The Magician's Wife (9 page)

‘Indeed. And because of that, only the marabout can proclaim a jihad or holy war against us. At the moment, Your Majesty, all of Algeria is in thrall to a certain Bou-Aziz, a charismatic marabout who has risen up in the South and is said to possess miraculous powers. Because of his influence, should he call for a holy war, the Arabs will believe that God is on their side and that, if they fight, they will defeat us. It was my suggestion, and Governor-General Randon agrees, that if we can bring Monsieur Lambert to Algeria to put on a series of performances for native audiences, we may convince them that Islam is not alone in possessing miraculous powers. In other words we will present him as a greater marabout than Bou-Aziz and convince them that God is not on their side but on ours.’

‘I think it’s a capital notion,’ the Emperor said. ‘It’s a gamble of course and may well come to nothing. But if we win it? If you succeed, Monsieur Lambert, you will be saving thousands of our soldiers’ lives.’

At once Lambert made a small bow in the Emperor’s direction. ‘Your Majesty, I am honoured by your confidence and, of course, I will do my utmost to be worthy of it.’

‘Good.’ The Emperor turned to Emmeline. ‘Madame, your husband will be in Algeria for several weeks. He may have to travel to different venues. Colonel Deniau has suggested that it might make his stay more pleasant were you to accompany him. It’s up to you, of course, but Algeria is, I am told, a very interesting country and it will be part of our plan to send your husband there with all the ceremony we would afford our highest ambassador. You will be fêted and dined by both the sheikhs and the French community. You will be housed in Algiers as the guests of the Governor-General.’

Emmeline looked at Lambert who, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, was urging her to accept. ‘I will be glad to go, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘As you say, it will be very interesting.’

At once, the Emperor leaned towards her and again put his hand on her arm, his fingers moving from her elbow to her shoulder in a long lascivious caress. ‘Good, good. What a lucky man you are, Lambert, to be married to this charming girl. Don’t forget, you will both be my special guests at the
curée
tomorrow night.’

He rose and, lifting her hand in his, put his moustachioed lips to her skin. ‘Till then, dear Madame.’

A few minutes later, walking down the long draughty corridor between her husband and Deniau, she was filled with a sudden rush of excitement. ‘But
when
will we go?’ she asked Deniau. ‘And what sort of clothes will I need in Africa?’

‘There is a ship sailing from Marseille to Algiers on the 27th,’ Deniau said. ‘And a second one sails three weeks later. It depends on whether your husband can assemble what he needs in time to make either sailing. What do you think, Henri?’

‘I have already decided on what I will need,’ Lambert said. ‘I can be ready for the sailing on the 27th. What about you, my dear?’ He turned to her as if in question but she knew it was rhetorical. ‘Yes, we can be ready,’ he said to Deniau.

‘As for clothing, at that time of year it will be like a dry summer’s day in France,’ Deniau said, smiling at her. ‘Don’t worry, we will go over all the necessary arrangements. You know, I’m delighted that you’ll be with us on this adventure.’

‘The Emperor is an extraordinary man, isn’t he?’ Lambert said. ‘I’ve met many kings and queens and rulers, as you know, but no one like him. Obviously, a man of great vision.’

Emmeline, listening, knew now that her husband had not needed to be persuaded to accept this mission. In the five years of their marriage she had never seen him so happy as at this moment. Now he was more than a magician. Now, he was France’s emissary on an important mission. But at the same time she sensed that Deniau was aware of this conceit and amused by it. For, turning to her with his usual intimate smile, he asked, ‘What did
you
think of him, Madame? He has an eye for the ladies, no?’

‘But we ladies have eyes too,’ she said, laughing. ‘The Emperor uses rouge.’

‘That could be,’ Deniau agreed. He turned to Lambert. ‘But you’re right, of course. He
is
a man of vision. Think of it. Nine years ago he was a simple member of the National Assembly. Then, four years later, he staged his
coup d’état
and now he’s Emperor Napoleon and the victor of Crimea. And by this time next year I hope he’ll be the conqueror of Algeria. With your help, of course.’

‘My help?’ Lambert laughed. ‘He doesn’t need me.’

‘He does, my dear fellow. We all do.’

But when he said this, Deniau turned to her and winked. And at that moment she sensed that in a strange exotic country she would face a new dilemma. For, in that momentary covert closing of an eye, was proposed the ultimate betrayal.

Next morning the valet who brought to their rooms, as usual, coffee and the programme for the day handed Emmeline an envelope containing a note from Vicomte Walsh, one of the Emperor’s chamberlains. It informed her that today’s programme, the last of the
série
, would include the stag hunt and, in the evening, the
curée
or celebration of the day’s sport. The Vicomte’s note added that a place had been reserved for her in the carriage of Madame de Fernan Nunez so that she could have a good view of the chase. No mention was made of her husband. She passed the letter over to Lambert.

‘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 lackeys 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?’