The Magician's Wife by Brian Moore Page A

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