Alexander Chee - The Queen of the Night

I held my breath.

I could have gone in, she said, as we neared her carriage again. But she’s afraid of me, and there would be no good to it.

Afraid of you, I repeated, not quite a question, as she airily directed her driver to stay put.

She has what belongs to me, she said, turning back. And she knows it. But I have something else she wants, she said, with a grin. And so we cannot let her see you, I think. More important, we cannot let her see you with me.

The gentleman who had spoken to her was one of the Emperor’s secret police, and their duty was to walk the streets protecting the Emperor, Empress, and her court as they went about their errands. They gave the appearance of being elegant gentlemen, well-bred and well tailored, and I knew from my time at the Tuileries that they knew Parisian society’s secrets better than Parisian society did. They were secrets themselves, hidden until needed and then gone. I’d only seen them in the palace, where they were typically acknowledged openly; I’d never had the occasion to see them in public.

As we walked away, I knew they likely knew exactly who I was, and if they did not, they soon would.

The Empress has a few more of these agents than I do, the Comtesse said, and gestured grandly at the atelier, distracting me from the encroaching misery at the thought of being found out. But then, she is a small woman; she has always been. This role… it was never right for her.

We drank a glass of champagne nearby, and when we returned, the Empress had left and I went in for the last fitting to be sure the fit was correct. I dressed in my new day dress, and when the vendeuse politely asked if I wanted the old one in a box, I waved it away. We returned to the carriage and rode through the Bois.

That day the barren chestnut trees looked to me like the black iron feathers lining the gates of the palace at Compiègne, as if those feathers had spread across the country to become a forest of iron. The parade of horse-drawn phaetons, coupes, buggies, and carriages were filled by some of the wealthiest and most beautiful people in Paris.

You’re attracting some notice, the Comtesse said to me, as we made the first turn. You shouldn’t accept the first admirer, however, unless he does something truly extraordinary to get your attention. And even then, consider resisting, she said. Unless, of course, she said, by accepting him you attract the competition of another admirer. Ideally there will be several. A single man’s support is unreliable, she said. With three you can be secure.

What is the best number? I asked.

That would depend, she said. Three can keep you very busy. But some of us, and she gestured at the crowd circling the lake, have as many as there are on this road right now.

Our carriage rattled a bit on the gravel underneath. We sat in silence. The men driving by seemed identical to me.

The men were approximately the same men. Russian and Italian princes, German barons and French dukes, the famous Turk, Halil Bey. Prince Napoléon.

The Prince Napoléon, she told me, had been married off to a magnificently ugly and devout Christian noblewoman from Italy named Princess Maria Clotilde. He was famous for leaving the doors to his apartment open while he satisfied himself on this or that mistress or whore.

It seemed being the Prince Napoléon has left him in a permanent bad temper, she said. Or that in the arrangement of his marriage, Louis-Napoléon had played a joke on him.

She directed my attention to the beautiful if unadorned phaeton of Louis-Napoléon driving around the Bois in disguise. The Comtesse pointed him out casually. They did not acknowledge each other.

He’s married to his country, the Comtesse observed. Almost every woman in it.

I turned to take in the Comtesse, who did not look away from the Emperor. Her disgrace had not seemed real to me before then. She had seemed only beautiful, powerful, shrewd. The light off the park highlighted her face starkly in that moment and revealed in her expression some unknowable grief, unseen before; and this startled me. I had meant to make some sort of joke, but stopped myself; it was as if I were not there at all.

It was then I understood that she was not disgraced, not exactly. She had been sacrificed.

And then we were back at the rue de Passy, and the Comtesse wished me a good night as she departed.

§

The sight of the Empress at the atelier, the Emperor at his ease in disguise in the Bois, this meant Compiègne had ended. And somewhere in Paris that evening, my new love was also here.

Back at my room, the driver’s wife first made a fuss over my new toilette — how beautiful I look, I am too fine for her house — and then showed me a trunk that had come for me and helped me examine its contents: a tea gown of simple black muslin, much like the Comtesse’s own; a boar’s bristle hairbrush, lotions, maquillage, a nightdress, slippers, hair ribbons. And room exactly for the toilette I wore and the other two bodices in their boxes.

It was if I were to be on a voyage soon, this much I could see, and yet while the driver’s wife cooed over each item, my dread returned and increased until she locked us in once more, put her key in her bodice, and set out her gin and cards. I dressed in the nightdress and slippers, and we played into the night.

I was certain all of this meant I was to leave Paris, and I expected to be taken away the next morning but, instead, a note came from the Comtesse through the driver, inviting me to attend the opera with her that night. I was to wear the opera bodice but to be ready in the afternoon. And so I was.

§

The Comtesse’s son and his nurse greeted me as I arrived. He was a boy with beautiful long chestnut hair, the longest hair I’d ever seen on a boy. He looked like a faerie, neither girl nor boy, at the edge of youth, the sort of creature who could cast you out of paradise if you answered a question wrongly.

You are my mother’s friend, he told me, more than asking me.

Yes, I replied carefully.

You’re very pretty, he told me. It’s how I knew. All of Mother’s friends are pretty.

Not as pretty as you, I said, and he smiled, vanishing quickly up the stairs.

I was shown up to her boudoir where the Comtesse sat waiting for her hairdresser. She told me she had called me early to have my own hair done as well. As her maid settled a kimono around my neck and over my gown, and I joined her in waiting, she withdrew a small velvet bag and shook its contents into her hand.

Here, she said. For you to wear this evening.

Emerald earrings in the shape of leaves, three stones in each, and the stones the size of small tears.

I give this to you now because, when you have your hair done for an evening, you should always show the hairdresser your jewelry so that he may make any necessary adjustments or suggestions. Tonight I am introducing you to a potential admirer. We will go to the opera and then dine afterward at the Grand Seize, where he will meet us. This completes my part of our bargain. At dinner I will speak of yours.

Thank you, I said.

It’s really nothing, she said. I ask that you wear them this evening. And that you continue your habit of refraining from speaking in public so as to keep up the alias I have created. It will only be necessary a little longer.

I turned them over in my hand, and as I did, she said, A lesson on jewelry. You only rid yourself of a gift if you are at the end of an affair — if you are sure there is no hope. If you are in need of funds, sell your jewelry last; first suggest to an admirer the nature and scope of the debt, and then if that fails, sell the separate stones first rather than the entire piece. Always avoid selling the entire piece as it would likely be recognized by the giver on someone else and this would, even if you have ended the affair, embarrass or offend him. Especially if he could have covered the debt happily. Sell the original piece whole only if it is a historically important piece of jewelry.