by Brian Moore
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Not the best of mornings, is it, Mademoiselle. It’s raining outside. I suspect they’ll have to cancel the shooting party this afternoon. Is your escort a gun?’
What did he mean? At a loss, she smiled at him. He called me Mademoiselle. A gun?
‘There are some very good guns in this série,’ the gentleman said. ‘Prince von Lowenstein, an Austrian, is here. Last year at Compiègne, he shot one thousand, two hundred birds in one day. Astonishing. As for me, I’m glad that it’s raining. I’m afraid I’m a very poor shot.’
‘I hope it rains all week.’
The gentleman smiled. ‘For my sake, Mademoiselle? How sweet of you.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I mean, for the sake of the birds.’
He laughed. ‘You have a tender heart, I see. But I notice you are about to eat pheasant.’
She looked down at her plate. A lackey stepped forward and filled her wine glass from a crystal decanter.
The gentleman raised his glass to her in toast. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t fair. Forgive me. Let me introduce myself. I am Jean de Courcel. And you, Mademoiselle?’
‘Lambert,’ she said. ‘And it is Madame.’
‘Lambert? Are you, by chance, the wife of the magician? I was told that he is here.’
‘I am.’
He smiled and looked at her again, now, she sensed, with a certain condescension. ‘Ah! So we are in for a treat, are we? You must introduce me to your husband. I’ve always been fascinated by magicians and magic tricks.’
The rain had stopped. As the guests left the luncheon table, a cold November sunlight shone through long french windows which faced the formal gardens at the rear of the château. Emmeline waited by the door of the dining room until Lambert joined her and then in angry silence walked with him up the long corridor lined by cent gardes. At the end of the corridor a group of chamberlains was in conversation with certain guests, one of whom was Colonel Deniau who, at sight of her, came over, bowed and kissed her hand, a true kiss, his lips moist on her skin.
‘Good morning, Madame. And Lambert, my dear fellow, I have news for you. Do you shoot?’
She saw Henri look at her, in warning. ‘Not regularly,’ he said, laughing a false laugh. ‘But I can point a gun. However, I don’t have guns or a shooting costume.’
‘Nor do I,’ the Colonel said. ‘But we’ll be outfitted after a fashion. The Emperor has asked us to join his party this afternoon. Madame also, of course. The carriages will be waiting in the main courtyard at two o’clock.’ He turned to her. ‘The Empress will be joining us, so you may have a chance to meet her. Don’t forget to dress warmly. I look forward to being with you this afternoon.’
With a bow and a smile, he turned and went out into the gardens.
‘What’s come over you?’ she said. ‘Why did you say you shoot, you’ve never gone on shooting parties, you told me you have no interest in that sort of thing. Besides it’s cruel, horrible, stupid.’
‘I know, I know. But I’ve got to go, I’ve got to! This is a personal invitation from Louis Napoleon himself. For God’s sake, Emmeline! Please, darling. You’ve been invited as well. It would be an insult to the Empress if you refused. Please? I haven’t asked a lot from you, have I?’
‘No.’ Suddenly, she felt as if she would weep.
‘Then, please?’
At two o’clock, footmen helped them into chars à bancs, tucking them under heavy rugs. The Colonel sat next to Emmeline, his leg touching hers under the rug. Lambert, at the far end of the char à bancs engaged his neighbour in sporadic conversation.
In the main courtyard trumpets sounded a fanfare as the Emperor came through the main entrance arch in company with a gentleman, who, the Colonel said, was Prince Metternich, the Austrian Ambassador. The two men climbed into a small dog cart and the Emperor took the reins. Then the Empress came down the great stone staircase, wearing a green shooting costume and an elegant three-cornered hat trimmed with gold braid. With her was Princess von Lowenstein, the wife of the famous gun. These ladies were seated in a victoria. With a flick of his whip, the Emperor started up his dog cart, leading the cavalcade of vehicles out of the courtyard on to the network of private roads which criss-crossed the vastness of the royal forest. Emmeline, snug in her travelling cloak, her sealskin-lined boots tucked under a heavy bearskin rug, was aware that Colonel Deniau and she were being jostled together and that this both amused and pleased him.
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid it will be chilly at the shoot.’
‘I’m quite comfortable,’ she said. ‘In fact, I wish I could stay in this carriage and not have to watch.’
‘But you’ve been to chasses à tir before, haven’t you? I suspect that your husband is quite a good shot.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
He laughed. ‘No, but he seems to know a lot about guns.’
‘I’ve never seen him shoot,’ she said. ‘He takes birds and rabbits out of a hat.’
Again, he laughed and looked at her with a delighted, complicit smile.
Why did I say that? Anger against Henri, yes, but it’s something more. I want us both to make fun of him.
Ahead, they could now see a large open space surrounded by thick forest. Assembled there, a crowd waited for their arrival. As they descended from their carriages it seemed to Emmeline as if the entire population of Compiègne had turned out as beaters and spectators. Now, guided by chamberlains, the sportsmen took their places in a long line, the Emperor in the middle, with Prince Metternich on his right and Prince von Lowenstein on his left. She saw that her husband and the Colonel were placed near the end of the line.
Once the sportsmen were in position the ladies were asked to stand behind them, much too close, Emmeline thought, for directly behind the ladies were gamekeepers, darting forward to load and hand fresh guns to their masters. Suddenly, Louis Napoleon raised his hand and in an enormous hubbub the lines of beaters moved through the forest, forcing birds to fly up above the trees and rabbits and hares to come scuttling into the open. Hundreds of animals had been frightened and hoarded into an area from which they could not escape and now were being driven to their deaths.
Emmeline stood, deafened by the roar of guns, shutting her eyes to the rain of dead animals falling from the sky, aware that all around her beaters were rushing about, picking up the dead and dying animals and putting them into numbered sacks, thus making a tally of each sportsman’s kills. Henri? And the Colonel? She turned and looked down the line. Lambert raising his gun, firing, exchanging the empty gun with his loader, skilful yet theatrical in this movement as he was in everything, the butchery of sport forgotten in his eagerness to be seen as one of these rich and idle aristocrats. She looked past him, to Colonel Deniau. His scarred face impassive, he stood like a soldier firing implacably at some unseen enemy in the sky, ignoring the pitiable dead and dying creatures that fell at his feet.
Ill, turning this way and that to avoid the gun loaders, the men picking up the dead birds, the jolting echoes of firing, the smell of gunpowder, the stench of death, Emmeline suddenly knew that she would vomit and so, holding up her long skirt, ran back towards the carriages. As she did she saw, ahead, the Empress and a lady-in-waiting hurrying towards the victoria as a postilion readied a wooden step to help them to mount into the carriage. The Empress, turning back, saw Emmeline, her pale face, her panic.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’
Unable to speak, Emmeline nodded, choking back the bile in her throat.
‘It’s too cold,’ the Empress said. ‘It’s this November damp. We are going back now. I advise you to do the same if you’re not feeling well.’
With that, the Empress and her-lady-in-waiting were helped up into their seats. Emmeline turned away so that they would not see. She retched.
A chamberlain came running across the grass. ‘Madame is ill. Would you like to go back, Madame?’
; Miserable, she nodded her head, fumbling in her muff for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She heard the chamberlain call, ‘Georges!’
A coachman came up, touching his fingers to his cap in salute. ‘If Madame will follow me?’
He led her to a phaeton, helping her up and tucking her in under a heavy robe. Some of the watching villagers turned to look at her as the little carriage trundled off down a royal road. In the distance the angry staccato of guns sounded strangely like the cawing of crows. And then she was alone, quiet, away from the noise of carnage, hearing only the clop of the horse’s hoofs, the coachman on his bench in front of her, head nodding as the phaeton jolted towards the château of Compiègne.
The sky went dark. Spits of rain increased to a drizzle. The coachman raised an umbrella, handed it back to her, then whipped his horse into a gallop. Emmeline sat, eyes shut, head bent, the umbrella stick clutched in her hands like a processional cross, nausea again rising within her. If this rain continues the shooting will end and they’ll come back to the château looking for some new diversion. Killing birds, hunting stags, tea parties, banquets, charades, concerts, dancing, anything and everything to get them through the boredom, snobbery and indifference of their lives. Why did I pretend the Colonel wasn’t one of them, he’s the one who brought us here, how could he ever be attracted to someone like me, whatever it is he wants from Henri, it suits him and amuses him to flirt with me, I’d be a fool to think it’s anything else. If only this carriage were taking me to Rouen. Papa would give me medicine to stop this retching, Marie would undress me, make me a tisane, and put hot-water bottles in my bed. I’ll tell Henri I’m sick, I’ll say I have a fever, I’ll say I can’t be sick here, I’ll ask him to send me back to Tours with that old servant, she’ll take care of me, he doesn’t have to come, he can stay on for the rest of the week, showing off, talking to the Emperor about whatever it is they want him to do, anyway he’s angry with me, he was furious this morning when I was late for lunch and when I didn’t want to go to the chasse à tir. No one will miss me. I’ll go to bed now. Tomorrow morning, I’ll leave.
The phaeton rumbled through the great arches, leading to the central courtyard. As it crossed the courtyard, a major-domo who was standing in the main doorway signalled that a carriage was approaching. Two lackeys came running out to help Emmeline descend.
‘Madame was taken ill,’ the coachman called down. At once, the major-domo looked at a list and called out the number of the Lamberts’ apartment. The lackeys like solicitous nurses led her up the long flights of staircase and into her room. A third servant brought in firewood and laid a fire in the sitting-room grate.
‘Will we summon your maid, Madame?’
‘No, thank you.’
She went into the dark bedroom, shut the door, took off her dress and stays and got into bed. The nausea came back in a wave, then passed. Within minutes, exhausted, she fell asleep.
‘Madame? If you please? Could you drink this?’
She woke to a darkened room lit only by two flickering candles. Standing over her was the old maidservant, offering tisane in an elegant porcelain cup, her hands’ slight tremor causing the cup to jiggle on its saucer.
‘What time is it?’
‘It is eight o’clock, Madame.’
Eight o’clock. They will be finishing dinner.
‘I didn’t wake you earlier,’ the old maid said. ‘The doctor advised that you be allowed to rest.’
‘Was the doctor here?’
‘Yes, with your husband, Madame. They looked in some time ago. Monsieur is dining now. He said he will come to see you before the concert this evening. How is Madame? Are you feeling better?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. But she did know. The nausea had passed. She no longer felt cold. The sickening sights of that afternoon were now a memory. I’m well, but if I’m to be allowed to go home, I mustn’t say so.
‘Thank you for the tisane, Françoise.’
‘Rest now, Madame.’
When next she woke it was to find her husband kneeling by her bedside, stroking her hand. And at once, looking at his worried face, she saw that side of him she could not ignore: despite his self-absorption, his inability to understand her loneliness, her boredom, despite his inordinate ambition, he loved her.
‘How are you, darling?’
How can I lie to him?
‘Better,’ she said.
‘I can’t forgive myself. I didn’t know what had happened until I came back here after the shooting party. I looked for you at the game tally and when they said you’d already gone back I admit I thought you’d done it to spite me. Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I should have taken better care of you.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t watch those animals being killed.’
‘Well, at least, now, we know what to do,’ he said. ‘They will be having a stag hunt on Saturday and afterwards there’s some sort of hunting ceremony. I’ll speak to Deniau. We will make your excuses.’ He got up from his kneeling position. ‘And I have good news, darling. You and I and Deniau are to be received in private audience by the Emperor on Friday. So we can relax and have a pleasant holiday until then. I hear we’re to have a theatrical evening tomorrow. The Théâtre Français, no less. Let’s hope you’re well enough to enjoy it.’ He bent over her and kissed her cheek. ‘Sleep now. Good night.’
Chapter 3
The court theatre, large as any in Paris, was lit by thousands of wax candles, creating a brilliant, romantic glow, which set off the jewels and gowns of the ladies in the audience. The Imperial Loge, designed in the shape of a shell, reached from the first tier of boxes to the last seats of the parquet. Their Majesties’ seats were in the centre of the Loge with lady guests and the most important gentlemen of rank placed beside and behind them. Other gentlemen sat in the parterre and circulated throughout the theatre between the acts. In addition to the Emperor’s guests a large house party from a neighbouring château had been invited to fill out the audience.
Now, in a sudden hush of conversation, the Empress appeared in the Imperial Loge, followed by the Emperor, smiling, his fingers touching the long ends of his waxed moustache. At sight of Their Majesties everyone rose, ladies curtsying, gentlemen bowing. Their Majesties bowed in response. The Master of Ceremonies gave the signal and at once the curtain rose. The scenery had been brought in from Paris. The principal actors were the great Coquelin, Madeleine Brohan, and Madame Favard, all members of the Théâtre Français.
Emmeline, wearing the most beautiful of her West gowns, sat in the second tier of boxes. Looking around her, she was enchanted by the setting, the jewels, the gowns, the sense that, despite her feelings of hostility, this evening would be one of the great occasions of her life. Almost from the moment the play began, she was caught up in the story enacted on stage. Coquelin and Madeleine Brohan became for her the living incarnation of the characters they played. The play itself was moving: she wept, her lace handkerchief wet, as she watched the story unfold. At the entracte, her husband and Colonel Deniau joined her in the box. They too seemed transformed by the evening. Even Lambert, to whom a theatrical performance had always been something he judged as a professional, was tonight enthusiastic and delighted as a boy who has just seen his first play.
At half-past ten the performance ended, after which the entire audience followed the Emperor and Empress into the grande salle des fêtes. The Emperor then sent for the actors, who, having changed out of their costumes, appeared to a round of applause. Emmeline watched Coquelin talk to the Emperor and saw that he was able to put the Emperor at ease, laughing and chatting with him in a casual way which none of the distinguished guests seemed to have managed in the preceding days. For some reason this comforted her and made her feel more secure than at any time since her arrival in Compiègne. The Emperor was a man, he was human, he wanted to enjoy himself; he who was at the top of the social ladder did not look down on Coquelin who, like her husband, was a person who performed o
n stage.
At eleven o’clock refreshments were brought in, the carriages were announced and making a ‘reverence’ to Their Majesties the artists took their leave. The Emperor and Empress then withdrew. The guests from the neighbouring château departed in their carriages leaving the guests free to go to their rooms.
On the following morning her changed mood still held. She felt light-headed, free, no longer intimidated by the grandeurs around her. After déjeuner when the Master of Ceremonies approached, as usual, to ask what they would like to do and Lambert, as usual, said that he would like to sit and read, she, to her surprise, asked if she could visit some sights in the region.
‘An excellent idea,’ the Master of Ceremonies said. ‘There is a wonderful castle nearby, the Château de Pierrefonds, a former ruin which the Emperor is renovating. It’s one of his great projects. Well worth a visit.’
At that moment, Emmeline saw that Colonel Deniau had come up and was standing directly behind Henri. ‘The Château de Pierrefonds, did you say? I very much want to see it. Would you allow me to join you, Madame?’
‘Wonderful,’ Henri said, turning to the Colonel. ‘If you go with her it will make me feel less guilty.’
She noticed at once that the Colonel in his usual complicit way managed to ignore her husband’s remark and, instead, kept looking at her, waiting for her answer.
‘I must put on my travelling clothes,’ she told him. ‘But I can be ready in, say, half an hour?’
‘A landau and a picnic hamper will be waiting in the main courtyard, whenever you come down,’ the Master of Ceremonies told her.
She smiled at the Colonel. ‘Will that suit you?’
‘Indeed, Madame. À bientôt.’
The forest of Pierrefonds adjoined the royal forest of Compiègne. Sitting side by side in the landau wrapped in furs and rugs, they set out in November mists, down twisting forest roads, dead and dry leaves rustling under the horses’ feet. At first they sat in silence looking around them at vistas of trees and lake, then as the drive continued Deniau made polite conversation about last night’s play and the actors. Suddenly, he said, ‘You seem happier today. I don’t mean because you’re no longer ill. You no longer hate being here. Am I right?’