I batted my hand and, sure enough, felt no draft. The pink brocade walls, if anything, helped keep these rooms warmer, though all of Compiègne, I had learned, was famously drafty.
The apartment being unoccupied, if also in use, was something most of the staff had taken advantage of thus far; one girl had brought a lover in here and dressed herself in the gown in which Eugénie had received the week’s guests. It was thought to be the Prince Napoléon himself who’d had her there, though she refused to say. When she told us this, another girl said, Well, you’re the picture of Her Majesty from behind, and then laughed shrilly until she was slapped by the offended grisette.
The lovers aside, the part of the story that stayed with me most was the idea of her wearing the Empress’s dress.
The Empress had just left for the hunt in her emerald-green riding costume, the green tricornered hat pinned to her head, which I knew she meant to look rakish. The palace was emptied of guests and we had a few hours of peace without them. I took off the palace uniform, folded it carefully in a place where only I would find it, and drew out the gown she had worn to the first ball, the gown she had worn to dance to his music. Rose-petal pink and white, the skirt and cuffs were covered in black lace that rose to a strange, witchy black lace collar, unearthly in its beauty.
I stood quietly, mesmerized by it, holding it up in front of me. I then reached behind myself and began to unbutton my dress, working quickly until I was naked. I put my feet into the shoes she’d worn, of the same pink, with black trim and black heels, and then threw the dress aloft as I went underneath it, pulling it over my head. It was like crawling into a tent. Her scent was still in the bodice. I found I could button and lace most of it myself, and while the dress bagged a bit on me, in the mirror I looked a little like what I remembered myself looking like at the Majeurs-Plaisirs. I had thrown myself to the floor in front of the mirror in a mock grand curtsy, pressing my head into the skirt, when I heard the door to the apartment open.
I stayed on the floor, unmoving.
A voice called out the name of the girl who’d been had here. It came closer and closer. Soon the caller was standing over me, and he laughed.
I looked up at my discoverer. I already knew him.
The tenor was a handsome man of fair complexion, but this day he was painted purple, as if to resemble a Negro; the effect was to make him look like neither race, but like something else, a demon. I did not recognize him in the first instant, then, but in the second. He wore his typical evening dress coat and the tight white pants the Empress favored. Though the style favored only a few, it favored him.
We stared at each other openly.
He likewise did not recognize me in the first instant, but on the second one; and when he did, he swore viciously in German before striding quickly to my side and gripping both my arms tightly, pulling me to my feet as he stared into my eyes.
Dead, they said to me. Dead! I begged them to release your body to me and they said it had already been taken to the rue d’Enfer. I came with money for your bond and they told me you were dead and I went and threw it at any beggar I found along the Seine! I then went to a church and prayed for your coward’s soul. I! I prayed for you. I wept for you as I did so. Do you know whom I have prayed for in this life? You don’t even deserve to know this.
His speech was the more terrifying for his monstrous appearance, and yet I could not run.
All the while, I knew it couldn’t have been you who died, he said. They told me you’d been beaten to death and received no treatment for having not described your injuries. I had seen the police take you away; I knew you did not resist them.
He threw me to the floor. I did not cry out—I could not even breathe to see him.
I should beat you to death now. He raised a hand, and then it stayed up, like a lost thought.
I was the one who had faked my death, and yet here I was surprised to see him alive. That the tenor, currently at the Paris Opera, would be invited to Compiègne, this had never occurred to me but, of course, it was him; there could be no one else.
I could pull you from here now by your hair and insist the sheriff of Compiègne help me. You still belong to me.
I had moved not at all but seemed to watch from inside my eyes, though I did not look at him.
He stepped closer and stood over me as he opened his coat, and then I saw my ruby rose, worn there on the inside of his jacket, facing in over his heart.
I kept it, he said. I kept it to remember you. Along with all your shabby little things.
I saw his eyes then, the raw, angry wound of them. He held out his hand, and I flinched until I saw he waited to help me up.
And just like that, his eyes had closed up again, the terrible fire in them gone.
I stood and he circled me, taking me in. He pulled at his cuffs. I am here to perform Othello, he said. Thus my appearance. Why are you here, dressed this way? Is the Empress lending you one of her gowns? Are you . . . is it possible you’re a guest?
I nodded. It seemed to me it might protect me if he believed it. To think somewhere in the palace another, more powerful man waited for me. But I did not want to speak to him if I could avoid it; to do so seemed like breaking another promise—to the girl whose place I’d taken, or to God, my mother—I did not know. An affront somehow to my renewed mission.
Well, the pleasure at our reunion is entirely mine then, he said.
I smiled, turning my chin in toward my shoulder, still afraid.
Perhaps it would amuse you, he said, if you came to see our dress rehearsal.
He went behind me and pulled the dress taut, his hands on my waist and back. He settled my hair, his fingers brushing the skin of my shoulders. I felt a shock at the familiar touch.
Like this, he said. You are a maiden; she is a matron. It should fit like this.
I nodded.
He reached out expertly to a hat pin near us on the vanity. He took it and slid it through the thick fold of silk at my back, and I nearly fainted as it passed through.
Well, he said. You’ve still barely a figure. I’m sure Her Majesty keeps slim, but you are a knife.
I stood still, held in place as much by all of this as by his hands, and allowed him to continue to pin the gown in place.
You’re no guest here, he then said. I know this, for I am one. I’ve not seen you once at dinner. How is it you are here? Or does someone keep you in their chambers for their own pleasure? Is it the Duke? The Prince Napoléon? Who is it?
I made to run and he grabbed at my wrists. This time the pain brought tears to my eyes. Ah, he said. You will not cry out. You are afraid of being caught. With that he let go.
I must leave for now. But I will find out your secret, he said. We will see what happens then.
§
I undressed quickly, put the gown back into the trunk, and was fitting myself back into my grisette’s uniform when the girl the tenor had been looking for appeared in the doorway.
She didn’t ask me the question I could see in her eyes, as to whether her tenor had been here and if I was to blame for her not finding him. I took a breath and set the lid of the trunk down.
She’s back, she said to me, instead; and I followed her out.
The hunt had left the Empress in a thoughtful mood. She seemed distracted as her hunting costume was removed and we settled her tea gown into place. I imagined she was thinking of the composer, perhaps plotting an assignation or worrying that he was in love with someone else, or both.
The tea gown was pure rose pink crepe and tulle, almost too girlish. She asked for white and pink diamonds for her rings and necklace, and the Regent again. She seemed to wear it a great deal, perhaps for the way it insisted on her position. Her color was good from being outdoors, and when she was dressed, she was transformed and was lighthearted and then made to leave.
She paused in the door and turned.
Do you like it, she asked me. Does it suit? I was taken aback and blinked rapidly before nodding.