The Magician's Wife (2 page)

‘Nonsense! And what do you mean, it’s not our place? I’ve met royalty many times, I’ve been to the Tuileries, the Emperor knows me  –  ’

‘But as a performer, not a guest!’

‘Emmeline, I am not being invited as a performer. I am being asked to do something for my country, something of the highest importance. That’s why the Emperor wants to see me. They are trying to persuade me.’

‘Persuade you to do what?’

‘I’ll tell you later,
if
I decide to do it. Listen to me. When Colonel Deniau first spoke about this matter, that was two months ago. He came here specially, at the end of August, do you remember?’

‘No, I don’t. I didn’t see him, you didn’t introduce him. And today I just saw the back of his head as he was leaving. Who is he, anyway?’

‘He’s the head of the
Bureau Arabe
, the political office of France in North Africa. At any rate, last August I refused his request. My mind was quite made up. I was too busy here. Now they have come back with this invitation. The Emperor himself wants to persuade me.’

‘The Emperor?’

‘Yes! I am being wooed by Napoleon III. Think of it! And as far as being made to feel uncomfortable, you’ll be treated as the wife of an inventor, which is just as high a calling as a sculptor or writer or any of the other intellectuals who have attended these
séries
.’

She looked at him, standing there by the window, his hand tucked into a fold of his waistcoat, like Bonaparte whom he admired, cocking his head slightly to the side as she had seen him do on stage when he listened to a question from his audience, his smile, his soft tone of voice aiming to distract her, to shift her attention away from her fears. But of course it wasn’t a matter of how
he
would be treated, it was a matter of how she could survive a week in Compiègne, a week of blushes, feeling looked down on, not knowing what to say.

‘I’ve read about the
séries
at Compiègne,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows you bring your own servants. I’d have to have a lady’s maid. Can you see Thérèse in the part? She doesn’t even have a uniform. And Jules, is he to be your valet? Henri, listen to me. Say that I’m ill. Tell them you’ll go alone. If they’re so anxious for you to do whatever it is, then it won’t matter that you haven’t brought me with you.
And
it will be a lot cheaper. Have you any idea what all those dresses will cost if I have them made up by a Paris dressmaker?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay for it. And you can engage a lady’s maid for the trip. We’ll dress Jules up.’

‘But that’s only the beginning  –  ’

‘Listen to me, Emmeline. This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to send you to Paris at once. Madame Cournet will advise you. She knows about these things. I’ve always consulted her when I’m giving a royal performance. She’ll find a dressmaker, a maid, everything you’ll need. You’ll have to stay in Paris for the fittings.’

‘In Paris? That could take weeks.’

‘We leave for Compiègne on the 22nd. That’s four weeks from now. That will give you time. A month in Paris, it will be a holiday for you. You’re always saying how dull it is here.’

‘So I won’t see you for four weeks?’

‘I don’t know. I may have to come to Paris for a day or two but in the meantime I must get on with my work. Now what about you, do you think you could leave tomorrow? If so, I’ll order the phaeton to be ready to take you to the station. The Paris train leaves at noon.’

‘But what if I say I won’t go?’

‘My dear, I have already accepted for both of us. Tomorrow, Colonel Deniau will convey my thanks to the First Chamberlain. Emmeline, we must do it. I can’t give you a choice.’

She felt tears. She heard him ring for Jules.

‘Perhaps, you’d like me to join you for supper this evening,’ he said. ‘I’m at a delicate stage in my work but if you’re leaving tomorrow?’

‘No. I’ll have supper in my room. If I leave tomorrow, I’ll have to pack.’

He came towards her. She held back her tears. She did not turn to him. He bent and kissed the nape of her neck. ‘You’re a darling,’ he said. ‘What would I do without you?’

The Emperor. Society. The Second Empire. Everyone talked about this new Paris. The year before last in the Rue de Rivoli at eight o’clock on a September evening Emmeline stood in a crowd of spectators, watching a file of carriages move into the courtyard of the Palais des Tuileries. From these carriages she saw, descending, gentlemen in knee breeches and silk stockings, officers in dress uniforms and decorations, ladies in billowing crinolines, their breasts almost bare, their necks and arms adorned with pearls, rubies and diamonds. A woman beside Emmeline pointed out two famous beauties, the Duchesse de Pourtales and the Marquesa de Contadades, as the guests moved under a marquee into the entrance hall of the Pavillon de l’Horloge. Swiss guards stood to attention there, halberds to hand, plumed helmets on their heads. It was a sight Emmeline would not forget, a sight she had gazed on that night with the pleasure of watching actors in some theatrical extravaganza, a glimpse of a grand world she would never know. And now, suddenly, her husband had entered it.

‘My dear child,’ Madame Cournet said, smiling. ‘If you’re worried about how you will be received, remember it’s all important that your clothes be designed by Monsieur West. Compiègne is a fashion show. In a West toilette you will be recognized as someone of the first rank. He’s not a dressmaker, he’s an artist. He dresses the Empress herself.’

‘The Empress?’ Emmeline said. ‘But then it will cost a fortune.’

Madame Cournet smiled and tapped the end of her nose with the silver lorgnette which she deployed much as a schoolteacher uses a pointer. ‘Not quite a fortune,’ she said. ‘Although an original toilette of the sort Monsieur West designs for ladies who attend the
série
will cost your husband a great deal. It is
de rigueur
that you change three times daily. You will need eight day costumes, including a travelling suit, seven ball dresses and five gowns for tea. But it will be worth it. You will be the height of fashion, I assure you.’

‘I’ll have to speak to my husband,’ Emmeline said. A flutter of hope rose within her. Twenty dresses made by the Empress’s dressmaker? Perhaps now, Henri would see sense.

‘There’s no need,’ Madame Cournet said. ‘I’ve already received Monsieur Lambert’s permission to make the appointment. It’s arranged for Thursday at 3 p.m. in Monsieur West’s villa at Suresnes. Believe me, it will be one of the most delightful experiences of your life. Such taste, such an artist. You’ll be enchanted.’

That Thursday, arriving with Madame Cournet at precisely three o’clock in the afternoon at a Parisian villa in the suburbs of Paris, Emmeline wearing her very best daytime dress, coat and hat was shown by a servant into a reception room crowded with gilt-edged chairs, gold mirrors, embroidered pillows, small tables covered with knick-knacks and silver-framed photographs. She and Madame Cournet were invited to sit on a large red satin sofa. In an adjoining room a fountain of eau-de-Cologne spurted continuously, filling the air with a sweet yet pungent odour. Monsieur West made his entrance ten minutes later, accompanied by three young male assistants. He was enormously fat and spoke French with an English accent which Emmeline found hard to understand. He wore a loose silk smock, black velvet trousers and a huge velvet beret which fell over his right eye. He described himself as an artist and in the next hour, having inspected Emmeline as though she were a piece of furniture, he made sketches and notes which in subsequent weeks evolved into morning costumes of grey velvet, black velvet and dark-blue poplin adorned with sable tippets. There were also sable and chinchilla hats with coats to match; five afternoon gowns and seven sumptuous evening dresses, each costume, gown and dress made to emphasize that it was unique and indisputably the work of an artist in
haute couture
. Because all of the evening dresses were crinolines, Emmeline had to practise walking in them, so difficult were they to manoeuvre. In addition, under their wide hoops she must wear pantaloons. And as she lacked certain items of jewellery which Monsieur West considered essential, Madame Cournet took her to a discreet boutique where decorated fans, bracelets and bandeaux were rented out to her for a period of a month against a large deposit.

Finally, when the toilette was assembled, Madame Cournet engaged on a temporary basis an old woman named Françoise who been employed for thirty years in the household of the Count de Maine as lady’s maid to the Countess. This old woman, servile yet censorious, was yet another reason for Emmeline’s feeling of panic when, alone in her bed in the Hôtel Montrose on the night of 21 November, she waited for the arrival of her husband next morning, the day the
série
was about to begin.

‘The servants will travel in a separate section of the train,’ Madame Cournet had advised. ‘But it will be your responsibility to see that they and your baggage are on the station platform one hour ahead of departure time.’

So, on the morning of the 22nd, Emmeline, dressed in Monsieur West’s elegant travelling clothes, took the old woman to the Gare du Nord where Jules, uncomfortable in his new uniform, stood at the station entrance guarding four trunks and the six huge wooden boxes that housed the West crinolines. When porters had been summoned, the two servants followed the luggage into the station, Emmeline remaining outside the entrance not wanting to be the first guest to arrive. At 2 p.m. when at last she went in, she saw at once, on Platform Number One, a smart train, its carriages adorned with the Napoleonic eagle, waiting under a sign,
Extra et Imperial
. Standing near this sign was a gentleman who, when he saw her approach, introduced himself as Vicomte Walsh, an imperial chamberlain. She was obliged to tell him that her husband had not yet arrived.

‘But it is early, Madame. Perhaps you would like me to show you to your seat? I will let him know where to find you.’

He ushered her on to the train and installed her in a large salon carriage fitted out with comfortable armchairs and tables strewn with illustrated newspapers. She thanked him and sat uneasily alone until two-fifteen when, suddenly, the seven first-class passenger coaches began to fill with gentlemen in morning clothes and ladies in travelling cloaks and hats, many of whom seemed to know each other, bowing, nodding, exchanging conversation about acquaintances, receptions, balls and other matters of which Emmeline knew nothing. Her unease became panic. Where was Henri?

At two-twenty-five precisely the train engine sounded a piercing signal. At that moment, as though he had planned it, Lambert came strolling down the platform. He stopped to consult the imperial chamberlain and on entering her carriage, came to Emmeline, kissing her formally on both cheeks.

Although he had not seen her for a month, his first words were: ‘Where’s Jules?’

‘He’s here, but the servants are in another part of the train.’

‘Does he have my portfolio?’

‘What portfolio?’

‘You know the one. It looks like an artist’s portfolio, one to carry drawings in. You’ve seen it on stage.’

‘You mean the one you take things from?’

‘Yes, that’s it. If it was with my luggage, you couldn’t miss it.’

‘We have so much luggage, I didn’t notice.’

‘Well, where are the luggage coaches?’

‘Henri, we don’t have time. The train’s leaving. Look, they’re closing the doors.’

Reluctantly, he sat facing her after bowing to the other gentlemen and ladies in the carriage, strangers who formally and distantly bowed back. At 2.33 p.m., with a second piercing shriek and a sudden convulsive jerk, the imperial train left the station.

The portfolio? She sat, twisting her gloves in frustration. He lied to me. He’s going to perform. We’re not invited as guests but as the magician and his wife.

She leaned forward. ‘What’s this about your portfolio?’ she whispered. ‘You said you hadn’t been asked to do that.’

He smiled and held his slender hands palms upwards. ‘I told you the truth, darling. But Colonel Deniau thought it might be an appropriate gesture if I would, perhaps, take part in one of the evening’s entertainments.’

And then as though he sensed that the other people in the carriage were listening to this conversation he turned to them and said, ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t met, as yet. This is our first visit to Compiègne. But I’ve been told we guests are expected to entertain each other during the
série
. Is that not so?’

One of the gentlemen, dressed in clothes of English cut, his right eye permanently drooping in a way which gave him a sinister appearance, nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. But I warn you, these entertainments are exceedingly dull. Yet you are Lambert, are you not? I’ve seen you on stage.’

‘Henri Lambert. And may I present my wife.’

‘My respects, Madame. I must say, with your husband on hand I am confident we shall be splendidly entertained.’

Emmeline felt her face grow hot. Just as she had feared, the others in the carriage were aristocrats whose every glance in her direction seemed to warn that despite Madame Cournet’s coaching and Monsieur West’s elaborate toilette she would remain for them beyond the pale, a doctor’s daughter, half educated in a Rouennais convent, provincial beyond redemption and, despite his fame and pretensions, the wife of a person who performed on stage.