The Magician's Wife (29 page)

At this point Deniau joined them, his face not concealing his delight. ‘Come. We must leave now.’

As they walked away from the fountain, a muezzin was heard high above in the minaret, chanting the call to devotions. Among the vast throng in the square, all eyes followed the marabout and his daughter, as, moving among the marble columns, they entered the mosque.

Suddenly Emmeline felt herself pushed aside by Hersant in a quick convulsive movement. She saw the crowd ahead of her draw back to reveal at fifty paces a young man, in the high turban of a caid brandishing a pistol which he now pointed at her. The gun exploded.

Lambert, walking a few feet ahead of her, stopped and stood staring at the assailant. In a terrible silence, the young caid stared back, then dropping his pistol, turned and flung himself into the crowd. Lambert did not look to see if she had been injured, but having paused momentarily, continued to walk towards the gates. And in that moment, from the awestruck stares of the surrounding crowds, she realized that the assassin had fired not at her but at her husband and that he had not missed. She ran forward, coming up beside him. He stared straight ahead and said, ‘Don’t touch me. We are leaving. Keep walking.’

The bullet had entered his body just below his right shoulder. A stain of blood spread like a dark rose on his white linen jacket. But he did not falter in his walk, nor show the slightest weakness or pain. Deniau, coming up beside her, gave her a warning look. ‘Emmeline, do as he says.’

All around them, staring frightened faces, as the sorcerer, seemingly unharmed, reached the gates of the courtyard where the French grooms waited with their horses. She saw Lambert brace himself and for a moment tremble in pain as he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, using his left hand to grip the pommel. Quickly, Deniau and Hersant followed suit, the grooms helping Emmeline into her saddle. Then, with Lambert’s horse in the lead, they rode out into the dusty, crowded streets, the horses, impeded by the narrow lanes and staring pedestrians, moving at a slow walk, Lambert, gripping the reins in his left hand, his right arm slack by his side.

Emmeline, in panic, kicked at her horse’s sides and moved up beside him. ‘Henri, Henri?’

She saw his face contort in anger or in pain. ‘Pretend!’ he said. ‘Pretend!’

The French fort was three streets away from the mosque. Spurring his horse Deniau rode past her, saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. I’ll get the doctor. We’ll be there in a moment.’

And then, turning his head, he called back to Lambert, ‘Hold on, Henri. Hold on! You were wonderful!’

The Zouave sentries rolled open the gates as Deniau cantered up. ‘Close them again, the moment we are inside,’ he shouted.

Captain Hersant, riding beside Lambert, dismounted in the yard and reaching up took Lambert in his arms, lifting him from the saddle. ‘Good man, good man! We’re home. You’ll be all right.’

But at that moment Lambert fainted. Deniau, already at the infirmary door, shouted orders and at once two soldiers came running across the courtyard with a stretcher. Emmeline saw the blood seeping in a dark clot across the chest of her husband’s soaking jacket. She ran beside the stretcher, leaning over him, calling his name. But when the stretcher bearers entered the infirmary Deniau came over and took her arm. ‘The doctor is here and is ready to operate. It will be all right, it will be all right. Sit now, sit.’

He seated her on a bench in the corridor beside the intensive-care room where Jules had died. Across the hall she could see two doctors in white robes and masks going into a room marked
SURGERY
: Deniau and Hersant hurried out into the courtyard as though on their way to an important meeting. A white-aproned orderly passed her and went into the surgery, carrying what seemed to be a tray of instruments. She sat, numb, her mind shuffling and jumbling broken images as in a dream: Henri walking through the courtyard of the mosque without flinching, Henri, fainting, falling into Hersant’s arms, the dark rose stain on his linen jacket, Henri, hunched over a desk, pricking his thumb to draw blood for the false bullet he used in his performance, the young assassin firing, his eyes dilated in insane concentration, the Jesuit cemetery with its freshly dug grave into which the rough sack containing Jules’ body rolled, the electric gates of the Manoir des Chênes in Tours opening to admit a carriage in which she sat, dressed in widow’s weeds.

And now, the coldness she had shown him last night came back like a wound. I turned against him and if he dies I’ll never be able to tell him that last night I was angry and arrogant and that, with all his faults, he is my husband, who has cared for me and in his way loved me, and without him I will be alone.

The smell of ether wafted from the surgery as an orderly opened the door and came past her, carrying a tin basin in which she saw blood-soaked instruments. Ether: he is unconscious, his mind in limbo, no longer the servant of his will. What was it he said before he fainted?

‘Pretend! Pretend!’

But could he still pretend?

The surgeon, bearded, burly, with a squint in his right eye, came towards her, smiling, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘Madame Lambert?’

She stood up. He offered his hand and she shook it.

‘Well, your husband was lucky. We have extracted the bullet. It entered just below his shoulder. There may be some nerve damage. Can’t say just yet. Have you seen Colonel Deniau?’

‘No.’

‘I must find him and give him my report. Your husband is still under the ether. Ah! Here he is.’

She looked back at the room marked
SURGERY
thinking that the surgeon referred to Henri. Instead, he nodded to her in farewell and went down the corridor to meet Deniau who had just arrived. They talked, and after a few minutes Deniau joined her. ‘Very good news, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even better, the doctor tells me we will be able to leave tomorrow.’

‘Leave?’

‘Back to Algiers. And put all this behind you. It’s been a very difficult time for you, I know.’

‘But how can we leave tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Henri is ill.’

‘Our doctor tells me Henri is fit to travel. And the first stop in our journey, is, if you remember, just a few hours away. We’ll stay again at Ben-Gannah’s camp. The important thing is to get him out of here as quickly as possible.’

‘I don’t agree,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’s in no condition to start on a journey.’

‘Dr  Laporte doesn’t agree with you. And he knows a lot about bullet wounds. I trust his judgement completely.’

‘Henri is still unconscious,’ she said. ‘How can you tell if he’s fit. Besides, I think it should be my decision, not yours.’

‘In the end it will be Henri’s,’ Deniau said. ‘He has been incredibly brave. We must capitalize on that bravery. If he rides out of here tomorrow morning the sheikhs and marabouts, the whole of Algeria in fact, will know that once again he has proved he is invincible. What happened today will add to his legend. My dear, don’t you realize we’ve won? Henri has succeeded in everything he set out to do. Because of him there will be no jihad. Because of him, your friend Bou-Aziz has been discredited. We mustn’t let anything spoil this triumph.’

‘Bou-Aziz discredited?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah!’ Deniau looked at her. ‘Well, of course, you know him better than I do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You spoke to him the day before yesterday in his zawiya. What did you talk about? I’m curious. Did you urge him not to declare a holy war?’

She did not answer.

‘This land is filled with spies,’ he said. ‘We have them too. We call it military intelligence. Let me make a suggestion. If you help us now, I mean, help us get Henri away safely, then in return I promise you I won’t mention to him that you visited the zawiya.’

‘He knows. Now go away. Please?’

At that moment, the door of the operating room opened and her husband was wheeled out on a trolley. He was unconscious, his body covered by a white sheet. She got up at once and leaving Deniau walked beside the trolley, looking down at the pale unconscious face. The trolley was wheeled into the small intensive-care room where Jules had died. As the orderlies pushed it into place against the wall, she saw Deniau signalling to her from the doorway.

‘Please, Emmeline. I won’t disturb you. Look – I’m sorry for what I just said. Forgive me. Let’s stay friends. I’m not your enemy.’

She did not look at him. ‘But you are.’

She sat down by the bedside. When she looked again, he had gone.

She lost as she knew she would. When, two hours later, Lambert woke, he was drowsy, weak and nauseated by the ether. But his first question was: ‘Did they see me? I fainted, didn’t I? But I was inside the yard at the time?’

She reassured him. She told him about the operation and its success. And then, when she mentioned what she termed as ‘Deniau’s mad idea to leave tomorrow’, she no sooner said the words than he sat up on the trolley with a strange half-gasp of triumph.

‘Well, that means I’ve done it, doesn’t it? Despite what happened, the Arabs still believe I’m invincible. Of course, Charles is right. The thing to do now is ride out in triumph as we always planned to do. Get away from here, the sooner the better.’

Shortly before dark, Deniau and Hersant came to see him. When they entered the sickroom she moved away from the bedside, but stood in the rear, listening to what was said.

After congratulations and praise, Deniau told him: ‘Henri, we’re planning to leave tomorrow. Did Emmeline tell you? I know she’s against it but  –  ’

‘No, no, she told me and I agree completely with your idea.’

‘I’m glad. It would be a pity to spoil things. Besides, the doctor thinks you’ll manage quite nicely as long as you don’t use your right arm. Well, of course, you can’t use it just now, can you? But you will ride with a cloak over your shoulders. They won’t see the bandages.’

‘And we’re planning to ride out at dawn,’ Hersant said. ‘There won’t be many people around at that hour.’

‘But the sheikhs will be told you’ve gone,’ Deniau said. ‘And of course our friend the former Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah.’

They all three laughed. Deniau glanced back at her, then said, ‘I feel rather sorry for him. All this talk of a spiritual retreat won’t sit well with the Kabyle leaders but as he’s still the country’s leading marabout, they’ll have to accept it. And of course there’s a tradition behind what he said today, a hope of defeating us through prayer. That’s what he’ll now try to sell to the Kabyles. And he’ll succeed, at least, for a time.’

‘At least until summer,’ Hersant said and again they laughed.

‘I’ll send Dufour on ahead to give Maréchal Randon the good news,’ Deniau said. ‘Algiers will pass on the word to Louis Napoleon himself. We must see to it that Henri’s bravery is rewarded. Alas, the Emperor can’t give you his new
medaille militaire
, because that’s reserved for soldiers. But the Légion d’Honneur? Yes.’

‘The highest level of the Legion is what?’ Hersant asked. ‘Grand Cross?’

Lambert sank back on his pillows. He seemed exhausted, but exhilarated as though he were drunk. ‘On any level,’ he said, ‘I’ll feel honoured.
Vive La France!
’

They rode out through deserted streets, past shuttered market stalls, through the main gates, spurring their horses into a canter, the sun now floating like a kite in the sky as they passed up the road bordered by the temporary encampments of the visiting sheikhs. Children and barking dogs ran out to see them go: women watched from the openings of goatskin tents, while their menfolk sitting in a circle under awnings drank their morning coffee, glancing up with studied incuriosity as the Roumi troop, Lambert, Emmeline, Hersant, Deniau with his servant Kaddour and three camel drivers, switching the flanks of their heavily burdened beasts, left Milianah behind, their caravan growing smaller and smaller on the horizon.

In mid-afternoon they reached the Moorish dwellings of Ben-Gannah who rode out with his son to greet them as before. Lambert dismounted stiffly, still concealing his injury. Refusing his host’s offer of coffee, he went at once with Emmeline to their room. There, she helped him remove his sweat-stained jacket and unlaced his boots so that he could lie on the divan. His arm was in a sling and when he lay on his back in the bed, he tried to raise it. It fell back on his stomach. He turned his head to look at her and she saw his alarm.

‘My shoulder,’ he said to her. ‘It’s not so much pain as something else. My arm feels dead. When they changed the bandage last night, that surgeon said something about nerve damage. Do you remember?’

‘I remember that he didn’t seem worried. He said you were very lucky.’

‘But he
did
say something. He said they didn’t know yet.’

‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s less than forty-eight hours since you were shot at. Of course, your arm doesn’t feel normal. Now, try to rest. The trip tomorrow will be more difficult than it was today. Remember the steep ravines on our way here? That’s my worry. How will you manage?’