The Magician's Wife by Brian Moore Page A

the smile of La Gioconde. Tell me. How did you come to be the wife of a magician?’
    It was her turn to laugh. ‘Because he called me up on to the stage during one of his performances.’
    ‘Cast a spell over you, is that it?’
    She smiled. ‘More or less.’
    ‘And are you still spellbound?’
    She looked up at the small cold circle of sky at the top of the great chimney above her. What do I say to that? Yes? When it is no.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was being facetious. I know that Lambert is spellbound by you . You have enchanted the magician. You should hear how he talks of you.’
    He refilled her wine glass and held it out to her. She looked into those dark eyes which sought to make her his accomplice. She did not accept the glass.
    ‘Thank you, but I must go back now. The rule is that ladies must be in their rooms by four o’clock. That’s when the Empress will send for me if she invites me to tea.’
    He smiled. ‘Tell me. Will you be invited, do you think?’
    ‘No. But I want to go back. Please?’
    He rose at once. ‘Of course, Madame.’
     
     
     
     
    At four-twenty, in her room in Compiègne, having changed from her travelling dress into an afternoon gown of blue faille, she heard a knock on the door. The old maid went to answer and there in the corridor was a lackey and a small boy.
    ‘Monsieur Lambert?’ the lackey asked.
    ‘Monsieur Lambert is in the theatre,’ the old maid said. ‘He left word that you are to bring the boy there.’
    When the door closed, Emmeline, weak with relief, asked, ‘Françoise, do you think it’s still possible that she will invite me?’
    ‘At this hour, I doubt it,’ the old maid said. ‘Invitations are usually issued at a few minutes after four. And as I recall, Madame, as a rule, they are given only to ladies of the Empress’s acquaintance.’
    ‘So Monsieur Lambert is down in the theatre,’ Emmeline said.
    ‘Yes, Madame. He is there with his man Jules. Jules tells me they are preparing for a performance.’
    ‘A performance? When?’
    ‘This evening, I believe, Madame.’
     
    At eight o’clock she was escorted in to dinner, not by Colonel Deniau but by a gentleman whose name she did not catch, a stout dyspeptic person who talked constantly throughout the meal. ‘Are you cold?’ was his first question and then without waiting for an answer he complained that his room was in a part of the château filled with draughts and a fireplace that smoked. ‘If you’re not a prince or a baron or some grande horizontale who the Emperor is trying to entice into his bed you will always be freezing in this place. And the entertainment! I was here two years ago and on four different evenings we were forced to take part in boring charades. They have rooms full of theatrical costumes and you are asked to choose some ridiculous getup to illustrate an idiotic sentence. Luckily, this isn’t one of the aristocratic séries . Aristocrats love charades. I don’t know about you, Madame, but I find the aristocracy incredibly stupid. Dieu merci , this is what they call a third-tier série where the great majority of our guests, are, as you may have noticed, not the gratin but rich bourgeois, bankers or moneyed foreigners, people the Emperor wants to use in some way. Is your husband here?’
    ‘Yes, he is.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t put my foot in it. He’s not a banker, is he?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. By the way, having said that about the entertainment, I thought the theatrical performance the other evening was not bad. What did you think, Madame?’
    ‘I thought it was wonderful.’
    ‘If only they would have something like that every evening, we wouldn’t die of boredom. That’s what we need. Professional entertainers. I wonder what they have in mind for tonight?’
    Emmeline looked down the long table to where Lambert was as usual in animated conversation with his fellow diners. Not a first-tier série , this man says. Foreigners, bankers,