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Authors: Brian Moore
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them. I will have to speak. No, let Henri do the talking. I’ll just bow or curtsy. Which? I must be calm. I don’t even have time to re-comb my hair. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
But at that moment in the vortex of her confusion, Deniau and Lambert came to join her. Lambert was smiling, not in the least nervous about the coming audience. ‘Ah, there you are, darling. It went well, didn’t it? Everyone has been most enthusiastic. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had a minute to myself.’ He turned to Deniau. ‘Charles, you were right. It was a very good idea to arrange for me to entertain them tonight. Not too much, not a real performance, but enough to give the Emperor a soupçon of what I can really do.’
‘I know that His Majesty is delighted,’ Deniau said. ‘I watched him while you were on stage. You’re the star of the evening.’ He smiled at Emmeline. ‘Are we ready then?’
He took her arm. The chamberlains on guard at the doors of the petit salon bowed to Deniau and stepped aside. Suddenly, Emmeline found herself in a drawing room ornately furnished and dominated at its furthest end by a huge white marble statue of the Emperor’s uncle, Napoleon I, in a familiar pose, hand inserted in his vest. There were about twenty people in the room, most of them members of Their Majesties’ intimate circle, who at dinnertime were always seated in places favourably close to the imperial couple. Emmeline saw the Empress, surrounded by admirers, talking to Gautier, the writer who had performed earlier that evening. The chamberlain now beckoned them to follow him, leading them through the clusters of people directly to the far end of the room where, under the statue of his ancestor, the Emperor sat like a king on his throne listening to a stout gentleman who stood humbly before him like a petitioner. When this man had bowed and backed away from the throne-like chair their chamberlain approached the Emperor and whispered something into his ear. The Emperor looked up, his sleepy eyes picking out Emmeline and not her husband. His glance, to her astonishment, was the appraisal of a lecher, an impression heightened by the fact that his face, adorned with long thin waxed moustaches and goat-like pointed beard, made him resemble a satyr in a Rubens painting.
The Emperor, turning his glance to Deniau, said, smilingly. ‘Ah, Colonel, there you are.’
‘Your Majesty, may I present Monsieur and Madame Lambert?’
Emmeline, sure that she would trip on her crinoline, made a hasty and awkward curtsy. Her husband bowed in almost oriental fashion.
‘That was indeed wonderful tonight,’ the Emperor told Lambert. ‘You, sir, are a necromancer. I believe I saw you perform a few years ago. Was it at Fontainebleau?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. I had that honour.’
‘And this delightful lady is your wife? Oh, how I would like to sit now and talk to you, my dear. But the trouble with these evening conversaziones is that there is no real conversation. Too many people. Colonel, I believe we are to discuss our project tomorrow afternoon?’
‘That is correct, Your Majesty.’
‘In that case I must beg Madame Lambert to honour us with her presence. It will make the meeting something that I specially look forward to.’
As the Emperor said this Emmeline saw that the Empress and Princess Metternich had come up and that the Empress had heard what was said. She saw the Empress give her a cool appraising glance and then turn to her husband: ‘ Mon ami , I think it is time for us to rejoin the company.’
The Emperor rose at once, bowed to Emmeline and took the Empress’s arm. They moved towards the doors which led to the grande salle des fêtes . At once, the chamberlains indicated that all of the guests in the petit salon should follow.
Later, when the imperial couple had retired and the guests were going upstairs to bed, Lambert, pausing at a landing, turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her
But at that moment in the vortex of her confusion, Deniau and Lambert came to join her. Lambert was smiling, not in the least nervous about the coming audience. ‘Ah, there you are, darling. It went well, didn’t it? Everyone has been most enthusiastic. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had a minute to myself.’ He turned to Deniau. ‘Charles, you were right. It was a very good idea to arrange for me to entertain them tonight. Not too much, not a real performance, but enough to give the Emperor a soupçon of what I can really do.’
‘I know that His Majesty is delighted,’ Deniau said. ‘I watched him while you were on stage. You’re the star of the evening.’ He smiled at Emmeline. ‘Are we ready then?’
He took her arm. The chamberlains on guard at the doors of the petit salon bowed to Deniau and stepped aside. Suddenly, Emmeline found herself in a drawing room ornately furnished and dominated at its furthest end by a huge white marble statue of the Emperor’s uncle, Napoleon I, in a familiar pose, hand inserted in his vest. There were about twenty people in the room, most of them members of Their Majesties’ intimate circle, who at dinnertime were always seated in places favourably close to the imperial couple. Emmeline saw the Empress, surrounded by admirers, talking to Gautier, the writer who had performed earlier that evening. The chamberlain now beckoned them to follow him, leading them through the clusters of people directly to the far end of the room where, under the statue of his ancestor, the Emperor sat like a king on his throne listening to a stout gentleman who stood humbly before him like a petitioner. When this man had bowed and backed away from the throne-like chair their chamberlain approached the Emperor and whispered something into his ear. The Emperor looked up, his sleepy eyes picking out Emmeline and not her husband. His glance, to her astonishment, was the appraisal of a lecher, an impression heightened by the fact that his face, adorned with long thin waxed moustaches and goat-like pointed beard, made him resemble a satyr in a Rubens painting.
The Emperor, turning his glance to Deniau, said, smilingly. ‘Ah, Colonel, there you are.’
‘Your Majesty, may I present Monsieur and Madame Lambert?’
Emmeline, sure that she would trip on her crinoline, made a hasty and awkward curtsy. Her husband bowed in almost oriental fashion.
‘That was indeed wonderful tonight,’ the Emperor told Lambert. ‘You, sir, are a necromancer. I believe I saw you perform a few years ago. Was it at Fontainebleau?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. I had that honour.’
‘And this delightful lady is your wife? Oh, how I would like to sit now and talk to you, my dear. But the trouble with these evening conversaziones is that there is no real conversation. Too many people. Colonel, I believe we are to discuss our project tomorrow afternoon?’
‘That is correct, Your Majesty.’
‘In that case I must beg Madame Lambert to honour us with her presence. It will make the meeting something that I specially look forward to.’
As the Emperor said this Emmeline saw that the Empress and Princess Metternich had come up and that the Empress had heard what was said. She saw the Empress give her a cool appraising glance and then turn to her husband: ‘ Mon ami , I think it is time for us to rejoin the company.’
The Emperor rose at once, bowed to Emmeline and took the Empress’s arm. They moved towards the doors which led to the grande salle des fêtes . At once, the chamberlains indicated that all of the guests in the petit salon should follow.
Later, when the imperial couple had retired and the guests were going upstairs to bed, Lambert, pausing at a landing, turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her
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