by Brian Moore
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad. Bringing you to Compiègne was my idea, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘But tell me. Why would you want me here?’
‘Because you are part of my plan. I realize it sounds confusing, but when we meet the Emperor on Friday I think it will all become clear. You are very important in this affair. Yes, yes – I made a mistake. I thought you’d be delighted to visit Compiègne. When I saw that wasn’t true, I was alarmed. But now – was it the play last night that made you change your mind? I hope so.’
What did he mean? ‘Why am I part of your plan?’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘Not now. But I promise you, I will.’
Their drive through cold November mists ended at an abrupt turn of the road when, suddenly, they saw the enormous fortress-château of Pierrefonds, rising above the little town of that name. Following the road which led up to the château they came to a gateway, then through a second gateway into a court until, finally, their carriage clattered over a drawbridge to pull up at the main entrance.
The Colonel helped her down, saying, ‘Let’s not have a guide, shall we? They talk too much. Let me be your guide. I know a few things about this place. Don’t you think it will be more fun to explore on our own?’
And so, waving aside the servant who waited to conduct them, they passed through a dark vaulted chapel, climbing more than a hundred stone steps to reach a platform which overlooked a view of the little town and the surrounding forest. A cold wind blew through the ramparts as they stood, side by side, looking down. She shivered and turned away. Seeing this, he took off his fur-lined cape and draped it about her shoulders. It was a gesture any gentleman might have made but when he did it he did not release the cape, instead holding it against her body for a long moment.
‘I can see that you were made for warmer climes,’ he said. ‘You need the sun, you need space, you need the desert. The desert has a beauty one can’t imagine until one sees it. You must visit Africa.’
At that, he released his hold on the cape. She pulled it tight about her. ‘Africa? Why would I go to Africa? I don’t understand.’
‘You will.’ He took her arm. ‘Let’s go down and look around. The Count de Vogué visited this castle the other day and he tells me it’s not really interesting. A hundred years ago someone managed to buy it for only eight thousand francs. Imagine! Now, as you know, the Emperor is restoring it. Vogué said there’s one astonishing thing, a huge chimmneypiece in the salle des gardes. Let’s find it for our picnic, shall we?’
Their coachman, summoned by a castle servant, brought the picnic hamper up to the salle des gardes, a huge deserted hall, furnished only with ancient stone benches and dominated by the fireplace, its hearth large as a stable, its chimney forty feet in height, ornamented with carvings of hundreds of squirrels which peered down on them with stony curiosity. The coachman spreading a carriage rug on the hearth unpacked cold meats, fruit, cakes, wine. The castle servant, aware that they were visitors from the Emperor’s série, brought in logs and kindling, lighting a small fire under the great vault of chimney. Servant and coachman then withdrew leaving them alone in the echoing vastness of the hall.
Through the high narrow windows a late afternoon sun, veiled by cold November mists, filled the shadows about them with a cloudy golden light. Emmeline drew back the hood of her cloak, baring her neck, letting the heavy coil of her hair fall down against her cheek. The fire crackled and blazed, smoke rising in swirls up the blackened chimney walls. She leaned towards it, the golden misty light falling on her shoulders and hair.
‘You look like a medieval angel,’ Deniau said. He reached for the wine bottle and sat close to her, handing her a glass. ‘Do you know that German toast, the Brüderschaft? No? Let me show you. Hold up your glass.’ He leaned forward, entwining his own glass of wine through her arm in a gesture which brought them almost face to face. ‘Now let’s drink,’ he said. ‘It’s a toast to friendship.’
Embarrassed, for there was something dangerously intimate in this linkage, their bodies touching, his dark, handsome face so close to hers, she drank down the full glass of wine without realizing what she had done. As she withdrew her arm from his he looked at her strangely.
‘Friends? Are we?’
‘Of course.’ She bent her head, avoiding his eyes.
‘Madame,’ he said. ‘You are a mystery.’
‘Why?’
He laughed, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know why. But you are. Your smile is enigmatic as the smile of La Gioconde. Tell me. How did you come to be the wife of a magician?’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Because he called me up on to the stage during one of his performances.’
‘Cast a spell over you, is that it?’
She smiled. ‘More or less.’
‘And are you still spellbound?’
She looked up at the small cold circle of sky at the top of the great chimney above her. What do I say to that? Yes? When it is no.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was being facetious. I know that Lambert is spellbound by you. You have enchanted the magician. You should hear how he talks of you.’
He refilled her wine glass and held it out to her. She looked into those dark eyes which sought to make her his accomplice. She did not accept the glass.
‘Thank you, but I must go back now. The rule is that ladies must be in their rooms by four o’clock. That’s when the Empress will send for me if she invites me to tea.’
He smiled. ‘Tell me. Will you be invited, do you think?’
‘No. But I want to go back. Please?’
He rose at once. ‘Of course, Madame.’
At four-twenty, in her room in Compiègne, having changed from her travelling dress into an afternoon gown of blue faille, she heard a knock on the door. The old maid went to answer and there in the corridor was a lackey and a small boy.
‘Monsieur Lambert?’ the lackey asked.
‘Monsieur Lambert is in the theatre,’ the old maid said. ‘He left word that you are to bring the boy there.’
When the door closed, Emmeline, weak with relief, asked, ‘Françoise, do you think it’s still possible that she will invite me?’
‘At this hour, I doubt it,’ the old maid said. ‘Invitations are usually issued at a few minutes after four. And as I recall, Madame, as a rule, they are given only to ladies of the Empress’s acquaintance.’
‘So Monsieur Lambert is down in the theatre,’ Emmeline said.
‘Yes, Madame. He is there with his man Jules. Jules tells me they are preparing for a performance.’
‘A performance? When?’
‘This evening, I believe, Madame.’
At eight o’clock she was escorted in to dinner, not by Colonel Deniau but by a gentleman whose name she did not catch, a stout dyspeptic person who talked constantly throughout the meal. ‘Are you cold?’ was his first question and then without waiting for an answer he complained that his room was in a part of the château filled with draughts and a fireplace that smoked. ‘If you’re not a prince or a baron or some grande horizontale who the Emperor is trying to entice into his bed you will always be freezing in this place. And the entertainment! I was here two years ago and on four different evenings we were forced to take part in boring charades. They have rooms full of theatrical costumes and you are asked to choose some ridiculous getup to illustrate an idiotic sentence. Luckily, this isn’t one of the aristocratic séries. Aristocrats love charades. I don’t know about you, Madame, but I find the aristocracy incredibly stupid. Dieu merci, this is what they call a third-tier série where the great majority of our guests, are, as you may have noticed, not the gratin but rich bourgeois, bankers or moneyed foreigners, people the Emperor wants to use in some way. Is your husband here?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t put my foot in it. He’s not a banker, is he?’
‘No.’
‘Good. By the way, having
said that about the entertainment, I thought the theatrical performance the other evening was not bad. What did you think, Madame?’
‘I thought it was wonderful.’
‘If only they would have something like that every evening, we wouldn’t die of boredom. That’s what we need. Professional entertainers. I wonder what they have in mind for tonight?’
Emmeline looked down the long table to where Lambert was as usual in animated conversation with his fellow diners. Not a first-tier série, this man says. Foreigners, bankers, people the Emperor wants to use in some way. What can he want from Henri?
A footman removed her dessert plate and served coffee. In less than an hour Henri will stand in front of all of these people, not as a guest but as a magician, here to amuse and divert the company. And my charade will have ended. I will be the magician’s wife.
At nine o’clock when Their Majesties acknowledging the curtsies and bowings of the audience had seated themselves in the Imperial Loge, the Master of Ceremonies announced that two of the invited guests would entertain the company before the evening’s dancing began. At that, the curtain went up. Standing at a podium, a tall gentleman began to read a poem. Emmeline’s neighbour whispered, ‘Who is he?’ and someone answered, ‘That’s Théophile Gautier.’
At least, Emmeline thought, Henri’s in good company. Even she had heard of Gautier: her father had once informed her that Gautier was a writer of genius. But during the reading, when she looked up at the Imperial Loge, she saw that the Emperor was slumped in his seat, his eyes closed as though asleep. After half an hour when the writer finished his reading and bowed to his listeners, the Emperor still seemed to be asleep. The Empress led the applause. Emmeline then saw the Emperor open his eyes, clap feebly, and turn to talk to his guests. The curtain descended.
After a short interval the Master of Ceremonies, strolling among the gentlemen in the parterre, looked up to the Imperial Loge trying to catch the Emperor’s eye. When the Emperor waved assent the Master of Ceremonies rapped his staff three times on the floorboards. The curtain rose on a stage, completely empty except for a small deal table at the rear, and at centre stage a plain wooden trestle of the sort used by artists for stacking their drawings. On this trestle stood a long green leather portfolio emblazoned in gold letters with the legend:
Henri Lambert
Carton du Dessins
The audience waited. After thirty seconds of silence, Lambert appeared from the wings, dressed in the frock coat he had worn at dinner and carrying a small ebony baton with olive-shaped ivory tips at each end. He smiled, bowed to the audience and walked all around the portfolio, using the baton to show that there was nothing concealed under the wooden trestle. He then put the baton down on the table at the rear, walked back to the trestle, opening and closing the long narrow portfolio to show that it was empty. He turned to face the audience, bowed, then reopened the portfolio, taking from it a sheaf of engravings. The audience applauded. He again opened the portfolio, taking from it four turtle doves which he released into the air. The applause increased as he closed the portfolio, smiled, then reopened it, this time taking out three large copper casseroles. He opened one to show that it contained green beans, the second to show that it contained a burning flame, and the third to show that it was filled with boiling water. Having displayed the contents of the casseroles to his audience he returned to the trestle and the portfolio, this time taking out a large cage filled with tiny birds which flew from perch to perch inside it. The applause was now generous and Emmeline looking up at the Imperial Loge saw the Emperor smiling and clapping, his sleepy lizard eyes lit with approval.
Lambert bowed to the Imperial Loge, then turned again to the empty portfolio, flipping it open with his index finger. At once, the head of a small boy appeared, smiling at the audience. Lambert reached in and lifted the boy out of the portfolio, setting him down on the stage. The boy was the same boy Emmeline had seen outside her room earlier that afternoon. Silencing the applause with a raised hand, Lambert gestured to the wings. At this point Jules, his servant, appeared, carrying a low wooden bench to centre stage. He then brought out three small stools which he placed on top of the bench, together with three long canes. Lambert, facing the audience, with the little boy at his side, took from his pocket a small flask.
‘Your Majesties, ladies and gentlemen, I have discovered in ether a new and marvellous property. When this substance is at its highest degree of concentration, if one allows a human being to breathe it in, his body will become as light as a balloon.’
All of this he spoke in what Emmeline thought of as his professorial voice, a diction he had carefully studied to make him sound like a scientist, not a performer. He now made the little boy climb on to the middle footstool and extend his arms. He placed a long cane under each of the boy’s arms to hold them in a cruciform position, then uncorked his flask and held it under the child’s nose. A smell of ether pervaded the theatre. The child at once fell asleep under the anaesthetic. Lambert, bending down, slid the footstool from under the child’s feet, leaving the child apparently suspended in mid-air, his only support the long canes which held up his arms in the cruciform position. The audience watched in a mixture of fascination and unease as Lambert removed, first, one of the long canes from under the child’s right arm, his only support the long cane under his left elbow. Lambert then placed his index finger under the child’s waist, and tilted the body sideways, raising the child to a horizontal position, leaving him apparently weightless, his only link to earth the slender cane under his elbow which rested on the small footstool, which, in turn, rested on the low wooden bench. Lambert bowed to the Imperial Loge. Applause and cries of ‘Bravo!’ filled the theatre as Lambert, turning to the child, again with his index figure, moved the weightless body back to a vertical position. Touching the child’s face with his hand, he wakened him, catching him as he began to tumble, then placing him securely on the stage. He took the child’s hand and again bowed to the Imperial Loge.
The curtain fell.
That evening, the music in the salle des fêtes was a new marvel, a mechanical piano, its handle turned dutifully by one of the chamberlains. But few people were dancing. All around her Emmeline heard talk of her husband’s mysterious and magical performance.
‘Lambert? This is the first time I’ve seen him perform, but of course he’s famous.’
‘I remember a few years ago he had his own theatre in Paris. At that time his “magical” evenings were all the rage.’
‘I thought he’d retired.’
‘Hortense, do you remember, we saw a performance while I was stationed in Madrid. It was at the court. The King was present.’
‘Yes, of course. I know it gave me a peculiar feeling, almost as if I were witnessing something supernatural. And I had the same thought tonight.’
‘No, it’s just trickery. But damnably clever.’
‘Well, I must say he’s a cut above any magician I’ve ever seen. The levitation of that child was uncanny.’
These and similar comments came to her as she moved through the groups of guests, searching for Henri and Colonel Deniau. But her husband was nowhere in sight and it was only after twice wandering up and down the entire length of the great room that she saw Colonel Deniau who at once broke off a conversation with an elderly lady and hurried to join her.
‘Ah, Madame! Emmeline! I have been looking for you everywhere. In a few minutes we’ll be going into the petit salon. Your husband is surrounded by admirers but I’ll prise him away in time. If you will just stay here, I’ll bring him to you and then we can all go in together.’
Alone again in this crowd of strangers, Emmeline looked nervously at the entrance to the petit salon where at ten o’clock each evening the Emperor and Empress withdrew for a private hour of conversation with certain privileged guests. It was now ten-thirty. Turning to the mirrored walls she hastily inspected her hair. I will be presented to them. I will have to speak. No, let Henri do the talking.
I’ll just bow or curtsy. Which? I must be calm. I don’t even have time to re-comb my hair. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
But at that moment in the vortex of her confusion, Deniau and Lambert came to join her. Lambert was smiling, not in the least nervous about the coming audience. ‘Ah, there you are, darling. It went well, didn’t it? Everyone has been most enthusiastic. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had a minute to myself.’ He turned to Deniau. ‘Charles, you were right. It was a very good idea to arrange for me to entertain them tonight. Not too much, not a real performance, but enough to give the Emperor a soupçon of what I can really do.’
‘I know that His Majesty is delighted,’ Deniau said. ‘I watched him while you were on stage. You’re the star of the evening.’ He smiled at Emmeline. ‘Are we ready then?’
He took her arm. The chamberlains on guard at the doors of the petit salon bowed to Deniau and stepped aside. Suddenly, Emmeline found herself in a drawing room ornately furnished and dominated at its furthest end by a huge white marble statue of the Emperor’s uncle, Napoleon I, in a familiar pose, hand inserted in his vest. There were about twenty people in the room, most of them members of Their Majesties’ intimate circle, who at dinnertime were always seated in places favourably close to the imperial couple. Emmeline saw the Empress, surrounded by admirers, talking to Gautier, the writer who had performed earlier that evening. The chamberlain now beckoned them to follow him, leading them through the clusters of people directly to the far end of the room where, under the statue of his ancestor, the Emperor sat like a king on his throne listening to a stout gentleman who stood humbly before him like a petitioner. When this man had bowed and backed away from the throne-like chair their chamberlain approached the Emperor and whispered something into his ear. The Emperor looked up, his sleepy eyes picking out Emmeline and not her husband. His glance, to her astonishment, was the appraisal of a lecher, an impression heightened by the fact that his face, adorned with long thin waxed moustaches and goat-like pointed beard, made him resemble a satyr in a Rubens painting.