Grand Chamberlain who hovered in the background. ‘Now, we must go into luncheon. À bientôt, dear Madame.’
À bientôt? But, at the final luncheon, and afterwards, on the drive to the Compiègne station and during the train journey to Paris, they had no further chance to speak to Their Majesties, who, surrounded by sycophantic guests, seemed hurried and distraught as though, the série ended, they must rush on to yet another engagement. And so it was that at five o’clock that same afternoon on their arrival at the Gare du Nord they watched Colonel Deniau, his luggage carried by two soldiers, striding down the platform as though he also was in a hurry. He saw them and came over, saying to Lambert, ‘We shall be in touch next week. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements. And thank you again, my dear fellow.’ Then, turning to Emmeline, he kissed her hand and oddly enough, said goodbye with the same phrase as the Emperor. ‘À bientôt, dear Madame.’