The Magician's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

banker said.
    ‘Madame, may I have the honour?’ Colonel Deniau asked her. And in a moment he had swept her off to the strain of waltz music echoing faintly from the far end of the enormous room. They danced. He smiled at her but did not speak. She felt the intimate touch of his hand in the small of her back as he guided her through steps and swirls. And when the dance ended she realized that he had manoeuvred her to a part of the room, far away from her husband. ‘You dance beautifully,’ he said. ‘Shall we continue?’
    And so, between dances, making innocent conversation, but with far from innocent glances, he managed to monopolize her until the Emperor and his suite emerged from the private salon. Tea and cakes were served and a few minutes later Their Majesties bowed to their guests and walked to the doors, turned on reaching them and with a last sweeping inclination of their heads, disappeared from sight. At once Lambert, as though he had been dismissed, hurried across the room and took hold of Emmeline’s arm. ‘Let’s go up, now, darling. You must be tired.’ He turned to Deniau. ‘Till tomorrow, then, Colonel.’
    The Colonel looked at her. ‘Till tomorrow, Madame.’

Chapter 2
    She woke – where? Dark wooden ceiling, blear winter light from a window, damp linen sheet against her neck, woke as she had in the night, cold, confused, from a dream of the cent gardes , a smiling Empress, chars à bancs , a dark handsome face, but this was morning, her husband in his dressing gown in the adjoining room, watching as a bewigged and powdered footman put down a tray with silver jugs of café au lait , then withdrew.
    ‘What time is it?’ she called.
    ‘Nine o’clock. Everything here runs like clockwork. They’ve left a timetable of events.’
    She watched him pick up a sheet of paper from the coffee tray. He read: ‘Programme for the day. Morning coffee, 9 a.m. Lunch, 11 a.m. Shooting party, 2 p.m. Musical concert, 9 p.m.’
    He poured a bowl of coffee and brought it to her in the bedroom. ‘I’m going to go over some work notes,’ he said. ‘What will you do? We’ve got a couple of hours before luncheon.’
    ‘Is it raining?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then I’ll go for a walk.’
    He nodded and went back to the desk in the sitting room. It was no different from home. It was up to her to amuse herself. She looked at the trunks, half-unpacked in the clutter and discomfort of this small dark bedroom. What would she wear? Which, among these morning costumes, was most suitable for a walk in the grounds? Madame Cournet had said that at the end of the morning she must change for lunch. She decided not to call Françoise, the supercilious old lady’s maid, not just yet. I’ll dress and go out and then when I change for lunch I’ll ask her to do my hair.
    She chose the plainest of the morning costumes, a brown cloth suit, trimmed with bands of sealskin, with coat, hat and muff to match. Lambert did not even look up when she went, dressed, into the living room.
    ‘How will I know where to walk?’
    ‘There are footmen outside,’ he said.
    A lackey in green livery led her down through the labyrinth of the château’s stairways and corridors to a door which gave on a series of formal gardens. ‘It might rain, Madame, so I would advise the trellis walk. You will be sheltered there.’
    The trellis walk, one thousand metres long, dark, with the umbrella foliage above her head. She the only walker for the first thirty minutes was joined by a cleric in purple robes who, reading his breviary as in a monastery cloister, acknowledged her presence with a nod as she passed by. In her sealskin-trimmed coat and hat, her hands snug in a sealskin muff, she imagined herself as one of those elegant society ladies she used to see taking their morning stroll under the arcades of the Place des Vosges. Wearing Monsieur West’s clothes, invited to Compiègne, curtsying to the Empress, seated at the same table as Louis Napoleon, a