The Magician's Wife by Brian Moore Page B

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?’
    Emmeline shook her head and was about to speak when, with a blast of hunting horns, the hounds were released to devour their reward. Emmeline, staring ahead, saw the hounds tear apart the sack of skin, heard yelps and growls and the horrid noise of crunching bones as the pack fought over the bloody entrails. Unable to watch she turned to her companions, seeing the ladies’ faces, masked in tight smiles, the gentlemen openly laughing. The Emperor’s hand no longer caressed her. Instead, he stepped forward magisterially to the railing of the balcony and raised his arms in a gesture of triumph. The hunting horns sounded in a new and deafening fanfare, the whips cracked, the hounds, having devoured all but the head and antlers, were quickly brought to heel and leashed. The Emperor turned to her, smiling. ‘We can go in now,’ he said. ‘I hope you did not catch cold?’
    She shook her head. Her trembling had nothing to do with the cold. At any moment she felt she would vomit. She tried to smile, for at that moment the Empress came up and nodded to her, whereupon the Emperor gallantly claimed his wife’s arm.
    ‘At least it was short,’ he said to Emmeline. ‘Would that our banquets took so little time.’
     
     
     
     
    Next morning in the shuttered darkness of their bedroom, she woke to a sound of knocking. She heard her husband get up from his couch in the living room and go to answer. It was not as she expected the valet with their coffee, but Françoise, her maid, coming into the bedroom, drawing the shutters and laying a black lace veil on her bed.
    ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Madame, but Madame must wear this to Mass this morning. It is de rigueur . Ladies must wear mantillas in the Spanish style as Her Majesty is Spanish and prefers it this way. And if Madame will permit me, I must begin to pack Madame’s toilette.’
    And so, that last Sunday morning began with Emmeline wearing a black veil as if