by Brian Moore
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.
Exactly one-and-a-half hours after leaving the Gare du Nord, the imperial train arrived at Compiègne, fifty-five miles from Paris. As they came out of the station the passengers were met by a large crowd of townspeople and tourists, assembled to see the nobles, diplomats, artists and foreign dignitaries invited by the Emperor to his latest série. Emmeline, drawing her new travelling cloak tightly around her because of the November chill, watched as valets and maids scuffled about, supervising the loading of scores of trunks on to luggage carts. At the station entrance ten chars à bancs were lined up, their painted dark-green coachwork outlined in red, each drawn by four horses. Mounted on the lead horses were postilions in short red velvet jackets, wearing black velvet caps over their white wigs, their small pigtails tied with a black bow which flapped up and down behind them as, blowing their horns and cracking their whips, they rumbled the chars à bancs through the quiet town of Compiègne. Behind the chars à bancs came the servants’ coaches and in the rear the luggage carts on which a mass of trunks swayed to and fro as the procession left the cobbled streets of the town. Soon they were travelling along the roads and crossroads of a huge royal hunting forest where at every turn red-painted signposts pointed towards the Château of Compiègne. And when at last the procession clattered into the main courtyard of the château, Emmeline stared up at huge eighteenth-century buildings, at wings and turrets and an immensity of windows.
‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ her husband said, turning to her with a satisfied smile as the postilions reined their horses to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance arches. ‘What a wonderful place to spend our week!’
But Emmeline looked uneasily at the great stone staircase where servants waited to help the guests alight, servants whose court uniforms and powdered wigs brought back that evening two years ago when she, anonymous in the crowd outside the Tuileries, had her first sight of this intimidating world. Now she must step down with the other guests, pretending to be like them, as they walked towards the First Chamberlain. After a formal greeting he passed them over to a head usher who conducted them through a series of ornate ground-floor reception rooms into a long hall where a line of valets waited to show them to their apartments. As Emmeline followed their particular valet, she saw Lambert wave to a handsome army colonel with a scarred face, military moustache and sun-darkened skin.
‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Colonel Deniau. I’ll introduce you later.’
‘He’s the one who arranged all this, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. I’ve told you already. He’s my liaison here.’
She studied the Colonel as the valet ushered them towards a wide marble staircase which led to the upper floors of the château. At the foot of this staircase, a second valet handed each set of arriving guests a numbered card tied with a yellow ribbon. They then followed their particular valet up the staircase. On the first floor some of the guests, including the Colonel, were led off down various corridors.
This process was repeated when they reached the second floor. Emmeline noticed that the rooms to which these more privileged guests were led seemed to be suites, many of them overlooking the park. The remaining guests must climb yet another staircase to reach the upper floors of the château. At last, with just one other couple, Emmeline and Lambert ascended a final staircase leading to a floor just under the roof.
At this point, the lady ahead of Emmeline angrily announced to her husband, ‘You must complain, Théophile. This is disgraceful.’
‘Please, Florence, I know about these things. The allocations are made according to a plan. There’s absolutely no way we can change it now.’
Their valet led them to a door. On it was a white card tied with a yellow ribbon, similar to the one which had been handed to them earlier. In its elegant calligraphy, Emmeline saw a number and their names. The valet held open the door, showing them into a cold attic room with a sloping wooden ceiling and a view from its window of turrets and roofs. Adjoining this room was a small, dark bedroom. As Emmeline went into it to remove her hat and cloak her husband called to her from the sitting room.
‘I think that room’s going to be a little small for both of us. I’ll sleep on the couch out here.’ As usual, he was being discreet.
There was a knock on the door. Three soldiers of the royal guard entered, bringing in their trunks and the large crinoline boxes which took up most of the space in the living room. Lambert went at once to his portfolio, opening it with an air of relief, then placed it against a wall.
‘Your servants will be sent up at once, Monsieur,’ the valet said. ‘And the First Chamberlain wishes to remind you that dinner is at seven-thirty and that the Emperor and Empress will welcome you in the grande salle des fêtes at 7 p.m.’
The door shut. In the room outside she saw Henri bend down and poke the fire.
‘It’s freezing cold,’ she said. ‘I think these must be servants’ rooms.’
He pretended not to hear. She sat down on the bed. She felt dizzy. It was nerves, she knew, but knowing it did not help. Madame Cournet had told her one must change costumes three times daily. It was now four-thirty. As she must prepare for the imperial reception in the grande salle des fêtes, she would not have time to change into afternoon costume but must put on the evening dress of black lace over white tulle with twisted green velvet bows, a décolleté and crinoline. Madame Cournet had recommended it as the proper choice for a first meeting with the Emperor and Empress.
Shortly before seven, having completed her toilette with the aid of Françoise, the old but skilful lady’s maid, Emmeline went out into the sitting room. Her husband, following instructions which had been given him earlier, had dressed for this first evening in court dress of white knee breeches with white silk stockings and a dress frock coat. She saw him rub his hands together for warmth as he stared at his image in the pier glass which was placed in a corner of the sitting room. The fire had long gone out.
‘Are you ready, Emmeline? We mustn’t be late.’
‘How will we know where to go?’
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Everything is planned here. You’ll see.’
He was right, she supposed, for as they left their room a valet was waiting for them in the corridor. With a bow, he indicated that they follow him, leading them downstairs and through long corridors to arrive at last at the grande salle des fêtes. Here, footmen stood at the doors of an immense salon. Emmeline looked up at the painted frescoed ceiling, the glitter of crystal chandeliers and then, in trepidation, at the guests now coming into the room. At precisely ten minutes past seven a footman announced the arrival of the First Chamberlain, the Vicomte de Laferrière, and the Grande Maîtresse, the Duchesse de Bassano, who moved down the lines of guests murmuring formal words of welcome. Emmeline did not know whether to curtsy or bow and so stood, bobbing her head foolishly as these grand persons passed by. Although she guessed that by now there must be almost a hundred people in this huge salon, it still seemed half deserted. A chamberlain came up to Henri.
‘Monsieur, the lady you will escort in to dinner is Madame de Deauville. That is the lady over there, with her husband, Monsieur de Deauville.’
‘And who will take me in?’ Emmeline whispered as the chamberlain moved on.
‘I’ve told you, darling. Everything is arranged. You mustn’t worry. The Colonel says it’s just like a military operation.’
Ten minutes later, the doors to the grande salle des fêtes were closed as though to signal that the last guest had arrived. The First Chamberlain disappeared through a smaller door halfway down the room. At once the guests began to form two long lines. The small door opened and Emmeline saw the Emperor and Empress appear. The Emperor differed from his photographs and paintings, seeming to be shorter, stouter, his waxed moustaches longer, his eyelids drooping languidly as though he had just wakened from sleep. He wore the same court dress as the other men, white knee breeches, silk stockings, low pumps, his sole decoration the ribbon and star of the Légion d’Honneur. But it was the Empress, majestic in white-spangled tulle, with a tiara of diamonds and a necklace of pearls, who fascinated Emmeline. She saw at once that the Empress’s gown, while, of course, more splendid than her own, was, no mistake about it, the work of Monsieur West. Suddenly she felt less unsure. Because of Monsieur West she was part of this gathering. They both were. After all, Henri was wearing the same sort of court dress as the Emperor.
Moving slowly down the lines of guests, the Emperor turned towards the men, the Empress towards the ladies. As Their Majesties passed by, the gentlemen bowed and the ladies curtsied with a great dip of crinolines. When the Empress came abreast of her, Emmeline sank down so low that she seemed almost buried in the multiple folds of her gown. The Empress smiled on her as on the others, and murmured, ‘Good evening,’ before passing on. As Emmeline rose from her curtsy, her face flushed with relief, she saw lackeys draw open the doors as the Emperor went to the Empress, giving her his arm, leading her out in procession towards the banqueting hall. Around her Emmeline saw gentlemen approach ladies and offer their arms. Her panic flooded back. Who would . . .? But coming towards her, his arm extended, was Colonel Deniau. Gratefully, she put her hand on his sleeve, joining the procession as it moved into the long gallery, afraid that her new shoes would slip on the highly waxed floor.
Now, the guests began to pass between two long lines of the Emperor’s cent gardes, soldiers in a uniform of light-blue jackets, white breeches and silver helmets from which manes of white horsehair flowed down their backs. The cent gardes stood rigidly to attention, staring straight ahead, ignoring the passing parade of ladies in glittering jewels, officers in dress uniforms, diplomats in decorations and ribboned orders. As Emmeline walked past these statuesque soldiers and turned her head to glance surreptitiously at her escort, she felt a sudden giddy confidence. Somehow, in her splendid dress, on the arm of this officer, she was part of this great event.
When the procession entered the dining hall the first Chamberlain led the Emperor and Empress halfway down the room, seating them on opposite sides of the long table. As soon as they were settled, chamberlains showed the guests to their places. Colonel Deniau, who did not seem to need a guide, walked Emmeline past the royal personages down to the lower end of the table, seating himself on her right. The table, a field of white linen, was decorated at set intervals by formal arrangements of flowers, white epergnes filled with bonbons, and larger dishes filled with fruits. The service was of white Sèvres porcelain with the letter ‘N’ in gold, surmounted by the imperial crown. At least fifty lackeys waited to push the guests’ chairs into place. In a large circular loggia above the french windows a military band began to play music which was, for Emmeline, a reprieve from speech. She pretended to smile and nod her head in tune to the melody, leaving the Colonel free to pay attention to the lady on his left.
When a new set of lackeys entered, carrying a first course of soup, Colonel Deniau leaned towards her: ‘I must warn you,
Madame, there will be a great deal of food tonight, but we will be obliged to eat it quickly. The Emperor will not spend more than an hour over dinner. Still, that may be a blessing, don’t you agree? These affairs can be tedious.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been to anything like this before.’
‘I’m surprised. You seem to fit in so perfectly. If this is your first invitation to a série I’ll wager it won’t be your last. You are Compiègne’s latest adornment.’
‘I hope you’re wrong,’ she said, but felt a rush of pleasure at his words.
‘Why do you hope that?’
‘Because I don’t belong here. It’s not my world.’
‘Dear Madame,’ the Colonel said. He leaned towards her, his fingers gently touching her bare arm. ‘I am not trying to flatter you. You’re young, charming and – what can I say? Your husband must have used some of his magic to conjure you away from the attentions of other men. There is no world that is not open to you.’
She avoided his eyes. I mustn’t be deceived. Men like him throw compliments like confetti. ‘Monsieur, you’re too kind. I am a provincial, a very ordinary person. To be honest, I’d be happier at home in my room, eating my supper from a tray.’
He laughed. ‘Is that really true? But won’t you remember this evening as something special? After all, that man sitting further down the table is the nephew of Bonaparte. And he himself is an extraordinary figure. Think of it. He has come from exile, seized power and crowned himself as Emperor of France. An amazing achievement! And tonight you are part of his court. I might even say that tonight we are making history.’
