The Queen of the Night

by Alexander Chee

  A girl like you, there are two reasons you leave your mistress. You either have stolen or you are in love. If you stole nothing, then it could only be love. Who is he, then, who are you in love with?

  I finally met the terrible eyes full of anticipation, but still I could not speak. It had been a mistake to speak. I had been safer silent.

  Tell me or be destroyed, she said. I will have you returned to the palace as a thief. Can you imagine yourself then? When they are done beating the truth from you, no man will ever look on you again except in horror. Who? Not the tenor, it would seem. What other he?

  To say it seemed to be to destroy it, but to say nothing was to be destroyed.

  This composer?

  At this, she stood, walked over to me, and grabbed for my chin to make me face her. She held it fiercely, waiting for my hands to come down, waiting for my answer. The rings on her fingers against my chin made me wince, and I relented, nodded finally, and the tears I’d kept back until now began.

  And now you have become so precious, she said, and let go.

  She waved to her maid to bring me a handkerchief.

  My girl, please. Now that we have the truth, no more crying. She waited as I calmed and dried my face.

  It is time to speak of our little bargain. I’m sure you are anxious to be paid. You were much more attentive than I’d thought possible, but the result of leaving as you did is that you have brought me both more and less than I’d hoped for. Still, now that we have the truth from you, I feel the balance is in your favor, and I’m in your debt. So do not fear; I will not turn you in. But we must plan.

  Thank you, I said, and then went to my knees before her. Please forgive me.

  Come, this is ridiculous. Get up.

  I stood carefully.

  What is your name, then? What am I to call you? How long did you deceive the sisters about your voice? Are you even called Sidonie?

  No, I said. Call me—call me . . .

  Oh, it doesn’t matter, it will only confuse me. We will call you Sidonie a while longer. My driver here has a wife who lets rooms. He will take you where you are staying now, and you will remove anything you have in his presence. He will then take you to his wife’s, and we will install you there until we decide what the terms will be. Do not deceive him; do not try to elude him. Do not disappoint me again. He will return you here tomorrow and report to me on the contents of your room, and then we will have our parley.

  I thanked her quietly, ashamed.

  Do not be afraid of him. You understand, do you not? I think you do not know what you have done. He is protecting you. You are not safe here in Paris. Perhaps not anywhere in France.

  With that, the driver appeared, and they exchanged some words in Italian. He then led me back down to the service entrance to the carriage.

  I returned to my room with him. The landlady protested until he explained he was removing me. I pulled out my junk-peddler things, emptied out my coat, and at his bidding, undressed so he could search even the dress. He even checked my shoes for hollow heels. The gold coins left from what Pepa had paid me mocked me, lined up on the bed.

  The trail of gold I once hoped to set down had led here.

  I bade good-bye to my landlady and went to meet the driver’s wife, who showed me my new room. I listened as I was locked inside, and when she left, I brushed out my hair and I calmed as I reviewed my prospects.

  As the Comtesse said, I did not know what I had done. I knew I was still in danger, but it now mattered if I lived or died to the Comtesse. This was new. We were now to discuss terms. My situation had somehow improved. Or so I hoped as sleep took me at last in my strange new bed.

  §

  In the morning I dressed with dread, after what Euphrosyne had said of dead women’s dresses, and hoped for someone to unlock the door, and for breakfast. Both came. Afterward, we drove off, and I noticed we went away from the Comtesse’s address into a part of the city I didn’t know.

  I became anxious, even afraid I was to be killed, when we arrived at a restaurant. The Comtesse came out and joined me in the carriage, having had, it appeared, some previous appointment.

  Did you sleep well? she asked me, as the door closed.

  Well enough, thank you.

  Did you feel safe? she asked, with a smile.

  I did, I said.

  The driver reports you were honest, and while you had an unusual number of gold coins for a grisette, there was no property of the French empress in your belongings other than that coat. I trusted your tears, she said. But it’s best to check. And now I know you are a little miserly, always a good trait.

  I made my face as blank as possible and waited for whatever was next.

  Now we may begin our parley, she said. You are an orphan, I recall. Is this true? Do you even have papers?

  No, I said. For I did not understand what she meant. What papers?

  She laughed. And have you any accounts?

  No, I said.

  Very well, then. Much as I thought.

  This seemed some clear reference as to a method of payment and the possibility of employment. Sensing my chance, I took it.

  Yesterday you wondered if you were wasting my talents, I said. You wondered if there was more for me to do for you despite disappointing you.

  Yes, she said. She seemed amused.

  If I might offer, I said. I would like that very much. Whatever you might require, that you might find for me to do. Given the trouble I’ve caused, I know I couldn’t hope even for something modest, but I hope to repay you if I can.

  She nodded. Very well, then, she said.

  I allowed myself my first smile in her presence since the day previous.

  She rapped on the door to the carriage and shouted an address to her driver.

  Here is what I propose, she said. I must think on the rest some more. I cannot allow you to move freely for now. This is for your own protection. But for now, I will continue to play the part of an aunt, an elaboration of our previous little tableau vivant. I will set you up with a dress—we must get rid of this awful frock you are wearing, perhaps immediately—and perhaps teach you some style. The rest will wait for now, and in the meantime, you will continue to be a guest at the room we have let for you with the driver’s wife. Is this agreeable?

  It is, I said. Yes.

  If anyone asks, you are the driver’s niece from near the Alps. In public, if people address you, say nothing, and I will explain you speak no French. Do you understand? This is what I need you to do for me right now.

  I do, I said.

  Very good, she said. I was sure you were quick. This protects you also.

  As we pulled to a stop in front of an elegant atelier, she turned to me and said, Perhaps someday, when you have the chance, you will tell me who you really are. Though it may never matter.

  §

  The address she’d shouted to her driver was for the dressmaker Félix.

  On this first day I stood in his workshop, the Comtesse promptly introduced me as her driver’s niece, as we’d agreed, and he said, Oh, but I know you, this is certainly Jou-jou of the Bal Mabille. Sister to La Frénésie.

  There was an awkward silence as the Comtesse looked to me. I tilted my head as if confused. As if I’d never heard the name. He laughed loudly.

  You are the picture of her, he said, if you are not her. I had heard she died at Saint-Lazare, so perhaps you are her ghost? Or her doppelganger? If so, now that she is dead, that is good luck for you; you won’t ever see her. I will check later if you can cancan, though. He winked. His assistants tittered behind him as I shook my head again and the Comtesse told him I knew no French.

  I was relieved to be taken behind the screen and undressed. I had heard she died at Saint-Lazare. As I was helped out of my peddler dress, I thought of the apartment on the avenue de l’Opéra, the tenor with my little ruby rose pinned over his heart—would he have kept it and all it contained, then, or would he have sold it all to a peddler? All of my
things on a cart in the street.

  I was given a muslin shift to wear and brought into a smaller room with an alcove that had mirrors on three sides, and I stood there as he measured me.

  You must be the most important driver’s niece in Italian history, Félix said. I have never provided this sort of service to even an intimate of the Comtesse’s.

  I shrugged, he laughed, and he continued to measure me.

  This joke of his alarmed me—it was, of course, his way of telling me he did not believe her or me. But it also told me he did not fear her, which I allowed myself to admire. Like many who served Paris society, Félix was in the business of keeping his clients’ secrets; for him to be indiscreet would mean he was dying or retiring. But he would, until then, still have his fun.

  They held bolts of cloth to my face and discussed the cuts as the assistants tied a corset to me and attached a cage crinoline to my waist before having me stand on a stool. Slowly, a muslin dress shape was pinned to me with several necklines. After a conference between Félix and the Comtesse, an order was placed for a bright blue poplin dress with three bodices I could remove and replace without removing the skirt—a new modern convenience made mostly with sewing machines so it could be prepared more quickly. The one for day was plain, with sleeves to my wrist and a high neck; the one for dinner, with silver silk ribbon piping and a white machine-lace trim, was cut lower but still demurely, and the sleeves just covered the shoulders. The last, for the opera, was square cut, more daring, a black-velvet-ribbon trim at the neckline, the arms nearly bare.

  Crinolines and a skirt cage were chosen, as well as shoes, gloves, and a hat.

  The three bodices at least suggested a better life than the one I had known before—I had never owned a day dress. I felt like one of the most elegant prisoners in Paris and counted myself lucky again.

  The Comtesse then returned to the rue de Passy, and I went back to my room and the driver’s wife, where I was to wait until the toilette was ready. In my memory it was three days or five, perhaps it was a week. The days were the same—spent at a simple window, looking into a courtyard where I could watch a mother cat and her kittens at play or playing bezique and drinking peppered gin with the driver’s wife, a favorite drink of hers that I grew to like. She continued to lock me in all the while, but I wouldn’t have left. I had decided to see the Comtesse’s offer through. And this room, it cost me nothing.

  §

  There was a question that I could not bring myself to ask, for it seemed sure to insult her. This question was How does one become a woman who inspires a man to settle on her the sum of a half-million francs? It seemed indelicate to even suggest she could teach me anything of this kind. But there was no need to ask her; her whole life was the answer.

  This way, I heard her say, from inside her parlor; and then she appeared at the door, her champagne already in hand. I went in and sat down. This was the morning my toilette would be ready. She had wanted to see me first.

  I was only looking for someone who had been thrown away when I found you, she said, once the door had closed. And yet you are so much more, she said. I have been thinking of your situation and how to help you best.

  A review of your talents and history suggests the following. You are good at sewing, observant, and discreet. You are a natural actress. You have some beauty, but not so much that you cannot, if you choose, blend into the background. Your teeth and hands are good, though you are small and too thin for most men. Your face and head are large, and as such, suited to the stage. But perhaps you will fill in after a few meals. You should learn to eat more heartily when in private. Most men do not like to see a woman eat.

  What else? She tilted her head as she asked this, as if the answers came from someone offstage.

  If not for your lack of papers, you would be suited to be a diplomat’s wife. You could be a courtesan, though much would depend on your enthusiasm for men. And your ability to sense how to get them to act on your behalf. Without an instinct for this, most women with these ambitions are doomed to a certain level. Consider, for example, La Païva. She is no great beauty. But she has more than beauty. She keeps no list of prix d’amours; there is only a sum for which, if it is not met, she is not aroused. The man does not exist. But when the sum is there or surpassed, what comes to life in her makes that man feel, during the moments he is with her, as if he were the most fascinating, most interesting, most delightful man in the world. He is not paying her for favors. Favors are nothing compared to this. He is her protector because in the moments he is with her he feels as he never does away from her. This feeling, this is everything. So he pays for her food, her horses, her dresses, her home, all so as to be able to be this man he is when he is with her. And if he must extend the realm she occupies so he can also be that man elsewhere, this is what he will do. But she never even meets his glance without the sum. And this is why she has the finest home in Paris and the attentions of her German industrialist.

  With your lack of family connections, you will most likely never marry. Any man of quality would eventually marry someone else—you would be his distraction. You can offer no guarantees, you see, for your offspring. You would do best to become a celebrity of some kind. And then, once you are sought after, you might find a husband.

  But who knows? Who knows what you will be. And you may never want a husband once you see what a husband is.

  §

  When we returned to Félix’s atelier to retrieve my dresses, a gentleman in a perfectly tailored dark suit appeared at her elbow and whispered in her ear.

  She thanked him dismissively, but lightly so; her scorn was not for him. This way, my dear, she said to me. As we left, she told me Eugénie herself was inside on a rare visit and that we were not to go in.

  I held my breath.

  I could have gone in, she said, as we neared her carriage again. But she’s afraid of me, and there would be no good to it.

  Afraid of you, I repeated, not quite a question, as she airily directed her driver to stay put.

  She has what belongs to me, she said, turning back. And she knows it. But I have something else she wants, she said, with a grin. And so we cannot let her see you, I think. More important, we cannot let her see you with me.

  The gentleman who had spoken to her was one of the Emperor’s secret police, and their duty was to walk the streets protecting the Emperor, Empress, and her court as they went about their errands. They gave the appearance of being elegant gentlemen, well-bred and well tailored, and I knew from my time at the Tuileries that they knew Parisian society’s secrets better than Parisian society did. They were secrets themselves, hidden until needed and then gone. I’d only seen them in the palace, where they were typically acknowledged openly; I’d never had the occasion to see them in public.

  As we walked away, I knew they likely knew exactly who I was, and if they did not, they soon would.

  The Empress has a few more of these agents than I do, the Comtesse said, and gestured grandly at the atelier, distracting me from the encroaching misery at the thought of being found out. But then, she is a small woman; she has always been. This role . . . it was never right for her.

  We drank a glass of champagne nearby, and when we returned, the Empress had left and I went in for the last fitting to be sure the fit was correct. I dressed in my new day dress, and when the vendeuse politely asked if I wanted the old one in a box, I waved it away. We returned to the carriage and rode through the Bois.

  That day the barren chestnut trees looked to me like the black iron feathers lining the gates of the palace at Compiègne, as if those feathers had spread across the country to become a forest of iron. The parade of horse-drawn phaetons, coupes, buggies, and carriages were filled by some of the wealthiest and most beautiful people in Paris.

  You’re attracting some notice, the Comtesse said to me, as we made the first turn. You shouldn’t accept the first admirer, however, unless he does something truly extraordinary to get your attention. And even
then, consider resisting, she said. Unless, of course, she said, by accepting him you attract the competition of another admirer. Ideally there will be several. A single man’s support is unreliable, she said. With three you can be secure.

  What is the best number? I asked.

  That would depend, she said. Three can keep you very busy. But some of us, and she gestured at the crowd circling the lake, have as many as there are on this road right now.

  Our carriage rattled a bit on the gravel underneath. We sat in silence. The men driving by seemed identical to me.

  The men were approximately the same men. Russian and Italian princes, German barons and French dukes, the famous Turk, Halil Bey. Prince Napoléon.

  The Prince Napoléon, she told me, had been married off to a magnificently ugly and devout Christian noblewoman from Italy named Princess Maria Clotilde. He was famous for leaving the doors to his apartment open while he satisfied himself on this or that mistress or whore.

  It seemed being the Prince Napoléon has left him in a permanent bad temper, she said. Or that in the arrangement of his marriage, Louis-Napoléon had played a joke on him.

  She directed my attention to the beautiful if unadorned phaeton of Louis-Napoléon driving around the Bois in disguise. The Comtesse pointed him out casually. They did not acknowledge each other.

  He’s married to his country, the Comtesse observed. Almost every woman in it.

  I turned to take in the Comtesse, who did not look away from the Emperor. Her disgrace had not seemed real to me before then. She had seemed only beautiful, powerful, shrewd. The light off the park highlighted her face starkly in that moment and revealed in her expression some unknowable grief, unseen before; and this startled me. I had meant to make some sort of joke, but stopped myself; it was as if I were not there at all.

  It was then I understood that she was not disgraced, not exactly. She had been sacrificed.

  And then we were back at the rue de Passy, and the Comtesse wished me a good night as she departed.